112707
My good brother Reed asks me, is it better to love and lose or never love at all? Well I think you know my answer – yes. Eat at that table. Eat everything. Eat the fuckin table. Eat the chair. The chairs. Eat the air that surrounds & do not go gently. Love is the true – the only way/reason/decision. Fate. Destiny. It is THE. So yes, my friend. Where I separate is do we lose? How can you? It’s eating that fabulous table everything surrounding love. Sure you’ll shit it all out. Process. It’s the trip not the destination. Love ‘til you can’t then you better find a way to love again. Colette ate my heart, veins, Arteries dangled from her teeth. Her chin wet glistening with my blood. Our blood. I love her for that. That woman had balls. Stood up said “no more”. We move forward. Me slower. Retarded. Limping. Love & love again my dear brother. Hell, look what we’ve been thru. Would you want not have to have gone on this trip? Connected. 20+ years apart. 2 peas in a pod. Growing in that garden fueled/fed with beer. Rock & as much love as we can dig. A fuckin watermelon eating festival. Evan was correct when he backed up Mr. Thomas – Do not go gently. It’s ball to the floor.
Reed is a genius. He’s telling me about these stamps, of which are covering this letter & why is Barbara Streisand on them & her name. Well, I’m lost. Somehow he and his buddy mistakes a lion & the words “presorted standard” for “Barbara Streisand”. I lost it. Reed’s perfect. Had a great show @ Club Timbuk2. He & the son’s Highlonesome. Very nice. Reed carries an overabundance of pain. I feel bad at some point but I understand he’s a poet. A true bluesman. Carries the weight of the world in all her fucked broken horrid circumstances. Foot to teeth. Broken boned reality. My brother. More a son. Good man better than most. Hope you can hear his music. His vision. His beauty. You’ll be lucky. Luckier than most. This unsettled cruel existence. Sucked life from the roots. Roots trampled stomped nurtured loved in our-your truly distinctive way.
Got dizzy today. Way sick. Ready to pass out tearing apart pallets. Kept pushing forward ‘til that wall was like “settle down big guy”. I did. My boss called hsu. C.O. drove me there so fast. Was seen really quickly. Ran tests. Tons of questions. Not sure. Need more tests. I’m wiped out. Not my heart. Some sugar thing. Not diabetes. We’ll see. Point here is with so much going on with prisons/jails/hoc, here I got no complaints. They take this seriously. I’m grateful. Professionals. Over crowding is the problem but here there’s nothing that can be done. Again, look at the laws, solutions. You, the taxpayers, the true bosses. Don’t play the politicians game. Shell game. Get my drift?
Cool outside. Feels great. Got 2 more Hemingways from library. So much to do in 24 hours. You got same problem?
Guilty pleasure: that song, new song by Pink. Most of anything off new Wilco album. New Radiohead. What strange memories torment reality when I get out. Just don’t freak if when Radiohead plays and I ask in a polite “queer” tone: “mind if I sleep in your closet? Small empty room?”. Yes, my barrel is sailing over the falls. “Niagra”.
Later
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
112307
A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
For me the perfect story. The perfect writing.
It has it all – good vrs evil, a villain, a hero, religion, rich vrs poor, history, fiction, ghosts, horror, love, romance, humor, fantasy, memories, happiness, sadness, forgiveness, redemption, human nature. Hope & love. Makes quite the social statement.
“They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.”
The warning of ignorance & want has always stuck with me. It just speaks volumes.
The first time I actually realized what Scrooge meant when he said –
“If they would rather die they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”
I was floored. Decrease the surplus population. I still think that is such an evil statement and it makes me angry to hear it to this day.
This story- book – is a short, easy read. So if you have only seen the movie versions of it I encourage you to actually read it. Read it this holiday season and then read it again later on in the year.
Now for something unrelated -
I found this on the web and it made me laugh. It’s a quote from Bono – a small glimpse into the Irish attitude-
“Well in Ireland they have an interesting attitude to success. In America, you look up at the house on the hill, the mansion and say “One day that could be me”. In Ireland they look up at the mansion and go “One day I’m gonna get that bastard”.
