111307

I even have to ask myself, “what’s the point”. Point being large nature of complaint. Bottom line – accountability. Look, if you got in the bathtub dude, you got a problem. Selling rock on the street corner without question laws broken. Yes society weighs in. Tolerate weed, yes it’s moving in that direction. Rock smack selling pics of yr kids… you know what I mean, never. Should drunks be in prison, I mean there are guys who were busted car off parked in some lot. Questionable. The bottom line it’s your texture. Your stink. We all got it. In here everyone seems to be searching for that stank. How bad are you or how stupid. I call it a remote part of Mexico but it’s also another man’s house. “the man” a lot of these guys have no clue. Tickets for missing count in here is like not hearing a fire truck. Fire alarm. I thought I could blank out things. Well that’s a huge frustration. & then it’s the guard out to get me. No good old paranoia. Dardar paranoia. Like dud you’re an idiot. The best way of thinking life is a path on a damp beach. Everyone can see yr tracks and you think just because you’re walking away & can’t see behind you we can’t. as much as you might fall in the back ground you truly can’t. My ramble is simply do what you do realizing we all got to pay the piper. A day can’t go by without kicking myself. It’s just not me missing you it’s you missing me. It’s fucked. What brought this to the surface is yesterday I was called to property. Kelly had ordered some books from Hamilton for me; I thought “that was quick”. No. Stacy had sent me Alice Notley’s new book, In The Pines. I was so happy. Context: graham crackers are a treat in here. I just got a huge steak & a big ole cake. Case of PBR. Got it.
Thank you Stacy. Alice is a champ. A true amazing poet. A poet. Just a mountain. Her dedication is: for my sons and their friends. Now you understand? Poetry is not words. Words are rugs. Walk all over them. Shake it out and start all over again. Alice is a frontier blues traveling medicine boogie lover. They’re words from the peak. From birth. Teeth of death. Laughter of an intimate. She is quite frankly it. She’s it. She’s the kind of poet when I was younger I’d stop writing when I read her. Thankfully in an odd way I already had the addiction. Alice, I get so scared when I read you. I forget. You remind me. You teach me. I’m so happy to have this in my life. I believe my cell is comforted. Protected.

111207

Years ago when as a family we traveled to the South looking, collecting art (mainly self-taught African American art). We were in this gallery. Conversation gets around to David Butler. A genius. Wife dies and he decorates everything in sight – his yard, windows – everything. Whirligigs – bright solid colors. So intimate yet a vast happy playground. I mean he had to put his love some where. So this gallery guy says, “yeah, David is alive living in a nursing home.” We find it. Go to visit. He’s over 80 – maybe close to 90. No teeth. No hair. The sweetest face ever surrounded by stuffed animals. I mean surrounded. The boys are like “what are we doing?” David remembers nothing of his house –his yard masterpiece. I’ll be damned if we leave there without some recognition. Finally after ½ hour or so his eyes glaze with a subtle joy, an almost “wait, something clicking”. His eyes just light up & tear forms. He goes “I remember”. We were knocked out. Can you imagine Picasso forgetting his Blue Period? Or Ginsberg forgetting Howl? It was our duty.

Yesterday, the radio on, this song strikes a chord, “wait” I think. I know this. It’s Hole. Holy mother my heart breaks & I remember. God I love Courtney Love. Her beauty, talent, balls, pain. Walk in her shoes for 5 minutes. People have been such assholes to her. She doesn’t give up. She goes forward. It was a big YEAH. My soul hovers over the fence.

Today in the library I notice an old bunky. Going home. His smile was “this” big!
Mine, same size. “Never want to see you ever again, except way different circumstances.” Another survivor. Realized the bros I hang with all for the most part don’t have a ton of time – under 5 – 3 years. See I’m alright. Another beautiful day. Wrote to Evan Henry. Hope when he is older he treasures our early communication cause grandpa is in prison. What tales to weave.

I drive Kelly crazy – used to drive Stacy. I edit & re edit and re - edit big time. “you edited the joy out”. I’m a butcher woodcarver. Bring that baby down. Down to essence. Sometimes, “nah, that’s cool” so here’s one from 102007 entry.


free range convict
for Jacob

I recollect, even in our sleep we surrender.
Virginia Woolf found every pebble
on that beach to make stone soup
Alas, forgot to switch coat.

upon these 10 toes I stand
determined. question & never define.
a good man better than some/worse for wear.
hell, even remember purpose of confederacy.

between greed & one’s prison is 3 squares
never to stand upon yonder.
chair with rope necklace.
never sleep in anything

but good
ole thermal
underwear.


What do you think? Yeah, free range is a reference to the yard & free range chickens.

Here’s a new poem –


(to continue the astronomic metaphor)

eloquence of silence
heady beer
distracted misconception
& we shall meet, again.

this prison rattles neither cage nor consequence
see before yr existence I staggered. roamed a
Spanish conquistador, of sorts
pirate? perhaps

point being everything was explained
complete & utter sense
detailed
it’s just taken nearly 50 yrs to regain.

now I do
& understand in a way to difficult to defend, so by way of
Jules Verne wasn’t just a tremendous author
& pigeons rarely have question of flight

a hand balled
becomes fist
open & extend(ed)
handshake


invitation. a greeting. perhaps, “there will never be a vast difference”
I leave with this thought, thought of space
coexists between here/there
negative space

we shall close
with silence
open
with love



Tootles – may all our joy be large. Large enough to share. Bring home to others.

Later.

111107

I only have a few words about M.R.S.A. A number of news reports have discussed this. From my limited exposure I believe the state is on the right track. Like you all imagine there are some real pieces of work here. Some real pigs. Yes, there have been some instances of but keep clean, don’t share the body and it’s functions and you’ll be cool. Again, easier said than done.

Been reading some fantastic work. In Our Strange Gardens – Michael Quint. Simply breath taking. I loved the cover and the fact it’s bilingual. Beautiful production. That’s nothing compared to what’s inside. A tribute love story funny as fuck, sad as hell. Rip your guts and give you toast & honey. One sentence that stops your heart. A risk to read in prison. A must to be any kind of human.

Hunger by Knut Hamson. “Truth telling does not involve seeing both sides or objectivity; truth telling is unselfish inwardness”, Antonio Machado says, the writer should listen to himself and “ought to overtake by surprising some of the phrases of his inward conversations with himself, distinguishing the living voice from the dead echoes.” Tight, huh? Hamsun was diagnosed with terminal tuberculosis, 3 months to live. Friends raised money to ship him home to Norway to die. This guy takes a train to New York on top of the fuck’in locomotive the whole trip. His mouth open gulping air. HELLO! Dude, how big are your balls? So all this fresh fast speeding air on top of a locomotive – it’s not like his doctor goes “Knut, you’re a dead man. Go gulp some air on top of a speeding locomotive”. Who is this guy? Superman? The patient declares himself cured. Didn’t go back to Norway. Never a trouble with tuberculosis. So where did I discover him? Who else? – Henry Miller. Kate Millet’s boyfriend. Actually she dug him. Why go to college to write? Get a fatal disease come up with your own cure & write an amazing minute by second account of madness & starvation. Truly something not for the Paris Hilton crowd. Even in the weak library there are some sleepers. Also been catching up on Jules Verne Journey to the Center of…Around the World…. Fun. Solid storytelling. Got some Twain waiting in the wings. This Huck book was published in 1884. Cool.

So Kelly forwarded info about you guys. Not who you are but where. I’m impressed. We have some solid repeats. 75%. For me what’s so cool is the 2 from India. 3 from the Phillipines. Sweden. Turkey. Portugal. That’s so amazing. Small world. 6 from Germany & Italy. 11 from UK. I wish we’d get some from Ireland. Then a ton from here and Canada. Might I ask how you found this? As much as I live in a totally unsexy place I find this immensely sexy. Not sex sexy but kind of cool sexy. Like Rolling Stone sexy. Patti Smith sexy. Who are you from India? I have a dear friend from the North, Sandeep. A few dudes I knew from the Philippines. Oh, well. I’m sounding insane. Nah – just thank you. I’m really happy. Hope it’s working for you. Nice to know we’re not alone. That is the hard part of life. The silence. The “there’s no one here”, am I even alive?” “can any one hear me?” You get a lot of that here.
And here comes the big circle. Remember the first couple of entries? Write. Write a friend. A parent. A child. A prisoner. We’re losing contact. I know I just said we’re together & now I’m saying we’re losing contact. I mean personal contact. Letters. Phone calls. Knock at your door. I love human contact but hate stupidity. So I write. & you too. I get great letters. I give great letters. Now let’s be happy. To wrap it up – congrats Chris Martin on your book. (American Music rght? )
Thank you all for reading. If you’re in the Milwaukee area check out Highlonesome & Reed Avoided. 357 String Band, Holy Mary Motor Cycle Club & the Trusty Knives. Great music from a town that was made famous by a beer. A delicious beer. PBR. Even if you’re in Chicago come on over. & thanks again Kelly.

Later.

111007

I started this yesterday in my heart after hearing Social D’s Story of My Life. I write first in my head then if/when I remember, paper. Evan & Noah with some friends took me to their show a number of years ago. Fantastic. While sharing a beer Mike Ness walks by. Evan pointed him out. I was impressed. True artist.
Yesterday drug ugly. I was tired, beat, depressed. A buddy told me of his brother’s arrest. Same as mine but in Florida & she approached him in an instant message. His celly was like “you come from a family of pervs”. I was more like, “my God the pain your parents are going thru. Your brother, his wife, you. I’m so sorry”. Why this response? Why not same as celly? First, I believe my friend. Am I gullible? – yes. Stupid? No. Second, his brother has never been in trouble. Third, who has been alone – lonely, displaced seeking a friend? Sometimes the grey area is larger than black or white, and yes, I know it’s hard to believe some truly innocent people are in prison. Yes, you never have to remind me to hurt a child is far from reason, but entrapment? I will be done with this shortly. My true concern was for my friend & his family. I’m not attaching self pity to this but I would be expressing a whole lot more anger if I wasn’t here. Perhaps this is the direction I need to go in when I’m thru here. Not just prison reform but the big picture. How crime is tied so closely to politics. The numbers aren’t getting any better because civil liberties are being swallowed whole. Believe me if I had some issue with children I’d be the first in line to correct. I hate going off in this direction because of the whole Shakespeare bit “"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Any way, our talk beat me. It took a while to figure out. Did like this inventory & I realized his pain became mine. I will be a friend he may lean on. I will not make it mine. Make sense?

