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Routine became, becomes salvation. We eat, shit, sleep all within minutes of each. Of every day. Perhaps minutes stray into hours. Rare. Rare as pelicans. As the monarch. The moment of peace. Celebration. World of living breathe into world of dead seemly. I know I discovered this sky before this incarceration but moments have decided I was wrong. Was it Audrey Hepburn, Rene Ricard, who place blue as God? Or as a child upon this back crushed under drag to & fro. Head banging against. If love is discovered within every moment does the past exist? Has/could this sky any more than this. What deems perfection? What does it mean? I lie upon my back at 50 impossible to forget where I am or even want to. I sink. Upon my back thru the feet of every inmate pounded stroked & resented ear. I blame routine & I blame love. I blame the chaos that created the wheel & the first shot against the state. Alone I am never. Though I strip & shred every article of cloth, muscle, bone alone. I am never. In the death of sky’s blue I sink & then swim. For I fear as much as my day consists of walking in circles & talking to the deaf, the reality of prison can never be understood. The exquisite nature of depravation is more appealing than full lips to a perfect backside. A Guston – a Jasper Johns Elliot Smith viewed in a closet of windows. I tell my friends to understand me, we must become naked. I’ve never meant clothes. To understand prison you spread your ass cheeks with glee.

I revert back to survival as a penniless convict. My messages as such, Joel, thank you – great message. Stacy, rare such perfect combination of words, thought; “Discarded hope breeds violence”. Joseph Beuys, I dedicate my life of wool & lard. Stacy, you, a forest for me within this fence. Thank you. & Lopez, thanks for words & promise of help. Please send to Kelly a.s.a.p. Well all a good day. I shall “pop” up again. Gene, sorry for your bad news. Yet, you such a cat. Always land on your feet. Foots.

Later.