A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
For me the perfect story. The perfect writing.
It has it all – good vrs evil, a villain, a hero, religion, rich vrs poor, history, fiction, ghosts, horror, love, romance, humor, fantasy, memories, happiness, sadness, forgiveness, redemption, human nature. Hope & love. Makes quite the social statement.
“They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.”
The warning of ignorance & want has always stuck with me. It just speaks volumes.
The first time I actually realized what Scrooge meant when he said –
“If they would rather die they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”
I was floored. Decrease the surplus population. I still think that is such an evil statement and it makes me angry to hear it to this day.
This story- book – is a short, easy read. So if you have only seen the movie versions of it I encourage you to actually read it. Read it this holiday season and then read it again later on in the year.
Now for something unrelated -
I found this on the web and it made me laugh. It’s a quote from Bono – a small glimpse into the Irish attitude-
“Well in Ireland they have an interesting attitude to success. In America, you look up at the house on the hill, the mansion and say “One day that could be me”. In Ireland they look up at the mansion and go “One day I’m gonna get that bastard”.
Monday, December 17, 2007
112207
Happy Thanksgiving.
Didn’t steal any land or screw over my neighbors. Steal ideas that would end a certain starvation. But what the hell – my history is of an America quite unsettling quite vile. But it’s ours. It’s what we got, baby. No. John Brown leads that brigade. Emma Goldman master of arms & with isn’t that Gertrude Stein. Hurray America of her blessed past. John Reed pass me a cigarette cause Mark Rudd ain’t old enough back then. Future. America our crazy uncle emerges from the laundry closet. Beautiful as a spring chicken. “Oh” mother cries. “He is so odd”. Between Agnew and Cheney who truly insane? Whose fence shall you perch. Ah, I ramble. Home on the range. Shelter from this storm.
Kelly just visited. Just left. Time so quickly. So spastic. So funny. “Oh, Virginia, leave those monkeys alone”. “I have the worst feeling”. Kelly, I’m sorry I digressed of certain people. Those questions of why & why because. I forgot. I need to “be here” (meaning present. – not I’m a horrid fish & need prison) I filled too much with complaint confusion. Forget that bs. Wonderful to see you. To share alone. Isn’t it strange how much fun we have in the midst of all that. “that” I couldn’t breathe. It was terrific. Thanks. I scream uncle & Tracy, shall we follow in Hamilton’s & Burr’s insanity? I will concede to vp only if you give me my Haig moment. ‘I’m in charge”. I digress. Ate too much turkey. Beautiful snow & a tight breeze. These are kind of letters from camp. (now creepy music) camp from hell. Northern WI hell. Not really. But a friend told me yesterday that these birds aren’t finches but snow buntings. Isn’t that sweet. Big clouds of buntings.
Out walking after lunch a number of guys I know have the same idea. Thanksgiving as a child sucked. Best one ever – my little brother gets drunk. He’s about 10, stands on his chair, “a toast to ham Lincoln”. Doesn’t get any better. Fast forward to my/our family. Colette worked like a scullery maid always an amazing dinner. Stress, yes, but rather silly. The boys & I gave her a hard time. Something she needed to do. Pizza & a movie. Perfect. After separation I agreed to let her have the holidays. The boys & I would get pizza & that movie. Our last Thanksgiving we made amazing hamburgers. Drank some beer & jack. Found a leather jacket for Noah which he later traded to Evan for a hat. It’s now mine. For me the holidays a day off. More craziness. Here it’s alright. It’s what you call a prison day. You know you’re here. I only mind the time not the holiday. When you start to live as every day the first & last. Perspective reigns. I feel bad for these guys though. Some very lost.
Stacy again reminds. Super. Hart Crane was a convict. French prison. So terribly delicious. Popped a cop. Oh how I envy. Instead I get a lecture from my brother of decency. Of demons. I’ve strangled all my demons. & look who America chooses to govern. Wake up.
I say goodbye as Hemingway, “I think Big Harry figured oblivion was some sort of a suburb. Probably an Irish neighborhood.”