I adore Kelly’s 2 entries. She is so terrific. It’s beyond everything she does with/for me. Her heart is so pure from my perspective. Everyone here who knows me asks about her because of the stories I relate about her. Like in this last letter – she knows my celly, Slim, draws/makes cards and she sent a bunch of printout illustrations of Christmas stuff. Ok now some perspective here – these are basic pieces of paper with goofy cartoon stuff on them. My celly is over 50, ok? I would have to buy you a bag of groceries, booze or music to illicit the same response. This guy becomes a child at his first Christmas. I kind of get embarrassed. – “Dude, it’s paper”. Wrong response. This is not an unusual response. Frankly & sad in the Kerouac universal way, everyone freaks. It breaks my heart. It’s not just the paper or what’s on it. It’s the fact that someone cares to take the time/energy/expense to do it & it’s not even their friend. It’s John’s Kelly. The untouchable Kelly. No one ever fucks with my friends in here. No one would ever think of referring to Kelly in some piggish way. Not just me but the minions of adorers would come with the wrath of Zeus. & no one is jealous (& everyone is jealous in here) because Kelly is someone who knows. Someone who doesn’t have to, but does care. “John, could I write Kelly?” “Are you insane?” Enough to say no doubt about it, I’m more than lucky. I’m loved. I’m loved without money. Without anything but my loyality. My love. Devotion. Kelly asks me about one I loved truly – Will I ever get over her? You don’t get over love. You surrender for it is the true conqueror. We surrender because it’s right. It frees and delivers. You don’t go backwards. Believe me I’ve taken extensive lessons on love. Evan, like his mother, was a master. & Noah, well, I can’t think of a greater way of spending one’s life. To be honest I was blessed at a very early age. My parents really wanted me, though it became too much & when that happened I had a grandmother who took over. She died suddenly when I was 6 & through a rather strange twist of fate I was introduced to John Lennon (not literally). I don’t want to go there now but perhaps some day. Some how thru all the pain I witnessed , experienced and delivered, the redeemer has always been love. That’s it. All you need is. Easier said than done. Kelly is an example of. Stacy another love & Lopez a man I’ve never met physically though communicates as a true brother, and dear James - Poet extraordinaire from Milwaukee. Dear dear Matt. & Julie from Baltimore & Julie, my surrogate daughter. Kim. Reed, a truly profound brother. Conroy. Jesse. It’s what we’re here for. My dear Amanda. A woman whose strength, beauty, courage & brilliance allows tears of joy to cascade when I think perhaps we are witnessing the same sun, sons, grandson.

So prison is a fence. Bars. A locked exit. There are rules. Serious rules. Real fuck’in serious rules. They’re not always the state’s rules. There is a code. And there is honor. And there are brothers. The guards are not always wrong. Frankly, respect is the word. Word to live by. Survive by.

110907

Sorry “prison poet” people…


It’s not a secret any more. I am addicted to court tv shows. Judge Judy, People’s Court, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Gregg Mathis, Law & Order, COPS, The Shield. Could there have been a better show than Homicide: Life on the Streets? Now I am hooked on this new show called Jail (by the guys who do COPS).

I like rules. I think there is chaos without them. I believe that at the core our justice system does work. For every action there is a reaction. You break the law and you go to jail and get sentenced according to the law. How the laws & sentencing are interpreted is another story… I am fascinated by this show Jail. It works for me on so many levels. It shows society at its worse and in some ways at its best at the same time. It shows how people react to each other under stressful and unpredictable situations. It shows respect, restraint, great psychology at work. It teaches the viewer about how this part of the justice system works. It shows how people can hit rock bottom & what desperation is. You see every type of person on this show. It shows the training & the professionalism of the prison staff.

Some of the drunks, prostitutes etc are very amusing. Some defy, some accept, some are terrified, some cry and some take it all in stride or as “a matter of fact-ly”. I love hearing the comments of the guards about the prison population. What they have seen. The conversations and interactions between staff & inmates are always very interesting. Everything in jail is so unpredictable. Everything can be running smoothly and then the next second the whole place is under lockdown. Everyone in that place has to be able to react in a second’s notice. Stress, stress, stress. A lot happens in this half hour show.

A story that sticks in my head is about this kid – probably 20-21. He was in the holding cell just waiting for his release paperwork. He was there for just a few hours. Something happened. Some one provoked him Next minute blood everywhere. He went off and attacked someone – or he was defending himself – who knows? Now he is being sentenced for a felony and may get 10-15 years. The guard said the kid was probably about 20 minutes from walking out the door and going home. WOW!!

So much of what John describes in his entries and letters is played out right before my eyes. It is amazing. Not that I need a show to remind me where John is. Believe me I know. I know he doesn’t tell us everything that happens and I am sure we don’t really want to know. I used to joke to him about how he is on vacation in there. Living an easy life. I don’t anymore. I call it our social experiment. He is doing the undercover work.

-kc

110507

I did get to visit John on November 3. It was my first visit since Labor Day. It was great.
I was an hour late but no matter. He looks good. Has a beard now. New glasses. A job.
Was in great spirits. Lots of smiles and laughter as usual.
Very nice. As always the time goes by too fast. When it was time to leave he said come back when you can. I said I will come on Thanksgiving Day.

Thanksgiving. My favorite holiday. (I know being Catholic that Easter should be my top holiday but honestly Easter is way too emotional for me – it challenges my faith, beliefs, brings back beautiful memories). Thanksgiving. The forgotten holiday or rather, the most over looked holiday. I love Thanksgiving because it is a day of just being together and being thankful that we know & love each other. There is no 2 month build up. No pressure of buying gifts. No big cartoon turkey popping out of the oven to bring gifts to children. No mythical creatures. No religious affiliation. It’s not a candy day. It’s good food, good company.

Last year I had two Thanksgiving dinners. One with John & his coworkers and the other I cooked for John & me the next day at my house. I invited him but then his boss invited both us over so on the day we spent it with new friends. It was fun. A mixed crowd.
All new people to me. There was a great family there with 2 high school aged boys who seemed so bored. I have nieces & nephews ranging in age from 29 to 2. I know how to talk to teenagers. I still know what’s cool with the kids these days (don’t I?) I engaged them in conversation. We were all laughing. Then add John and his special brand of humor – well it was hilarious. I think those kids thought I was on drugs because I was crying I was laughing so hard and at things they would never understand. (never told you this JT )On the way home it was so foggy I took the long, cautious way home. Once again John had me laughing so hard - while I was driving- totally sober mind you- I don’t know what he said or did but I couldn’t stop laughing that I actually peed my pants.
(JT -That’s the real reason I didn’t go into the house where Noah was and just waited in the car!) Day after I cooked. John mashed the potatoes with a fork. I was amazed at his culinary skills. I think we ate, drank and watched Mind of Mencia.

Every year I get several dinner invitations. I tend to stay home and do whatever I feel like that day. A couple of times it was just pizza & wine writing out Christmas cards while watching Holiday Inn. This year I am making a pumpkin tiramisu to take to my sister’s when I get home from Oshkosh. I will skip the big dinner. I think I will make myself a most delicious meatloaf and big bowl of mashed potatoes and green beans.
It will be a perfect day.
I wish a perfect holiday to all of you.

-kc

110407

My celly is pissed I’ve flushed orange peel down toilet. He freaks out at any disorder. He talks to walls but in truth he’s talking to me. Really odd. I told him he’s crazy. Ah Sunday. Laying here waiting for count. Listening to the classical station. Decide to change. Hear some older Dylan. Turns out to be a tribute. Shelter from the Storm narrated by Patti Smith. Holy fuck can it get any better? Patti Smith the rock goddess. My fuckin idol. God I love here. When “Horses” came out I was working/living at the Desoto Hotel in Galena. Great historic town/hotel. Well listening to “Horses” on my close and play in this tiny room in a very small town. I realized what could be on that horizon. Then she introduced me to Arthur Rimbaud. I was already writing to & reading Ginsberg so I knew of the beats. This album. This Patti Smith knocked my on my ass. She played in Chicago in the late 70’s at the Aragon Ballroom. I went with some friends. Tripping & way drunk decided wander back stage. I was thrown out. Called home. We lived in Waukegan. Called Colette & our friend Cathy was over. “I got thrown out” “Where are you?” “At a Jewel.” “O.K. Stay there, we’ll be there Asap.” So I asked Cathy to call information & get the Aragon’s #. I say I need to talk to Patti Smith.
“Who are you?”
“I’m William Burroughs”
“okay, wait”
“Hello”
“Patti Smith?”
“yes”
“no you’re not”
“yes I am”
Somehow I hang up the phone. Remember I am drunk/tripping. Call Cathy back. “What’s that #?”
I call back.
“This is Hunter Thompson. I want to talk wish Patti good luck. Hello Patti, yes, well it’s me again. I’m neither Burroughs nor Thompson”
“I know”
“Well I just got thrown out and was beat up by the bouncers.” (which was true. They knocked me around and literally threw me in the street. My hat was run over. A perfect tread mark across it. I’m an idiot). So she’s very concerned. Believe it or not I hang up again. Call Cathy again. Call box office. I’m Burroughs again. Patti gets on again. I explain as if she didn’t know I’m messed up. She tells me about her performing at the Rock Against Racism show. She tells me to meet her there. Colette & friend pick me up. Not too pissed. Tell about calls. Now she’s irritated The truth is between hang ups I explained to Cathy the jist of the calls so the next day we went back but no Patti. Lenny Kaye announced an apology to the person who was to meet Patti. God’s truth. Fuck up thing they got their sound equipment ripped off that night. Only Cathy confirmed that night & that little thing from Lenny Kaye. So if you know Patti see if she remembers or am I truly insane? Anyway I didn’t bring up Bob Dylan to tell that story. But Patti Smith is so totally without question the quintessential poet musician god I spaz at mention of her name. Ask Stacy about her reaction to her presence. Anyhow, the show was great. Got to hear One More Cup of Coffee from the album Desire. Fantastic song & Dylan is truly the master. Now I switched over to the college radio station. Punk & surf rock. Dick Dale, Link Wray. Great station. Always something fantastic. Playing music from Twin Peaks right now. I truly realize take my freedom away – not my music.
Thanks for reading. Go outside and kiss someone on the way out. Snow is coming. & there’s no one here I can kiss & life is too grand & short. P.S. – thanks for the hugs & kisses Kelly. They keep me alive. You all be good. Love.