Later
Happy Thanksgiving.
Didn’t steal any land or screw over my neighbors. Steal ideas that would end a certain starvation. But what the hell – my history is of an America quite unsettling quite vile. But it’s ours. It’s what we got, baby. No. John Brown leads that brigade. Emma Goldman master of arms & with isn’t that Gertrude Stein. Hurray America of her blessed past. John Reed pass me a cigarette cause Mark Rudd ain’t old enough back then. Future. America our crazy uncle emerges from the laundry closet. Beautiful as a spring chicken. “Oh” mother cries. “He is so odd”. Between Agnew and Cheney who truly insane? Whose fence shall you perch. Ah, I ramble. Home on the range. Shelter from this storm.
Kelly just visited. Just left. Time so quickly. So spastic. So funny. “Oh, Virginia, leave those monkeys alone”. “I have the worst feeling”. Kelly, I’m sorry I digressed of certain people. Those questions of why & why because. I forgot. I need to “be here” (meaning present. – not I’m a horrid fish & need prison) I filled too much with complaint confusion. Forget that bs. Wonderful to see you. To share alone. Isn’t it strange how much fun we have in the midst of all that. “that” I couldn’t breathe. It was terrific. Thanks. I scream uncle & Tracy, shall we follow in Hamilton’s & Burr’s insanity? I will concede to vp only if you give me my Haig moment. ‘I’m in charge”. I digress. Ate too much turkey. Beautiful snow & a tight breeze. These are kind of letters from camp. (now creepy music) camp from hell. Northern WI hell. Not really. But a friend told me yesterday that these birds aren’t finches but snow buntings. Isn’t that sweet. Big clouds of buntings.
Out walking after lunch a number of guys I know have the same idea. Thanksgiving as a child sucked. Best one ever – my little brother gets drunk. He’s about 10, stands on his chair, “a toast to ham Lincoln”. Doesn’t get any better. Fast forward to my/our family. Colette worked like a scullery maid always an amazing dinner. Stress, yes, but rather silly. The boys & I gave her a hard time. Something she needed to do. Pizza & a movie. Perfect. After separation I agreed to let her have the holidays. The boys & I would get pizza & that movie. Our last Thanksgiving we made amazing hamburgers. Drank some beer & jack. Found a leather jacket for Noah which he later traded to Evan for a hat. It’s now mine. For me the holidays a day off. More craziness. Here it’s alright. It’s what you call a prison day. You know you’re here. I only mind the time not the holiday. When you start to live as every day the first & last. Perspective reigns. I feel bad for these guys though. Some very lost.
Stacy again reminds. Super. Hart Crane was a convict. French prison. So terribly delicious. Popped a cop. Oh how I envy. Instead I get a lecture from my brother of decency. Of demons. I’ve strangled all my demons. & look who America chooses to govern. Wake up.
I say goodbye as Hemingway, “I think Big Harry figured oblivion was some sort of a suburb. Probably an Irish neighborhood.”
Later
Friday, December 14, 2007
112107
Well here we are again. Got some great letters yesterday. Lopez you’re a champ. Thanks. Will get back to you later. Kelly, thanks for the books. Mick is sold out. Typical luck of the Irish but just knowing you’re in my corner. Hell, I think you have your own corner. & letter from younger brother. Suffice to say thank you for the $$. Glad you got “whatever” off you chest.
Now let’s get crazy. “It started with a kiss how did it end up like this?” perfect summation of life. Of life’s rich pageant. Definitely mine, yours? They were stone steps. Placed mid-late 19th century. Later at night, perhaps 9? She was my “boss” instructing me in the fine art of printing. Offset. We had finished work. We lived in the same dorm. Bennett. Coed. We sat outside & leaned together. A kiss. Then the multitudes. Does love ever leave? Like a growth an extra limb. chop & move on. Ha! We talk of hate. We, meaning us: humans, citizens, society. Like if I hate you I purge you. Puke! Nope. No pukey for this mister. We don’t want hurt/pain. Oh the suffering. I disagree. We never to glance upon, speak to, of. What happened that evening? Was something planted. A collusion of comets. A rain to drought struck earth? It was joy. Bliss. & like Campbell suggests, we followed. Nearly 30 years. Not a yesterday. A yesterday left in a drawer- a pocket to be reached, held & examined. “oh, yes”. A warmth as full as harvest moon. As perfect as tomorrow promises. It started out as a kiss. Evan, Noah, Evan Henry. Results. Direct results of our limbs. How many as friends? Count sand baby. Our poetry. Collective success. So how & why does hate rear it’s horned head. I don’t know. She has fallen again & he seems to be a good guy. My happiness complete. I want my to dissolve. To resolve. To never turn back on & to pull those up from the ditch. Evan intimidated me. Even as a child he had no fear. None. Freaky. His love unconditional. Complete and refreshingly insane. I would not, nor never, be the man I am without him & his brother. Noah, the definition of solid. Firmly rooted & totally natural gifted musician. Poet. My lessons of love those 3. My masters. Sure I had wonderful ideas. Jacob another. My grandmother Vera. Books. Words strung as trains. Locomotives that brought word. Words of others. Love. The idea of the simplest things seem the most compacted. So complex. Here is my heart. My trust. My me. Total of what/who I am/can be. Please don’t leave in the rain or on that table at the post office. If you shall I will hurt. I will stand & I will walk backwards. How far depends on who/what we are to each other. It’s easy to write of love from prison. To pontificate. Fuck that. Remember not only am I a pirate but I know how to dig up treasures. For me to deny life’s bounty I would be a liar. A fraud. I am grateful for these vast & varied lessons. Humbled by the presence of.
I do have a good/odd habit of oversharing. I try to tolerate & mellow my opinion. Lopez writes these dense thinking letters of poetry & family. It’s a tight line to meander. He does it quite well. He makes me think. Of poetry. Of this. Life’s responsibility. Stacy also Joel. It’s a cozy room. I would like to throttle poetry. I resent the term. Some definitions. Some ideas of. But my mistake - I let Ginsberg & Berrigan have their say & fuck, before I knew it I was waging my ideas of. The beauty of self, self taught for me was that it came out of loss. Job wife husband limb mind. Not always. So to remain either in society as someone who produces either as selling or giving it away, people would visit/notice you. The intent at first was I need to produce something. I’m still here. I am. I am on the call. Well some amazing pieces were/are produced. It became very commercial. Very negative. But many did survive. Many did affect. It’s a long story and I’m not doing it justice. My point is, deep within, is our need not want to create. These people were forced(?) compelled. Poetry should - must – compel. Must not compromise. Must smash & must conjour. Must kiss & with fangs devour. I understand the perspective of the academy. But simply, for me, poetry is walking. Fucking. Spellmaking & human sacrifice. Splat we land from a fall. In our falls we strive to redeem. To sing. To love & do die, alone. Remembered. Honored.
I do struggle with definition of honor amongst thieves. Yes, I’ve encountered. Both here & there. Actually I could and probably am referring to you. But that’s okay cause it’s something good. Something very good. Not unlike wearing pajamas under suit pants or a very smart Chanel skirt. God I love a woman in a great tailored skirt. Women truly are the graceful beasts. Men angles. Sometimes a sharp sometimes not. We understand honor right? Think Michael Collins. Think Sam Adams. Just think tremendous scruples. An understanding beyond. A truly, truly profound “honesty”. A subjective. Now add thieves. For me Genet is that flower. That thief. I was disappointed cause so much behavior in here is rather ridiculous. The demands, expectations by cons – the inmates – Hello! We broke the law. This is the rug we weave. Keep your business to yourself & everyone else’s just doesn’t exist. These are the standards. The rules. The reality. You break and you deal with. This snitching is quite bizarre. Unbecoming. But in all honesty we all have our belief system. Some jive with current society. Some obviously not. Bear in mind. Choose your battles but stand complete in tracks you laid. Enough said. Do not go gently.