Later

110307

The weekend. No work. Hurray! (just kidding)
Quiet 2 days & Kelly is coming for a visit. Anticipation.
Yep, she arrived & tremendous visit. She’s got her stories I got mine. So cool. So sweet. Mellow & sincere. She should give workshops on positive prison visits. Some make it way too heavy. Got back lunch of polish sausage & oatmeal cookies. Buddies asked, “How’s visit?” “Great.” Smiles color. It’s all good. If only every moment so perfect. But then no contrast. No battle. No glory. Then mail. Hip hip hooray! Jonathan, Julie R. Chrisanne & Matt (fantastic artists, dear, dear friends). God, so blissful. Great letters. Long soak in the bath. I don’t want to forget I’m in h ere but when you can write a letter that lessens this blow, you’re all right. You’re amazing. Thanks all. & no, Chrisanne, no swimming, some yoga my own. & pilates. But good old cell workout. & Kelly, I adore you. I look like hell. Lost so much weight in my face. So gaunt. Kind of like I got the hiv. Scary. After visit I had to take a piss. Saw myself in a mirror. We don’t have mirrors. We have polished steel. I freaked myself out. I lost a lot of weight but I feel great. So that’s the payoff. But I do love these letters my loves. Thanks. Running out of ribbon but after all today’s joy I can handle that.

110107

Tomorrow EH is 1 month old. & how shall yr/mine/our November be. 1 of concern for sure. Forget global warming already? or the Bush that the Bush created? or the wonderful mis-use of yr tax dollars? Well we got each other a holiday of excess Paris Hilton & some more American Idiots. Ah, joy. Seriously it’s beautiful outside. I pick up litter, my post the parcel of land that contains the American flag. Ah, revolution. America. Remember (not literally) when our example led to change? Those were the days. My buddy overheard a guard “why does a white guy have a black panther on his hand?” referring to my right hand. Well 2 days ago he’s asking me who did my work and of course I say the genius called Heather Shin. Of course he has no clue. But never does he ask why I have “that” cat. First of all it’s the Black Cat from fireworks, (Evan & I were pyrotechnicians with Bartolotta’s years ago) plus I love the image and with Ed Hardy’s black panther soon to be tearing up the arm, it’s a nice homage, well in my mind. The Black Panthers are/were incredible. They without question stood their ground in a time that that ground was truly vanishing, i.e. MLK, Malcolm X, Bobby Kennedy, Medgar Evers. I was living in a tiny hamlet outside Chicago then, about 10, seeing Maywood burning & the footage on the news was galvanizing. Sure the Panthers were off on some issues but feeding, educating children, the sheer idea of arming black men then was to me, at 10, so profound. Thank God someone acting. Not to say that others weren’t but in addition to, hence the Chicago 8 then 7. Bobby Seale was kicked out. Check out that history of Chicago’s gross past & the stank of Dailey. My grandfather was at the Democratic Convention & my mother said hi to King. As tiny as that was, it was my 1 degree of separation. Much more positive than huddling around a transistor radio listening to the eventual death of Bobby Kennedy on our grade school playground. I digress. & I will probably get a black panther some day.

Richard Hell can really shake my world. Kelly sent a short interview from May 2006. In it Hell claims, “When I say poetry, I mean the values of poetry –wanting every moment of life to somehow be extreme and extremely…felt.” That and a black panther should be tattooed on everyone’s breath.

102807

Merle Haggard wrote that 2% of 2% of convicts don’t go back to prison & that you don’t need to experience something to write about it. I agree with both. Obviously the first causes me some concern. I don’t ever want to come back here but to be honest it’s easier than you think. & I believe I truly need to experience much to write about it. I would never imagine prison to be like this or divorce or the death of a child. The birth of a grandson. There are some writers who can write about things that they haven’t experienced. Richard Hell & homosexuality in Godlike or Stacy Szymaszek with Emptied of all Ships. Stacy ain’t no sailor. Both tremendous writers. I think you get my drift. There are tons of examples. Prison is very odd. You’d think there would be the idea, concept, action, “this is prison, this is how one should be/act”. Nope. I’m shocked. The behavior. Last night some guy comes up behind me with a guard right there. He throws his arm around my neck as if to choke me. I twist around and say “no”. Just now I had to explain, you don’t touch people in here. Touching is either sex or violence. Friends bump fists, shake hands, you know there is no room for horseplay. I’m shocked. It gives you an idea of who’s in here. Begs the question What is going on? Wisconsin is the leader in penal institutions. Lose the dairy status move into prisons. Are citizens worse than other states, better cops? I think not. Lock them up and forget. Then let them out. On you. I blame Elvis. He & Dick & irony. Law & Order. Leave my house unlocked, leave my children unattended. Sure there is crime but when the whole system becomes an instrument of politics. Elvis. A good guy surely fun as hell. But are we moving in the right direction. I don’t know but if I didn’t see it I wouldn’t believe it. You read/heard the budget issues. How many times was DOC threatened to lose $$? What have you heard since? Prison is a warehouse. A very busy warehouse. A lot of $$ comes in. A lot of people benefit from it. A lot. You, the taxpayer?

A buddy was walking with me last night, talking of his family, support, visits, etc. He’s a typical child that grew up comfortable. In a loving family. Something went wrong. He was telling me how his dad ran errands for his mother to him in the county jail. The awkward conversations. That distance. A father with his son on the other side of that fence. It was like 2 tons of bricks landed on me. I freaked. It’s not I couldn’t but my God, your child in prison. I know it’s fucked that your dad is in here. Or mom. Well he was like, “I was thinking my dad must be so disappointed in me”. I was like, “I’m sure your dad is thinking the same thing “where did I go wrong” “Really” “Without a doubt”. I say this because he’s honest. He backs up his stories He’s consistent. He’s smart. I see the pics, the letters. My eyes were welling up. His pain. His family’s. My Noah. God, this world. Our mistakes, our misgivings. The complete fuckin mess. The pain. After a while I just retreat. You know the other problem is I know his crime & I truly wouldn’t label as such. It could never stop me or cause any reservations. Confusion. Why so severe. Then I remember the big picture.

Came out this morning to first frost. Blue moon. Brilliant sun. Hot coffee. Sunday. I perfect morning walk. Sure that Noah was asleep. Possibly Amanda. Not Evan Henry. All I have to give are good thoughts, prayers. Figuring Kelly might be asleep if Max wasn’t acting crazy (cat) & most friends in same world. It felt good. You learn how to love with your hands tied. Learn to let go. Learn “to have faith”. To love horizon. Relate to dogs in pens & horses surrounded by barb-wire. Learn & understand limitations. Insanity. Need for great music & smell of fresh paint on canvas. Heard an interview with Chuck Close. Brilliant artist. A man of incomprehensible strength. Courage.

& I think of my father. His voice. Laughter. Courage. His teaching by example it’s okay to cry & live with dignity. & the notion it’s better to let 9 guilty men to be free than 1 innocent man to be imprisoned. I got my rose colored glasses from him. & from both mom & dad the ability to laugh through all this nonsense. & never wait for that fat woman to sing.

Heard Wilco last night. What a fantastic band. It’s off their new album, something “about” Germany. A great song. Perfect way of ending a Saturday.

Richard & Kelly again, thank you for this radio & headphones. I will attempt to describe the pleasure. It’s more than letting me know how much you care. It’s not quite the key to the prison’s front door. It’s knowing the key exists. Knowing your arms are wide open. & like that idiot in the Verizon commercial - you are not alone.

All my love.

Later.

102007

When asked what it’s like playing bad guys, De Niro replies, “I don’t play bad guys. I play people who make choices that are different from other’s.” Rebels. Slim broke the/our doorknob off in his hand. Actually it seemed to give up. We have 2 grown men “fighting” over someone who seems/is said to be a hermaphrodite. I think I’ll spend the rest of my “time” in this cell. Knob or not. Children of Bodom and True Grit. Some more Shirley Jackson. Perfect weather. Got a nice comment to which I respond…


Thanks C. I’m doing alright. I send you & S my love & 1,000 hugs. Drama? Only if you mean Ed Albee or E. Taylor. Hot tacky sticky drama not for sake of. Otherwise strictly chaos, baby. Create a new world. No more baking for this guy. Sounds like all is good. Still in same place? If you see P say hey and share some of those hugs & thanks G for being messenger. My friend.

Later

Lil Wilson Pickett & land of a thousand dances thinking of Patti Smith

Here’s a rough draft, not sure how rough, yet

free range convict
for Jacob

I recollect, even
in our sleep we
surrender. Virginia
Woolf found every
pebble on that beach
to make stone soup.
alas, forgot to change coat.
upon these 10 toes I stand
determined. question &
never to define. I’m a good
man better than some
worse for the wear. hell
I even remember purpose of
blood. see between greed.
one’s prison is 3 squares.
never to stand upon yonder.
chair with rope necklace. never
sleep in anything but good
ole thermal
underwear

101507

My celly is raving about is new mattress. I go “it’s a fuckin mattress not a lifestyle.” Sometimes I wonder. Like really wonder Just got some terrific mail and I hope my dear friend you’re ok with my quoting you. “CONGRATULATIONS!" (Elliot Smith just came on the radio so I take it as a yes.) "Named for his beloved uncle. Evan Henry. And Evan is a form of John. Fantastic! He is going to love his magic pony. Why do children love ponies so much? And why do we love giving them? Maybe because they deserve to be blissfully happy, cherished and celebrated. Congratulations!” How could I raise a complaint ever. Such a wonderful dear friend. Thank you. & Elliott on top of it. Earlier I was hit sideways & here is what I was writing…. Rick Springfield on the radio & the most blissful letter. One I will use (above) so perfect. Strange. Take my freedom. Place me in a cement shrouded cell & my friends knock on my head, “John can we come in and play” & we do. We come into this world naked & leave clothed-realistically & metaphorically. When Rick Springfield sings there is only one woman for me. & when I read magic pony I only think Evan Henry. Point being we are vaults. Treasures of our own divine. Magnificence. The architects of our own internal destinies. & friends? Friends are the ones we invite in. Serve tea & cucumber sandwiches. Glass of whiskey. You get the picture. Let’s redecorate. I got me some fine-ass friends. Funnier than fuck & wiser than the mountains. & mountains can’t speak. They just hover. So wise. Zen wise. Tao wise. Slap yr thighs wise. So let’s play some spades. Talk some shit & help that one out of the dark. Elliot Smith case in point.

So my other letter is from a terrific musician friend. He tells me his uncle comes over, his birthday and they go for a walk. See his X (hard) then runs into my family – Noah, Amanda, C & husband and Evan Henry & I quote “the baby is beautiful and new borns are normally disgusting”. So my friend & uncle keep walking. He says “ I was just writing a letter to that woman’s x-husband”. What a riot. Small world and a good one at that he then goes on to say “maybe we’re all in a wet cell” implying we’re all guilty of something. He also mentions he’s listening to Siouxsie & the Banshees. Was just describing to a friend yesterday, Evan’s nickname as a youth was Siouxsie Sue. He also adored them.