Stacy sent a new(ish) manuscript. God, it’s wonderful. Everyone seems to carry a bag of treasures. Hart Crane occupies big space in Stacy’s. She reminds of his genius total heart-break brilliant fuck the night. A wonderful little collection soon to be published. Everytime I read Stacy I get a nasty itch. I don’t want to sit still. I want to run or go for a walk. Write. Or steal a kiss. Rather difficult in here. My choice is rather evident, oui? I read Orizaba: A Voyage with Hart Crane, a number of years ago. Perfect. The problem is hear in my brain “more more”. We need these gentle nudges. I will write of th
is later when published.
So, I’m working in leather in a petite way. My friends don’t worry. For those either new or interested I’m making a few little trinkets for gifts. Free. Kind of sweet. Little odd. Not tremendously gay. Not gay-homo, gay- happy. What you need to do is drop me a line and request one. I’ll get asap. No strings. No worry about some crazy letter writing maniac. Just thought this might be fun. Again, not a lot. Way under 10. Ok?
Tomorrow Thanksgiving. Wish family & friends the best. Holidays are nice. A time out. I always think of John Prine going up to some homeless. Lost. Broken citizen. A pat on the back. A meal. A hello there. a little more
Later.
Well here we are again. Got some great letters yesterday. Lopez you’re a champ. Thanks. Will get back to you later. Kelly, thanks for the books. Mick is sold out. Typical luck of the Irish but just knowing you’re in my corner. Hell, I think you have your own corner. & letter from younger brother. Suffice to say thank you for the $$. Glad you got “whatever” off you chest.
Now let’s get crazy. “It started with a kiss how did it end up like this?” perfect summation of life. Of life’s rich pageant. Definitely mine, yours? They were stone steps. Placed mid-late 19th century. Later at night, perhaps 9? She was my “boss” instructing me in the fine art of printing. Offset. We had finished work. We lived in the same dorm. Bennett. Coed. We sat outside & leaned together. A kiss. Then the multitudes. Does love ever leave? Like a growth an extra limb. chop & move on. Ha! We talk of hate. We, meaning us: humans, citizens, society. Like if I hate you I purge you. Puke! Nope. No pukey for this mister. We don’t want hurt/pain. Oh the suffering. I disagree. We never to glance upon, speak to, of. What happened that evening? Was something planted. A collusion of comets. A rain to drought struck earth? It was joy. Bliss. & like Campbell suggests, we followed. Nearly 30 years. Not a yesterday. A yesterday left in a drawer- a pocket to be reached, held & examined. “oh, yes”. A warmth as full as harvest moon. As perfect as tomorrow promises. It started out as a kiss. Evan, Noah, Evan Henry. Results. Direct results of our limbs. How many as friends? Count sand baby. Our poetry. Collective success. So how & why does hate rear it’s horned head. I don’t know. She has fallen again & he seems to be a good guy. My happiness complete. I want my to dissolve. To resolve. To never turn back on & to pull those up from the ditch. Evan intimidated me. Even as a child he had no fear. None. Freaky. His love unconditional. Complete and refreshingly insane. I would not, nor never, be the man I am without him & his brother. Noah, the definition of solid. Firmly rooted & totally natural gifted musician. Poet. My lessons of love those 3. My masters. Sure I had wonderful ideas. Jacob another. My grandmother Vera. Books. Words strung as trains. Locomotives that brought word. Words of others. Love. The idea of the simplest things seem the most compacted. So complex. Here is my heart. My trust. My me. Total of what/who I am/can be. Please don’t leave in the rain or on that table at the post office. If you shall I will hurt. I will stand & I will walk backwards. How far depends on who/what we are to each other. It’s easy to write of love from prison. To pontificate. Fuck that. Remember not only am I a pirate but I know how to dig up treasures. For me to deny life’s bounty I would be a liar. A fraud. I am grateful for these vast & varied lessons. Humbled by the presence of.