He goes on to say perhaps he should do a “prison retreat like me”. It does wonders. But there is a lot of take. But plenty of gain. This radio is so great. Hearing songs I thought I forgot. Been writing & reading. Got To Kill a Mockingbird & Sita by Kate Millett. Love her work. Rain fills the rest of my moments. Getting a master ready for Kill(ing) time. Hopefully will be done within next 2 weeks. It’s something I’m writing. Here’s 2:

On a Sunday
for Evan Henry

grief became

wild dog
feral
rabid
infectious

you’ve just
given me
a 2
x 4



conclusion

to walk
one’s path
whether

bramble clover asphalt
all gather
along

side
mine carry melody
sound of

Later

101207

Noah’s show is tonight. Highlonesome @ the Social. When I was out & working we painted the Social. Nice place. Fantastic mac-n-cheese. Not quite the few lbs of cheese butter & whipped cream in mine. But it’s solid. I was thinking about James earlier. I wrote to him about falling in love in here. Well, I know how that sounds but no, & yes I have been falling. Does one have to have an object? Or like a cliff, can one just fall? Well I’m still thinking that out. Few minutes ago my chest was burning. Ears electric & every molecule in my body was barking. Radiohead on Fresh Air. Yeah, I know I’m in prison. Frankly it can be forgotten Any way. Thom Yorke & 10 minutes. You already know of the new album, In Rainbows (right?). Well they chatted and then played “No Surprises”. Well how perfect their smile. You forgot their eye neck & suddenly dizzy. Well that kind of happened but worse. I gasp. Almost screamed & yes….water works. What brilliance & yes, James, it was/is love. Slim had left our cell. I’m stretched out on my bunk. Light off. Just gasping & then more chatter. Interesting. & The “Idotec”. Well, I’m gone. Fuck that whole desert isle thing. 10 albums. That’s stupid. For me spontaneous brilliance. Last night Nick Cave, Waits, REM, The Ramones. Christmas Easter Thanksfuckingiving. So my buddy Richard, this radio is truly a fantastic gift. Yeah Baby! Evan Henry beats you out, but, my God, this is so great & believe me, loved. It’s said what goes around comes around. I believe keep your heart clean. Try pure. & your brain as positive as possible & it can work out. Love is by action the most needed surprise I had spent a few hours today writing & editing. Sent some work out to Joel. & I’ll end with some but first I want to describe this/my/our cell. Big ole door. Steel. Few locks & vertical window. Sink/toilet combination. Polished stainless steel mirror. A corkboard. On my ½ - actually our things run all over – photo (8x10) (sent by Kelly) of Evan & Noah & myself in our stairwell. Photo of Stacy looking coy with great glasses holding copy of the Recluse (nice publication), a card from Luckystarstudio - their show Storybook – great artists & sweet painting of little dudes in a swan boat. Think cooler statement then Bjork’s dress. A photo of T.Moore & A.Berrigan taken by Stacy. Photo of staff of Woodland Pattern – the best bookstore. Not just my opinion. It’s nickname, Woodland Patterson. Photo of gummy watermelons taken by Elaine E. A memo from myspace of tonight’s Highlonesome show & last but not least 8X10 Patti Smith on Horses cover. I tell them she’s my girl “Really?” “Don’t be an idiot” then Slim’s trunk where he creates magic. Really cool constructions. Then large metal shelves. Slim’s chaos. Mine books. Berrigan. Camus. some Zen. Thesaurus. Pasolini. Clock. Some large folders. My shirts & coats. Then my trunk. Window. Frosted over. Don’t open & our bunk. Me on the lower. Slim floats in space. 2 cool shelves at the end. I sit on my bed typewriter on my shelf. So I sit on my bed and type. Listen to radio. Got it. You don’t want to break too many laws. & yeah don’t get caught. For if I ever make this sound cool REALITY CHECK. I’m locked in okay? Alright. Now some poetry.


palely

ecstasy travels
on the breath.
isolation tastes
greed. anger. of
need.
water
into
star.

learn how to read impending weather.
uninvited by another’s eyes.
marked. breeze of passing gull.


understated

geese overhead
seagulls
killdeers every
direction
I don’t talk in circles
I walk ecliptically


late August past noon

not unlike
teaching a dog
to smoke crack
he said, “cremate the body
soul becomes dysfunctional”
I can feel you
in my bones.


with yr. horizon

sleep become only child.
bourgeois delight. frost
penetrate. jellied bread
eggs fresh toast despair.
pristine breath poisons.
day. became. allusion.
insomnic. hitch cart
insinuate constellation.
bestow word. stuff under bed.
cotton. ration. weave. generous prayer.
soon secure. limb surround limb. tongue to ear.


rime

fog mount.
forward claim day.
mystic frost surround single gull sliver.
few cons walk I count
memory
drawn
such as
this.


self portrait

shred flesh to bone. maneuver.

embroider on. teeth consume bone.

blood paint. coil hair. salamander dew.

fingers rigid. sag belly shrug. & from thighs. midnight.

beckon begin. harken lost quiver.

to flank. of (a) distance.


whatever makes you happy

warm maple
syrup. Blue
by Joni
Mitchell. I
crawl back into bed
you follow in the sad
lush
delusion
he named his cats
after moments of

101107

The cold has set within. Whether interior or ex. it clarifies & confuses. We tend to fall either apart or collapse internally. Summer is over. Freedom restricted. & now death. Fall, Winter. In here the collapse is obvious & silent. Read across the faces. Resignation. Soon cabin fever. Some fight. Some, not all. Today I made my mind to. Though I want to give in and collapse. Indulge the obvious. Disappear as the moon dusts. FUCK THAT! Evan & Noah were disciplined with time-out chairs. Evan would beg, “please beat me”. Always the dramatic one. Today battling impending doom, I saw Evan in that chair & smiled. Isolation sucks. So easy to freak & go to the hole. & I thought of my responsibilities to myself, my friends, family. My society. Community. & the great letter I received from James. Stuck my nose in Exile and the Kingdom by Albert Camus. Truly a man that will guide me thru all of this. A gentle gifted giant. I’m still sick & dizzy. Very weak. I believe either low blood sugar or my heart again. Tomorrow night Noah & the Social. Oh, to run wildly into black. Before I run out on you, Howlin Wolf & Bo Diddley & the radio saves the day.

Later.

101007

A new dawn another moment within. Thankful to the degree of ecstasy. Dear friend from NYC made possible. Typewriter, radio, headphones & yes, longjohns. When asked what needed I had not to think. Friend inside inquired why not tv. “well I don’t watch, too much to do”. Yeah, I do wander. Stumble over fresh laid questions. Did my workout this a.m. Always hate. Always happy when done. Feel as if some cancer has been lifted. Cancer of comfort. Locked into some big ass syndrome. I need not just my changes but the world at large. I will do what I can to make this better. I need same in return. If you see me acknowledge. Consider, then we may proceed. The road here is paved and well lit. Plenty of signs. To detour is understandable to a certain extent. Just don’t be stupid. A tree branch breaks, here, believe you me, it affects everyone.

Out walking thoughts remain in the sky. Will I get over this beauty. Perhaps. But I truly doubt it. Gives a great ability to clear. To scrub. To disinfect one’s soul. My thoughts go to friends, family. Evan. Noah. Amanda. Evan Henry. The cold air dusts my boiled blood. I enter that room of remorse. Then a hand upon my shoulder & words whisper forgiveness. That battle. Again. Like clockwork a distraction. Fellow inmate complains everyone here is a baby. Well that turns my head. “How so?” "Always whine about the cold”. “Yeah. Some have a hard time.” It’s not the end of the world”. We talk about his life , his celly, his problems. I ask him without getting personal “Were your indiscretions worth it?” “No” “Then why?” “Don’t know”. That seems to be the common answer here. That is where it ends. A lot of reaction in here. I call you an idiot and we look at each other. Say it to a guy who just got a “Dear John” letter & you’re both going to the hole. Everyone is a potential terrorist. I prefer life in Mexico. Not to say I haven’t thought about crossing that border. I just pave my road a little differently. I hope I pave it alright. & I pray that my compass never fails me.

So I come in from my trek. Dizzy as a mf. I mean I’m going down. “No you’re not” commands my navigator. Make it to a chair. Wait and it gets worse. Medication? Heart? Stress? Cold? What? My head swims. I hate to complain I got up to the front desk and explain the situation. Sgt. calls hsu. I’m on a sick call list. I’m grateful. Still don’t know what it is. The good part is it mellows me out big time. This has been happening for a while. Last night it hit me & I’m listening to some kiss-ass music. “Black snake moan”. Like the dork I am, I pass a joint to my shadow. In “our” little world it was blissful. Never thought at my age – Circumstance – I could conjure a make believer world. It was alright. And yes, no one was watching. Too “Risky Business”.

Holy fuck! “To Sir with Love”. Ever since I can remember I’ve been in love with LuLu. My god she is everything. Her delivery is perfection. She has that magic that transcends. I hear her voice & I’m a kid falling in love for the first time. When she gets up & starts to sing in the movie my heart stopped. I realized at that moment the world was good and something terrific,. My heart still jumps. Is that art or what? Right after LuLu I met Tina Jordan & my first kiss. How could I ever complain? Now they are playing the great Alex Chilton. When I walking early I was “composing a letter to Noah”. Explaining. Apologizing. Just letting him know what he already does. Try as I might I truly believe that there is something beyond all this. Not just the fact that I would be dead now. My path was F’ed up. But I believe the most basic tenet, ‘God is in the details” Usually is referred to in regards to design but I believe in it on the grand scale. The true scale. And yes, if I hadn’t died or gone to prison my life would be different. And yes it would be with my son. Grandson. And yes my heart is broken. My sight clear(er).

Later.



Dice Riders

Nothing stands between us
except Flying Tigers
Future Funk
The Avenue B Break Boys
and
The Voidoids-
Sometimes,
Time gets in the way, &
sometimes, lots of sometimes,
We get in its way, so,
Love, love me, do.

-Ted Berrigan

God that man is a f’en genius! Just my way of saying, yeah bud, I’m thinking of you & you & you and now to the man who remains another string attached to Stacy’s & my heart:

The Song of the Bells

When evening loses itself in the fountains
my village is a confused color.
I’m far away, I remember its frogs,
the moon, the sad tremolo of the crickets.
Vespers sound and fade into the fields.
I’m dead to the song of the bells.
Stranger, fear not,
in my sweet flight over the plain,
I am a spirit of love
who to his land returns from afar.

- Pier Paolo Pasolini

10507


Yes, Virginia, there is magic, a wonderful glow that wraps, encompasses all. Perhaps Santa Claus. Perhaps Easter Bunny. Always, always miracles. On October 2 Evan Henry joined this world weighing in at 7lbs 15oz & red, yes, red hair. My dear friend Julie just sent me that terrific news. I couldn’t get on my knees fast enough. To feel that blood, that joy, that togetherness. I’m so thankful. So overwhelmed again! Noah. Amanda. Thank you – thank you so very much! Julie wasn’t able to see Evan Henry yet but both Eric & Noah said he’s perfect. No surprises here.

Reading of the 1981 Irish Hunger Strike – pain of those families knowing your son is starving self to death for a cause that may have escaped their logic. (Actually the families were profoundly supportive – pained, but behind them). Such a profound sacrifice. So beautiful you can almost reach in & touch that love. That suffering. That where man became so much more. Bobby Sands, Francis Hughes, Raymond McCreesh, Patsy O’Hara, Joe McDonnell, Martin Hurson, Kevin Lynch, Kieran Doherty, Thomas McElwee, Michael Devine.

The radio is playing “Imagine”. John’s birthday the 9th. 7 days from Evan Henry’s. “The dream we dream together; reality.” Right now my heart is bursting. I feel I could cure. My tears elixir. I’m not moving from this position. To live within rapture.

10307

Yesterday a friend reminded me of a few forgotten exercises. I did last night. Felt amazing. I’m at the point where fat is almost nonexistent. Bone, muscle. Flesh. A tent. Canopy of. I want to strip away not only physical waste, fat, but spiritual – creative-intellectual. None of this surprising. Life is in a constant state of flux. Constant movement. Americans crave comfort. Comfort foods. Think of the foods that comfort you. Feel good. Odd. Whatever. I’m in the midst of three tremendous books, well two. One is about a huge hero of mine – Thomas Merton. Decent bio but not much about Merton here. Enough to hear his voice. Tap. Focus. Move into that light. He had a humongous house. The treasures. Delight. Reading Women In Love. That’s taking back seat. But taking the whole back seat. Main focus Ten Men Dead. I strongly recommend. Starts with history of hunger strikes. Act of dying at “enemy’s” door. Quite profound. Chilling. Bravery. Loyalty. Brother/sisterhood beyond words. So thankful I found it. The fact that it’s here – good sign. Too much finger pointing. Too much we’re repressed. How can you hold down the truly free? Ten men stopped eating to their deaths for a handful of issues. Twenty some years ago. Imagine. I would love to ask Einstein what percent do we use of our brain. What percent of soul? Red-winged blackbirds jabbered on & on this morning. I have not forgotten how it feels to hug. I will never forget how to love. I like this path. Love these shoes & this coffee? Actually does a good job. This morning inside writing first: “Friday I’m in Love” then Nazareth’s “Love Hurts”. Frankly a mind blowing perfect version is done by Townes Van Zandt. If you haven’t heard it – do without pause. & his songs are so profound. So perfect. Right now Velvet Underground. Need to take a shower but I just can’t move Just can’t. Won’t.

“I was wondering (here it comes says you), that out of the goodness of all yer hearts you couldn’t get me one miserly book & try to leave it in: The poems of Ethna Carberry – Cissy. That’s really all I want. Last request at they say. Some ask for cigarettes. Others for blindfolds. Yer man asks for poetry”. Bobby Sands.


so alone still Alive

distance traffic
grass crickets
crystallized
molecules

Noah prepares
son to rise
my father’s
setting

-JT

10107

Monday another month. Fog settles dawn. Dampness rests about the collar. Breath. Went to library to write, return books. As I sign in, “Go to security suite”. Long story short my mail has been monitored. Asked what was I doing. I reply: “I write. I read. I exist.” “Yeah, not too good with writing poetry” – “Yeah,” I sigh. Everyone’s a critic – but that’s cool. Bottom line. “Don’t talk smack”. “I don’t” He knew. He’s read everything. I have no secrets. No “real” problems. I admit to every possible questionable action. To tell you the truth – we were both confused. All my letters were there from the past week. My only concern was I hope no one was worried. Concerned I hadn’t written. Earlier asked if I had any tickets. “No”. I think we understood each other. Stood, shook hands. Dropped of my letters at mail box. Went back to library. “Can I get on the computer?” “Sure”
Re-wrote some poems. Amused I write poetry. Strange. I guess I take my words for granted. So much a part of me. My walk. My eyes. Fingertips. After writing I got into the stacks. Found Ten Men Dead: The story of the 1981 Irish Hunger Strike. How cool is that? Emily Dickinson. Grabbed current “GQ”. Read a few bits & pieces. Jack White. Being in the wrong time. I don’t get that. Then everything fell together. The reality. Prison. Joel said everyone’s in one. Yeah. Bobby Sands. Huge difference. I’m in their world. A huge difference from where I came from. A different time. Place. I explain a bit of the blog to the officer. I don’t write of the day to day because so much is dumb. Gossip. Madness & fits. I prefer the silence of this morning of yesterday. I can’t write of the terrors. The horrible certainties. The reality is simple. We/I broke the law. We are here. Locked up. No shock. There are rules. Yes, some seem gray. Some are pure common sense or? I want this behind me. To get it behind me I need to go thru it. I’ve explained my pain - Noah, Amanda. Their family. My family. My friends – dear, dear, fuckin amazing friends. My father. I don’t care what we eat – sure I love peanut butter. I don’t care if they read my mail. Check my body. Clothes. I don’t care about tv or what’s new in the yard. I walk. Talk. Live honestly. Respect my diction. Love my cadence. I’m an outsider. Not better than others. One of the inmates. I do get bothered by inmate fits & guard’s bad days. But again I’m a 50 year old man. Lived a tremendous life. This my pond. My monastery. Joe warned of hard time coming. I pray this was it & frankly this wasn’t hard. Finished lunch. Talked to a buddy about his life. Explained this blog & what happened earlier. “Basically your blog is an outlet for rage.”
“No, I have no rage. No real rage. Sadness maybe.” I want to take advantage of this time. Whether to understand or just be. One thing - I’m so conscious of my actions. What I project. What I accept. Reject. Knowing any rage that may exist is directed at myself. I digress. This is a different time. A different place.

Received a wonderful letter from Stacy. Always an inspiration. Always a wonder. She was wearing a thin white sweater she found in a box on the sidewalk. I felt a moment of jealousy. To be in NYC & to find something wonderful on the street. In my visits I’ve found a hat, scarf, brown leather briefcase in which Gene silkscreened a target & a great chrome chain that Jacob took home. My jealousy moves into pleasant. My Stacy. Said she read the blog before she wrote. That is the intention of the blog. To let you all know all is good & some poetry here & there. Nothing more & hopefully good. Stacy informs of terrific work schedule & mapping out poets. I’m so proud of her. Always good news. I’m grateful all is well out there. Perhaps a grandson. I’m grateful for all your support.
Good words.

10107


“If one can endure pain, one can live without suffering”


“If you’re gonna cry, cry because of all the good times we had, And all the laughs, and all the fun shit we did, and cry because those memories make you happy”


“It takes a brave man to walk away, to care so much that he doesn’t care about anything else, to be willing to obey what he feels inside, to be willing to suffer the consequences of living for himself." The conversation is about Paul Gauguin. He goes on…

“Every time I stand before his work it makes me cry, and I cry because I’m proud of him and happy for him and because I admire him.”

I’m proud to say I’ve encountered a few him & hers in that regard. No question about that. My Friend Leonard is a wonderful, amazing, gut wrenching, good luck if you get thru it without biting a hole in your mouth book by James Frey.

93007


Sobbing in prison. Not just bizarre but quite ridiculous. I don’t mean crying. I mean the storm. The whole fuckin storm. Starts with a gentle tug & then the gates are thrown open & then the fall. Never a jump. Just a major dissent. Some painters do it for me - some poetry – a kiss – with out a doubt, death.

Evan’s been following me all day. Seems like he needs to talk. I’m scared. So very scared. It’s not fear of pain, frankly it’s the opposite. I walked outside late (for us) last night around 7:30. The moon was out full. Could not be missed. Could not be forgotten. Will be remembered and I thought where’s Noah, Colette, Jacob, Amanda, Kelly, Stacy, wonderful legions of friends, family, lovers. & I stopped & stared as if I were a glass unattended under a faucet on full blast. I couldn’t breathe. Evan. This life. This amazing fuckin life. I bow I fall I surrender. My father, John, who struggles so bravely without failure. I’m sure the word struggle neither defines or is a word he would accept. A brilliant soldier. No fear on the front lines & my mother, unfailing partner. Scared & probably angry though resolved. & my sister Pat, who along with her husband, is taking up the slack. I’m packed fill with emotion, concern & love for those I can’t touch, & those dried up bastards who judge & see punishment as some redemptive device. I’m tired of that bullshit. Playing some game. This world treds a razor fine line of joy & devastation of love & hate of black white of true universal truths. & America wants a perfect lawn care system. Build a better garage door & lock up those who spit into the wind. The wind ceaseless. The wind blind in direction. As I write justice. In my cell writing just reading My Friend Leonard (brilliant). Needed to catch a breath. Babbling to you of man’s insanity & Slim comes rushing in. The clouds have opened & nature has taken upper hand.

I don’t cry for myself. I sob for release. For those without. Those within. Those gone. Those soon to join. Those left behind. Those in between. For justice. For humanity. For the light to be left on. For prairie grass to take over mid-America. For Henry Ford to have never become or moronic George Bush. For silent. For hope. For Prayers. For rain. For another second to begin again. My tears are of life to tell me to go on. To retreat. My tears never of defeat. Of strength. My father taught me - to cry is to live – and Alex reminded tears allow your poisons to leave. Your sobs remind you that we are human & sad but true, when it’s over it’s over. There are no dress rehearsals so fuck your weeds & hug your child. Whisper in lover’s ear & have no fear. There is more, much more, than meets the eye, The heart. The soul.

Later

92507

“Man struggles with his unborn needs & fulfillment. New unfoldings struggles up in torment in him, as buds struggle forth from the midst of a plant. Any man of real individuality tries to know & to understand what is happening, even in himself, as he goes along. This struggle for verbal consciousness should not be left out in art. It is a very great part of life. It is not superimposition of a theory. It is the passionate struggle into conscious being.”

“We are now in a period of crisis. Every man how is acutely active is acutely wrestling with his own soul. The people that can bring forth the new passion, the new idea, this people will endure. Those others, that fix themselves in the old idea, will perish with the new life strangled unborn within them. Men must speak out to one another.”

- Forward of Women In Love by D.H. Lawrence. 1920.

Though I do understand his use of man, I feel the need to underline – man & woman. A wonderful writer.