I do have a good/odd habit of oversharing. I try to tolerate & mellow my opinion. Lopez writes these dense thinking letters of poetry & family. It’s a tight line to meander. He does it quite well. He makes me think. Of poetry. Of this. Life’s responsibility. Stacy also Joel. It’s a cozy room. I would like to throttle poetry. I resent the term. Some definitions. Some ideas of. But my mistake - I let Ginsberg & Berrigan have their say & fuck, before I knew it I was waging my ideas of. The beauty of self, self taught for me was that it came out of loss. Job wife husband limb mind. Not always. So to remain either in society as someone who produces either as selling or giving it away, people would visit/notice you. The intent at first was I need to produce something. I’m still here. I am. I am on the call. Well some amazing pieces were/are produced. It became very commercial. Very negative. But many did survive. Many did affect. It’s a long story and I’m not doing it justice. My point is, deep within, is our need not want to create. These people were forced(?) compelled. Poetry should - must – compel. Must not compromise. Must smash & must conjour. Must kiss & with fangs devour. I understand the perspective of the academy. But simply, for me, poetry is walking. Fucking. Spellmaking & human sacrifice. Splat we land from a fall. In our falls we strive to redeem. To sing. To love & do die, alone. Remembered. Honored.
I do struggle with definition of honor amongst thieves. Yes, I’ve encountered. Both here & there. Actually I could and probably am referring to you. But that’s okay cause it’s something good. Something very good. Not unlike wearing pajamas under suit pants or a very smart Chanel skirt. God I love a woman in a great tailored skirt. Women truly are the graceful beasts. Men angles. Sometimes a sharp sometimes not. We understand honor right? Think Michael Collins. Think Sam Adams. Just think tremendous scruples. An understanding beyond. A truly, truly profound “honesty”. A subjective. Now add thieves. For me Genet is that flower. That thief. I was disappointed cause so much behavior in here is rather ridiculous. The demands, expectations by cons – the inmates – Hello! We broke the law. This is the rug we weave. Keep your business to yourself & everyone else’s just doesn’t exist. These are the standards. The rules. The reality. You break and you deal with. This snitching is quite bizarre. Unbecoming. But in all honesty we all have our belief system. Some jive with current society. Some obviously not. Bear in mind. Choose your battles but stand complete in tracks you laid. Enough said. Do not go gently.
Stacy sent a new(ish) manuscript. God, it’s wonderful. Everyone seems to carry a bag of treasures. Hart Crane occupies big space in Stacy’s. She reminds of his genius total heart-break brilliant fuck the night. A wonderful little collection soon to be published. Everytime I read Stacy I get a nasty itch. I don’t want to sit still. I want to run or go for a walk. Write. Or steal a kiss. Rather difficult in here. My choice is rather evident, oui? I read Orizaba: A Voyage with Hart Crane, a number of years ago. Perfect. The problem is hear in my brain “more more”. We need these gentle nudges. I will write of th
is later when published.
So, I’m working in leather in a petite way. My friends don’t worry. For those either new or interested I’m making a few little trinkets for gifts. Free. Kind of sweet. Little odd. Not tremendously gay. Not gay-homo, gay- happy. What you need to do is drop me a line and request one. I’ll get asap. No strings. No worry about some crazy letter writing maniac. Just thought this might be fun. Again, not a lot. Way under 10. Ok?
Tomorrow Thanksgiving. Wish family & friends the best. Holidays are nice. A time out. I always think of John Prine going up to some homeless. Lost. Broken citizen. A pat on the back. A meal. A hello there. a little more
Later.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
111807
Week comes to a close. Figured I’m finished with Killing Time. Will type & get ready for finished product. Then wrap up the first part, Strike Hard Old Diamond. Then I’ll get going on the third and final part of this whole sleep walk. Been getting some fantastic letters. Julie R. brings is all home for me. We lost each other & now we’re found. She has a huge loving heart. Smart as all get out. Solid political mama. Her words tender my breast. Reflect again. Kelly found my older brother Mark. Again uncle Kelly solves the mystery. I’m so deep within this well. Should I be grateful for this imprisonment? If not could/would I ever understand blood of love, or would I forever wallow in self-pity. I do respond quickly to desperate situations. Not much of a toad.