Went out to the yard after lunch. Workers were chipping up pallets in a maintenance garage. The whole yard smelled of pine. So delicious. Went right back to being a kid & helping my dad & his crew clear up work sites. Always smell of fresh cut 2 x 4’s, coffee & dark sweat. So much of us are determined by the power/memory of scent. I was right there 14-15 years old struggling being a part of that house. Those houses. Cut pine – scent of wood-my father. Always so big. Now today. I realized once again how huge he figured in my life. Didn’t always see eye to eye – but I’m his son. No question. His challenge to me – “G.M. will never hire a poet” & my reply “I’ll never drive”. Still without a license & poetry my constant. Perhaps I needed that challenge. Though for years & years I resented poetry – the responsibility. The vision. Fuck – the vision quest. Blessed.

A huge thank you to Richard Hell – I owe you big time.

Well it looks certain our mail is being monitored. We’ll keep you up to date.

Keep the faith. Share the faith.

Later.

92407

My friend died over the weekend. It was totally unexpected. They think it was a heart attack while she slept. Not sure how I feel.

We worked together. She was my only confidant.

We were all summoned to the conference room and then we were told. A few shrieks. All faces of disbelief & then silence. What to say? Who to say it to? What do we do now?
Go home – no. Go back to work? That seems cold. Sit here in silence? Don’t want to. So some start in with the cliché sayings about dying peacefully. etc etc etc. I hate that stuff. To me it sounds phony and insincere. If you don’t know what to say just don’t say anything at all. So I go back into my office. I call my sister to tell her.

I feel bad because last week I jokingly said to a manager that she was making my friend sick and working her to death. I hope no one remembers me saying that. It isn’t the first time I have made a reference to some one dying and then they did.

The work day continued. People pretty much kept to themselves. When there was interaction everyone was extremely nice to teach other. No one was talking about it.

There will not be a funeral. Family choice. I don’t mind funerals. Been going to them since the day I was born. Big Irish funerals where it ends up being a big happy party.
A great get-together to celebrate a life. Funerals are for the living. I am a little disappointed that we can’t say a formal good bye but everyone grieves in their own way.

I know my last words to her were “Go home. You don’t need all this stress today. Go get some rest.”

She did go home and is getting rest.

Bye Marilyn. It was great spending time with you here. I’ll talk to you later when I get home.

-kc

92307

Someone made comment regarding “Frustrated poet” then stared at me. “Not I! I’m frustrated as an American, as a prisoner, but poet, NEVER”. Poetry is here, there & everything in between. Yeah when a line or fragment arrives unannounced I need to chastise & beg to keep quiet & remind when I have paper. Rarely prepared. I was an outsider out “there”. In here same identification more. Aloof – very distant. Never confused. Just “is that how you want to be perceived?”
Like the guards here, most I understand. Just walking talking – blah blah. These are the “snore” rules. Then there’s someone & you go like –something is different – you’re actually responding to my words. Wait, Oh God! You’re listening & now you’re responding? Holy Mary why in Zeus’s name do you work here? You want your child, grandchildren, neighbors knowing you monitor men’s showers, strip down their rooms looking for cookies? How many ass cracks have you checked out? That’s my extent of confusion. Otherwise I’m in a mixmaster of boredom. At least paint, when it dries, changes. Want to thank Stacy S. for wonderful care package! Thanks. & Richard Hell for a surprise book.. Thanks! Can’t wait. Thanks for all the wonderful letters – Mom & Dad, Noah, Jonathan, Richard, Julie, Zack, Matt, James & Kelly.

Letters are great. A number of reasons, 1) you took out a part of your day to think of me of us. 2) you’re practicing a lost art – so Victorian – so this my quiet time. 3) it’s also a vitamin. Here’s a multiple – of thought, love, humor, news. Never worry about what to say. A postcard is perfect. See, I got nothing but time & frankly if I’m behind it’s because I’m out of stamps. No other reason. Letters become sacred. I used to run up first – tear it open like chocolate. Now I savor. Never first one up. Sometimes it’s a yes, sometimes nothing. Then I got out to walk. Think. Wonder what you have to say. Then come back in, tidy a small area, pop the tape , stick my nose within (for the longest time I was convinced everyone used perfume. Frank told me “No John. That’s how the outside smells”.) Pull paper out. Fondle the pages. Watch your words. Remember last time we spoke. Conjure your voice so you can read to me. & I sit back & sigh. It’s very private. When I want to show off (which is mean spirited) I read them in the yard. I read them, no you. You can only read when we’re alone & then I unknot the rope to my boat, jump in and float the rest of the night.

Couple of guys went to the hole for fighting in their cell. 5 minutes ago 2 guys were at it because they wanted the dryer. It’s better being an outsider. I do extend for some. Wrote a letter for a buddy to his mother. Talk a few down for impending depression. There is no punishment. You have isolation. Some education. Some guys love the hole cause they have their own cell – so it looks like tax payers are being taken for a ride. I think I might work on prison reform issues when I get out. There needs to be clarity – streamlining- not just from prisoner’s perspective but I’m sure from the prisons. I should have warned you I have a huge capacity for chaos – for aggression – for insanity. I should have pointed that out a while back. The reason I do now is because of my current celly. Most guys never, never quiet. So I guess he is wound tight. So logically if I’m so mellow with him & the various experiences on the outs. Yes I’m guilty. Rarely am I shocked. Disillusioned - yes. Sad – certainly. Do I spend at least 1-2 hrs a day total laughing? Without a doubt.

I miss music. Slim insists on playing the oldies. So now I live in bathroom decorated by John Wayne Gacy with nonstop James Taylor, Abba & America. In small doses ok – Large – remember Clockwork Orange. I found blue grass once. He freaked & classical reminds him of the ends of tv shows. Great – now B.T.O. Thank God I have solid memories of George’s father “Serenity Now!”

What do you know! Went to get my B.P. meds & Slim left & I have the radio for ten minutes. Yep. I’m 49. Remember the glass is never ½ full or empty – it’s cracked.

Thru all “this” this prison stuff, I have to admit this country has huge problems within prison & horrid conditions still exist. But I truly believe like every issue that affects our life, both good & bad, we really need to discuss & come to an understanding. What can we – we the voters- we the family – the families of victims – of criminals. Out of sight out of mind solves nothing. I see bitterness every day & I find it sickening. Yes, some have & take account for nothing & that’s a huge problem. This system creates a bitterness, a confusion & I think you like. I know where that leads -2nd 3rd 4th offense. First of all, explain why teenagers are in here – 16-17-18. Come on! We need to think. Stop reacting. Pro-active. Maybe now affordable healthcare, movement away from Iraq police action, prison reform, education. I’m in no ivory tower. I’m ground level in one of Wisconsin’s prisons.

Vote & thanks again for all your support/letters/gifts.

Now playing –Elliott Smith. See the difference?

Later.

92207

In realizing that yesterday was Center Street Days I remember with fondness meeting up with Noah. Few steps from his apartment. “Hey” Noah smiles slyly & proceeds to headbutt me. “Oh, it’s one of those days”. Noah was buzzed. Ran to liquor store – not to leave him alone. The night was amazing but with such a tense emotional time we ran into Evan’s first love. Within 10 minutes I lost Noah only to find him moments later about to be arrested. He was (later paid ticket) but it was only yesterday that I realized we were both arrested within a month. He’s having a son. I’ve been in prison. Strange turn of events. He stayed within God’s law. I wandered wrong side of the tracks . Man’s law. “we know what’s best”. There’s not a moment that I’m not thankful our roles weren’t reversed. I’m reminded daily of so many interpretations of prison. Of dealing with it.

A man a few years younger spends every night shedding tears – banging his head against the wall. He’s not the first. I’ve never shed tears for myself. Beat myself up – sure – no question. But pity – never. Anger. Then the realization “what did you expect – think?”
My tears are exclusive. Evan. Noah. My whimpers for the voids I’ve created. Those whimpers become poems, pleas, prayers. My friends are angry – hurt-confused- but survivors. Not all directed at me – those insane actions – but man’s law – society’s indifference. It’s all fun & games ‘til someone loses an eye. The judicial system: one pair of pants & hands of Shiva (the Hindu God with so many arms).

The kid who had his head bashed in with the cribbage board had sold his celly’s rug cause his celly was stealing from him. Apparently he was stabbed in Green Bay. I can think of a thousand truisms. Sunday a day of rest, my mind rush hour traffic. I’m moved to another village in Mexico. One which receives most of the news from the front. I continue to be the unlawful monk. Trappist raccoon & I do admit my judgment has been flawed.

Later.

Sidebar: As you might remember/know a wet cell - toilet sink=wet, get it? Well amongst inmates you place a piece of paper in the window. Flag. Sign of respect, courtesy. Cops hate, can’t monitor. Well with all my heart issues I’ve been opened, stripped, poked & prodded more than imagined. Hence no issue with body & varied functions. Slim convinced me to use “flag” today. So there I am abiding by con’s rules. In mid-evacuation cell door flies open. GI Joe rips out paper.
Oh well, such is life. Prison. Wide river.

92107

Got news an inmate beat his celly with a cribbage board. News travels too fast & I don’t need to spread gossip. I bring it up for you to check out. It’s a reality check. You never know who sits beside you. He came downstairs bloody, said to the C.O. I think I killed my celly. Please say a prayer.

Walking thru the yard an alright C.O. rides by on his bike. I say “Good evening” he says, “Hi, John”. To be called by your first name is a distinction of honor. I make an effort to always get first names of every guy I meet. & I mean who I want to know. Every one has a nickname, which is cool, I get it. Some nicknames are true. Some hype. First name so personal. So civilized.

If prison could be narrated I’d elect Slim. He’s a feisty guy – a physical resemblance to Charlie Manson. But frankly, without a doubt, we’d be friends on the outs. Without a doubt he’s eccentric. Feeding the ants, banging his hand on the table – a very, very loud speaker with a heart of gold. No one, I mean no one, fucks with him. He’s honorable. Constantly he’s filling me in on things – what that guy’s about – how he owes him a soup or 2. When I told him that my mail that I send out has been opened, he told me that can happen. When I told another friend he chastised me – no one no one should know your business. Everyone is a possible snitch. I don’t send out ‘bad” things – letters, poems, you know, but I send out big packets. I wish I knew the law in this regard.

Slim introduced me to his celly James, an amazing spade player. We just lost a few games & he’s always like – don’t worry – it’s alright. Real mellow. Hated playing cards in County Jail. So much bravado & I was just learning. I think I got me a partner.

Well things change in a moment. Slim is now my celly. My last moved to another unit. I turned to Slim “you & me”. It’s cool. He works on art – I write. Radio in background. Grandboy on the way. My father fighting to stay around. & the world keeps revolving. In mine I ask for a few kind thoughts. Some prayers. A better today & a tomorrow of dreams. For all of us. A better world.