Finished Mysterious Island by Verne. Perfect read for prison. Again, would I have had time to read outside. I’m a child again within that candy store. Now it’s O Pioneers by Willa Cather. I read My Antonia in Dodge. Fell in love with her there. Such a direct perfectly chosen document of America of true grandeur. Her people. Ours. Their courageous struggle. Subtle though oh so profound victories. I, like Capote, adore her. He though had the honor of meeting her, alas, I missed that boat with both. I have my own pocket of riches. Speaking of which, got a sweet delicious letter from Stacy. So I’m returning my thoughts. Mid-sentence announced Tom Waits on radio. Oh fuck. That monster in the closet. Sure enough, Time, by him. I’m trying to convey this/that pain that struggle wrestle with memories. Yikes. I turn off light & let that bitch out. I howl and tear my heart out. Everything falls out. I mean I’m sobbing. Sobbing like the bottom just fell out. It was great. Quite simply my river. Time begins ends with melody. With warble of chords. Stammer of aggression. At a very early, older brother & sister point me in that direction. Dance motherfucker dance. My release. I can’t sing so I spaz. Can’t quite spaz in prison so yes sometimes I howl. Caught last night by neighbor. “yeah, I have a horrible voice” “yep”. Life is a shoe make that little shit fit. It was/is great to have a dormant volcano within one’s chest. Except for a little steam, not a lot of warning before we blow. My addictions: chaos & emotion. That tight tight rope. Pull ‘til almost snap then just hold it. Thank you all for yr thoughts, words. Human contact.
Later.
P.S.
I wish all a Happy Thanksgiving. Please scratch below that surface & surprise one with your thought, word or gentle nudge. For today all we have. Need. Always.
Week comes to a close. Figured I’m finished with Killing Time. Will type & get ready for finished product. Then wrap up the first part, Strike Hard Old Diamond. Then I’ll get going on the third and final part of this whole sleep walk. Been getting some fantastic letters. Julie R. brings is all home for me. We lost each other & now we’re found. She has a huge loving heart. Smart as all get out. Solid political mama. Her words tender my breast. Reflect again. Kelly found my older brother Mark. Again uncle Kelly solves the mystery. I’m so deep within this well. Should I be grateful for this imprisonment? If not could/would I ever understand blood of love, or would I forever wallow in self-pity. I do respond quickly to desperate situations. Not much of a toad.
Finished Mysterious Island by Verne. Perfect read for prison. Again, would I have had time to read outside. I’m a child again within that candy store. Now it’s O Pioneers by Willa Cather. I read My Antonia in Dodge. Fell in love with her there. Such a direct perfectly chosen document of America of true grandeur. Her people. Ours. Their courageous struggle. Subtle though oh so profound victories. I, like Capote, adore her. He though had the honor of meeting her, alas, I missed that boat with both. I have my own pocket of riches. Speaking of which, got a sweet delicious letter from Stacy. So I’m returning my thoughts. Mid-sentence announced Tom Waits on radio. Oh fuck. That monster in the closet. Sure enough, Time, by him. I’m trying to convey this/that pain that struggle wrestle with memories. Yikes. I turn off light & let that bitch out. I howl and tear my heart out. Everything falls out. I mean I’m sobbing. Sobbing like the bottom just fell out. It was great. Quite simply my river. Time begins ends with melody. With warble of chords. Stammer of aggression. At a very early, older brother & sister point me in that direction. Dance motherfucker dance. My release. I can’t sing so I spaz. Can’t quite spaz in prison so yes sometimes I howl. Caught last night by neighbor. “yeah, I have a horrible voice” “yep”. Life is a shoe make that little shit fit. It was/is great to have a dormant volcano within one’s chest. Except for a little steam, not a lot of warning before we blow. My addictions: chaos & emotion. That tight tight rope. Pull ‘til almost snap then just hold it. Thank you all for yr thoughts, words. Human contact.
Later.
P.S.
I wish all a Happy Thanksgiving. Please scratch below that surface & surprise one with your thought, word or gentle nudge. For today all we have. Need. Always.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Friday, December 7, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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
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
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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
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
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 9, 2007
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
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
Thursday, November 8, 2007
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
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
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, November 5, 2007
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
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
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