Later

91807


There was no referee. There is no referee.
I’m in an empty room in an empty house. No one can hear me. Electric clock furnace & sometimes water in the pipes. Those who know me – know me. Understand that is a different question. Like all events I’m sure this one is timed though does everything happen for a purpose? Obviously certain events lead to certain results. We are governed with in a certain logic. Step outside & all willy-nilly. Every day is the same though everything is different.

Breakfast 6:30 Count 7:30 Lunch 11:00 Count 12:25 Count 4:45 Dinner 5:00
Final count at 9:45.

Within all that events such as school, programs, library, rec, canteen & misc. more. Rest of the day free. Well sort of. Speak. Routine can be good. I wake @ 6:00 work out @ 8:00-9:30/10:00 Shower lunch walk read/sleep dinner walk & talk – library every day write listen to cds there are few books to check out. Now this is med.security. I won’t make it to min because of program needs. In max, little, very little movement. Around you always wraps tension. Insane sitting with you back in the cell. No matter how much you relax you never really relax. There are people here you want to hurt & people who want to hurt you. It’s not a secret. I personally believe some of the reasons why guys are here are excessive – fighting, drinking, I’ve seen child support.

Back when I lived in Galena, we’d all go out to a friend’s house 5 miles out of town. Beautiful old farmhouse all funky and left to be. Within range an old insane asylum & poor house. Yep, locked up because you couldn’t pay your bills. That was back in the late 1800’s. Has this country even understood Darwin? Any way, my point was my empty room in my empty house. It’s where I live in here. You are those squirrels in my attic. I talk to you when I leave peanuts. Need some more newspapers?

At lunch & early today talking with some buddies, making plans for getting together on the outs. I’m so into it. Introduce fellow travelers with those who couldn’t come with. No doubt about it I’m in. We’re spread out. I look like first out – but I will keep in touch. & some of you out there can help me plan. Make cakes! We owe it to each other. We come in alone & leave alone. It’s what’s done between. Are we planning robberies, murders, car jackings – no. It’s all about survival. Same terms as life. You come in alone. It’s what you do. What you’ve become. Who you are. The difference between want & need. Strip everything to the bone. Basic construction. Structure.

91707

Guilty by association.

John wrote about that in a previous entry. I’ve thought about that phrase for a long time. Who do I associate with now? Who have I associated with in the past?
If it is true we are guilty by association then I am guilty of the following right now:

Being old, being young, being a good cook, being a snob, believing in God, hating organized religion, being Catholic, being afraid, being wealthy, being a millionaire, being poor, being on welfare, never cooking, being a civic leader, being in debt, filing bankruptcy, having the absolute best friends, taking friends for granted, having an incredible family, being mad at my family, doing my best, being a slacker, being an underachiever, being an over achiever, being Jewish, being Baptist, not caring, being a stay at home mom, pretending, spending my money foolishly, buying the perfect gift, breaking the law, drinking too much, not taking care of my health, being indifferent, being responsible, being irresponsible, helping out strangers, self sabotage, feeling too deeply, being truthful, playing jokes on people, being a liar, being curious, not ever doing drugs, being a small time drug dealer, being a vegetarian, being faithful, eating too much junk food, being the biggest bitch known to mankind, being an artist, being a sports fan, being cheap, arguing for no reason, being lazy, being judgmental, not caring enough, loving too strongly, fleeing when the going gets tough….etc, etc, etc……………

-kc

91507

“He’s all upset. Said he’s got the wrong colored clothes. Says he’s paranormal”.
“Are you sure he doesn’t mean paranoid?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“That fuckin old bastard did it again. Drove his fuckin car right into Burger King.” Points to a short older guy ahead, “He’s something else.”
“What?” I ask, “Bacon?” “Listen!”
“He’s got multiple personalities. On popcorn night smashed his head. Blood all over his bed. Popcorn. “Wonder what that tasted like?” “Probably a Bloody Mary.”

In here we have mispronunciation. Misrepresentation. Insanity. Out there – how can you get your cheap ass super hot coffee & fatty fatty breakfast without risking your life? Ah…another weekend.

Strange whether here. Or there. Weekends have their own personality. Character. Let’s rush & do nothing. Except of course if you work weekends. Then your weekends are picked & chosen. Either way it’s laziness & a teaspoon of discipline. Frankly you do nothing. Some have school, jobs, programs. Some just time. All the time in the world & all the time won’t put you back together again. Ah… weekends.

And again if I haven’t already said, mentioned – prison is different in Wisconsin. Very different in Osh Kosh. Osh Kosh is the sex offender prison for this state. And believe me when you hear some of the stories there are no questions why those men are here.

I read a few articles recently about prison & people’s views. Experiences. One was by a kid who was imprisoned in South Korea for smuggling hash in from the Philippines. Interesting story. Just a lot of the same –o. Oh well. Then I read the next month’s issue & in the letter’s section one reader was irritated. Miffed. Whatever. That kid expressed no guilt. Who are we? What are we? Look – the kid made a mistake, got caught, got sick, some amazing stories. Did his time. Well for one, his crime made sense. A huge profit & doing a service for hash heads. He wasn’t smuggling coke or smack or even guns. Oh well. Everyone wants justice. Boy this world must be so enlightened. Like a single bud of joy – perfect. Wake the fuck up you sniveling rat – who are you Carry Nation’s grand nephew? We all want safety & protection & security so let’s lock them all up.

Scooter Libby is freed. I suppose now they would have executed Ezra Pound. Let’s give Oscar Wilde 95 years. Well Virginia Albert Fish ate Santa Claus – now go to fucking bed!

91007

Mist. A light wilty mist. Cleansing. Turning slowly to heavier drops. Rain. Mist. The blazing sun are my favorites. The sun is obvious. Without it only blackness. Pointless. Sun redemptive. Every dawn fresh. Every break sound overcast. A continuing thread thru existence. Ours – theirs – soon to be another’s. The sun. Sons – daughters. The circle unbroken. Why rain? Besides the fact of life as with the sun. The rain is affected by other elements. It’s reactive. Like humans. The sun. Though it sounds cruel , it’s routine. Rain is a lover. Best friend. Sometimes hated enemy when it joins evil forces. Rain interrupted as blessing from heavens. Tears of angels. I prefer a shower. Nature’s bath & the ground our bath mat. To receive & deliver. Out here it seems easier to accept rain. You get wet & you decide if it works or not. Stay or go in. No running. No oh my god, my bagel!

Our first human contact is a medical professional of some extent. Our first washing by the same. Then family. Mother. Father. The lists goes on. Showers, baths meant to cleanse. Scrub away life’s life. Dirt. Grease. Mankind’s gambling. Here there are no baths anywhere. From 5 minutes to whatever. Unless you work you have no grease & unless you trek, no dirt. So showers are for reducing stench. The funk of 2000 men. 200 without windows The funk. So rain. Rain like a spontaneous mother, father, friend, lover.
Now is the time to bathe. So I walk thru mist to rain. Remembering baths of the past. Their notable showers with friends/lovers. A surpise. Evan. Noah. In the kitchen sink. Wedding night. Tripping with friends. Cleaning of drunken buddy. Water. How glorious we get caught up in morning coffee. Where are the goddamn donuts! Life. We’re what 80% water? Linked by that which slides thru. I prefer water to snake- chicken-bean. Water & monkey. Our human way. Perhaps it’s that tiny slice of monkey that leads our crazy way. Some more monkey than water. The rain is perfect for thoughts. First like the lone ducks that soar above only 3 of us. Soon joined by a 4th. Seems to be the #’s that dictate my life.

In the silence interrupted by traffic in the distance & scuffing of boots behind, I drift. Rowboat without oars. Sail boat. Cheesecloth sails. I drift. You should join. Focus on your open palms. Trace the creases with your eyes. Fill the gulleys with water & slowly touch your toe into your river & drift – drift. No donuts.

Huey Long died Sept 10, 1935
Hamida Djandoubi (Tunisian immigrant) last person to be executed by the guillotine in France.

Later.

9907

Over five years ago in that rear view window they call the past, Sundays day of rest. I’d wake earliest. Colette, Jacob, Evan, Noah asleep. Perhaps feed the cats. Sometimes the fish. Always a joint. Ritual of comfort. A joint. Head phones & silence. Diamond dust upon the lips of those I love. A lot has transpired in that ½ a decade. But still the ritual is performed. Before this imprisonment I added coffee from a local shop & a walk along the river. Whether Evan slept or Noah, Amanda, or the legions of friends, lovers. I always achieved that morning’s dew. In here it’s nearly as simple. Perhaps a book. A poem. Or long walk on the solitary track. Always at least 5-10 minutes of undisturbed no thought. Today I learned that Luciano Pavarotti died. Wonderful voice & terrific presence. Another landmark lost. I need to listen to a radio today.

I’m plunging into isolation. Talk, shouts, rumbling of feet. Sounds of movement become background noise. I chose to ignore nearly everything. The air is chilled against bare arms, neck. Like silence, it feels good. To find solitude in prison – nearly impossible. But if you really focus your ears like you would your eyes unfocused. All blurs. Distorts. Fight not to understand words. Pretend another language.
Is that a seagull. Semi. Airplane. & wander wander. An unfocused focus. Most are tolerant of silence and those that know me know that when I remove my glasses I’m in my world. A world away. To be solitary is to be ruthless. To remove oneself – a trait of Pisces. It’s that they deal well with both ambiguity & solitude. A trait that carries true with both Kelly & myself.

A fact of history is that Ezra Pound was jailed in an insane asylum (St. Elizabeth’s) after WW II. Later in life in an attempt to explain why he stopped writing he said, “I don’t work anymore. I don’t do anything. I have become illiterate & unread. I simply fall into lethargy… & I contemplate”.
He’s also known for “I did not enter silence. Silence captured me”.
So right. So right on. I fight to stay awake. Though entirely different men under entirely different circumstances, not to mention his brilliant mind, I do understand what Ezra means. You enter a vacuum. Somewhat beautiful. Somewhat is. He had quite a bit more freedom. Friends/family – rules, but there is something to be said. Men love to go to the hole. Remove themselves from the last shreds of humanity. The silence. The silent. Bone crushing roar. Here I can only go so far. I am surrounded. We all know how easy it is to get lost in a crowd.

On a side note, listened to the radio & constructed some cup-ups of Arthur Rimbaud – really nice way to drift a Sunday afternoon.

Later.

9807

6:45 am. Just finished breakfast. A friend just got out of the hole( involved in some kind of tobacco smuggling – probably set up). He was from another unit but now he’s in our wing. I have written “about” him in the past. Actually he is the reason I won’t talk with Beasty anymore. Guilty by association. Breakfast talk was about the “evil” of Beasty & his controlling ways. “He’s bored.” “ He needs distractions.” “ It’s a power play.” “ He’s pissed that he gave me the directive to stay away or I’m guilty by association” “& I dumped him”. We tend to invest so much time & energy into what is right or what to do about the simplest thinks because we have no “control”. We attempt to control everything – each other. Remember, I’m in Mexico – free meals, a bed to sleep on. My objective is simple. To be here now. Understand the perimeters of loneliness. To be alone yet full. It’s like when you first ride a bike & everything is cool ‘til you realize it’s working. You’re riding the bike – then you crash. Overthinking. Here guys want to pull you into their drama –their world. That’s real intimate for me. Sometimes too real. Is it because there are no women? the fence? the power that be? I’m working on it. For now my mantra –
“We live as we dream – alone”. Joseph Conrad. The fear that the great hanging over our head, fear. Alone. For whatever reason & I’m sure I’ll babble about it later. But I’m like a pendulum. Swing from one side to the next. (Sidebar: Did you ever see Vincent Price in The Pit & The Pendulem? One of great, I believe, Hammer films? I first saw it when I was 9 in a huge old barn in Catholic summer camp. Scared the shit out of me. After seeing it , me & the rest of the camp walked 2 miles back to our bunkhouse in the pitch black. I also saw Rebel Without A Cause that summer. Amazing.) Either hanging in a group or totally alone. Here both are so easy. I’m learning to shut off my mind. Just like a faucet. I fantasize I can hear the clouds moving. Any way, I told these guys he’s lonely & he’s been locked up too long. One guy said it’s because he’s evil & Christians are always good and never do acts that create violence. I was like. “Right. Heard of the IRA?” “Christians are not the only ones wanting peace” I replied. “Every religion wants peace & harmony.” He didn’t want that – of course “those guys” Point being, relax. Take care of your house.

Have you removed your gutters so you neighbor’s basement isn’t being flooded? Paint your house so property values aren’t dropping? My gift to myself this winter will be Walden. Can’t wait. No pond but I got a wonderful sky. Just lie on my back.

Big John is a drugstore cowboy. Loves downers. Loves chaos. Loves to talk. Nice tats all done by close friends - mostly family friends. Small time criminal finally got caught serving a couple years. His wife (first & only love) died suddenly. Brain aneurism & he flipped out. Loves oxy. Well he lives a few doors down. We’re right across from program 3. (Next step after coming out of the hole). They can only buy basic canteen items – some chips, crackers, stamps & letter writing items. So last night there’s Big down on his knees with a buddy sliding swiss cake rolls over to a guy in program 3. A box goes for 98¢ on canteen. These guys pay 4-5 stamps. An alright profit. If you get caught – could lose canteen & get a month of building confinement. He does it not for profit. He does it to, as he claims “Share the sweet!” Oh, well – something to see.

Saturday I’ll do my exercises. (A routine is mandatory). Shower & hang out. Soon mail. A nap. Perhaps a poem shall visit.

A thank you to James Liddy & Staff @ “The Blue Canary (15)” Published a poem of mine of which I have no recognition writing. I’ll end with it. Blue Canary Press is at
3348 N. Gordon Place, Milwaukee, WI, 53212. Check it out. Good work from solid poets. Thank you.


Sailor

In sail
Nose follows open windows
the whole way home.
Open yr mouth
press against mine
replace blood
with silence
& death
became a metaphor.

I was a sailor
in a world of trees
became woodsman
in a tea cup carnival.
We lead lives
of quiet
desperation
some of us
not so quiet.



Lator Gator.

9707

Some punk punched/beat a Native Elder a few days ago – heard he was a snitch. Heard. Heard he was. Gossip travels here faster than words can follow. Heard he was a snitch. 60 yr some dude & the punk in his 20s. Yeah prison sure. Stupidity without a doubt. Disrespect certainly. Retaliation without a question. 2 dudes just went to the hole. One worked at the training kitchen. 6 pieces of ham & 8 straws crotched. Almost finished his program and then to Min. The other was found with dirty pitcher reeking of hooch. Never rinsed it out before he locked it up. Thought process. Strange thing – knew both guys alright. One did have some issues with honesty. Oh well, frankly the old dude getting his ass kicked bugs the hell out of me. Where were the guys who have some sense of right/wrong – justice – honor. Where are they ever? Is it so hard?

Another wet day. I think I’ll write letters. First to my parents & inquire as to the health of father. Likewise how my mother is holding up. In a few weeks four generations of Tyson will be roaming this country. Ha! Good luck!

Overheard: He’s on the line. Prison is the only thing that’s keeping him alive.

“He goes by Pooh-Pooh”

“Little ole gun got him 2 years. Got out used a gun. Now he’s in county jail facing 90 years”.

9607

It’s clear prison is packed full of criminals by definition/political ambition/stupidity. & like the outside world, they look, smell, talk & walk oh so similar. So for me the apartment, my neighbor – 404. The time I spent in 404 – smoking-powder-the crazy times. An alright friend who was never without a profound amount of dope. Yeah, where was I? – oh yeah- hypocrisy. I never denied I broke the law or two. Some conscience some un. Always lived an eventful life. Broke some hearts which I really regret. I would like to think I process as a factory – bring in, input raw product, inspiration & out comes my life. My footsteps. Words.Poetry. Love. (God it’s hot here. Must be out there!)

But for all my bitching about hypocrisy there are some incredible guys in here. Not quite welcome wagon but close to it. This is our train – our nation- our little island in the sun. Our movable feast. Within constraints what we make. Of it. Our time. I’m very upfront about mine – “ I’m John – got an internet crime”. “I’m Bob. 20 grams of powder”. “Sam, stabbed the guy who raped my fiancé” & so it goes. What we make of it. Our choice. No one else’s. Talk of childhood- smoking, first love, first crime( one @ 5, stabbing a playmate). Crazy, crazy stories. Sitting in the dayroom or the picnic benches, just like home out on the porches/kitchen table. These guys are always surprised to seem my #.
“First time in prison?” “Yep”. “Don’t look like it”. “Thanks”. It is a compliment. First timers are like drunken deer on first day of hunting season.

So I guess I’m getting to that point that if you can’t understand you’re in prison & your crime. Deemed by the state puts you next door – same cell – with someone who killed. You need to look in that mirror. You need to talk to that person & understand the nature, purpose of this prison. Any prison. With or without bars. I attempt & succeed with that conversation every day. I know I’m alive cause I’m in here & whether I’m in here for this or that crime, I’m here & I have broke the law. & I do seek forgiveness. Acceptance. Love. Frankly I’m freaked out. So many examples of blinding, I mean blazing sun blinding support. My friends in SF who have never ceased as my friends. In Milwaukee, New Orleans, Philadelphia, NYC, Baltimore & now all, if not most of you. I thank you. From the top of my heart to the bottom of my soles. Not only do I want to understand – explain-cry-laugh-scream with joy ( my grandson soon to be here). I want to come out of this ahead. Will I be good? – probably not. Will I be a better, wiser, more honest – perhaps a better poet? Well for this once I’ll let all of you decide. Comparison? Well, I don’t know. I guess you’ll have to base it on my word(s) – actions.

There is no doubt in my mind that this sentence was/is extreme. There is no doubt it has and will help politicians to get reelected & nighttime smoother. & There is no doubt there are those with similar crimes with an added smoking gun that is of some concern. I’m here & time flies. As I said & will say time & time again – look over your shoulder – look over your shoulder good. This country who I love & adore has taken a turn that will not truly benefit. Now talk about National Health Care or even affordable health care – getting out of Iraq – an investigation into the ones who have profited greatly. Look at our environment – our dependency on oil. The king is naked & the magician has nothing, nothing up his sleeves. If that’s you Ron K. who is trying to reach me give me your g.d. address.

Over and out. I’m back to sweating & sweating & sweating. I’ll say hey to Steve McQueen.

Later.

9507

Sometimes I’m braiding three wild mustang’s tails together into one. Nothing dormant. Kaleidoscope evolution. Noah & his family/music/life one tail – John Ashbury again reciting “To The Harbormaster” at Frank O’Hara’s funeral & James Schulyer interjects “Daylight” –

And when I thought
“Our love might end”
the sun
went right on shining


Allman Brothers rip into heart breaking, soul terrifying, blues shaking “Whipping Post”. Threatens most sublime existence. Inhale fresh cut grass as buddy recounts gutting some bastard who passed out after raping his girlfriend. & they wonder why my blood pressure is high. It’s the drive baby & this mother fuck’n amazing view. The view. The view bleak hold your own hands baby cause we’re all goin’ to die & nothing goin’ to warn us or stop it. But the sun will always rise & plop that big ass down. Shake shake squeeze. Is this a result of prison. Of solitude. “What”. As we interrupt, Albee’s play the point. Who stops in the middle of the day, in the middle of work, middle of coffee, middle of piss statement question big mac sandwich. Well – I don’t know. I stop. My kidney’s work fine & my questions are rarely answered & my statements are questioned & I got no job & the middle of my day is rarely remembered cause when I do remember to remember my head is hitting this state owned pillow & I’m back on the wing again.

If you need two points to compose a line but only one for a circle & if the circle remains unbroken then why should we stop? We don’t stop for nature. We stop upon man. Nature serves every purpose & man subjects. As I listened to the Allman Brothers today on a very clear, hot, wonderful September afternoon all decked out in my state greens, funky ass used headphones attached to my head like some crazed aviator in a 1930’s B&W Marrakesh Express “You are there” film & Whipping Post does it’s thing. I’m back in Waukegan circa 1986 & Colette is as sweet & gorgeous as ever & Evan’s alive & he & Noah are hanging out in the front yard & I’m refinishing some fucked up piece of shit chair I some how believe is “important”. We’re struggling to make ends meet on welfare. Me laying carpet, selling furniture. Trying to figure the American way – but just good ole white trash intellectuals thinking we’re going to make a/the difference & it’s spring & for once I’m not bitching & Marvin Gaye is still alive & that fucking circle is unbroken but dragging & we’re dying but still struggling & now as those guitars moan I can say fuck, what did we do? Why are we here? & figure what in God’s name I sound like some crazied fat man that just ate 4 boxes of Little Debbies. I’m still hungry.

What the hell man – it ain’t the destination baby! It’s the motherfuckin trip. It’s the trip. Our trip & we are those navigators – the drivers – the passengers. The song ends & my armpits glide where normally only friction is & I’m grateful & I’m blessed. Yeah, still broke & stupid & cockeyed & pigeon toed. But I’m here & you’re here so grab those other passagogoes & drive baby drive! I got a brand new baby seat in my car. In our car. My son Noah’s & Amanda’s car. & Colette’s & Richard’s & Pat’s & John’s & Pat’s & Gary’s – all our travelers from all our trips. Yeah even those who have moved on. We’re taking them too. Cause baby it’s what’s always been in front – let’s move.
I’m gone.
Later.