Prose of a Con

Poetry and Prose by Russell Wardlow

Russell Wardlow

White Knights

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The effects of colonialism in this country have not dissipated. The crippling clutches of capitalism have not quelled the suspicions in people’s motives, even if it brandishes itself as an ally.

I find it ironic when in prison, those of us whom are mis or distrusted, have hard times trusting the people, promising and offering assistance and opportunity, identifying themselves as compassionate allies there to help us function and transition back to acceptance in a civilized society.

Help coming in overwhelming white faces. Why don’t the faces look like us? Will we even trust them more? Or mistrust them even more?

Not being taught to believe people that look like us are able to gift opportunities or ironically, is it that the ones that come bolstering opportunity are the very few allotted opportunity?

Naively trying to offer what they get easily, to those that can’t while those they offer help to, look exactly like those that can’t be afforded a chance to offer the same help.

My white knights in shinning armor! It’s not your faults though. It’s just this paradoxical and problematic world we live in. We’re all consciously colonized and opportunity is occupied.

Realest Shadows

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Contemplating my existence

has me feeling like

Plato

in constant physical meditation and application

seeing my immediacy more in depth than you.

The shadows on the walls

come off exactly as they are.

Even if what you see their natural bodies to be

may differ incredibly in reality

but thats your plane of existence

I’m at the soul of the matter

not the surface, but the reflection

what’s given off

and you can’t get past the prison of perception

and I can’t escape the prison of presence,

so who’s free?

Plucked Flowers

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We’re all plucked flowers

paying attention to the surface

while the reality beneath is of decay

maybe it mirrors us

Who are we when the water and sun touches us?

What is your water and sun?

How preserved is that superficial beauty we hold onto?

Is our surface just a symbol of décor

while what’s inside dies slowly

holding onto when it was once grounded

But once it became display for the world

slowly, day by day

it lost itself

stuck in a vase

taking form in the many aesthetics we run to

but uh, everyone knows a pulled flower is dying right

literally right before your eyes

and as you try to hold onto that gift of vanity and love

life overruns you

and like your shallow desires

you eventually decay along with them

wilting away inside far before you let on to your truth externally

how long will you die inside

uprooted from your truth

before you escape that lie

and get back grounded in your truth

where your roots stretch

connecting to everything deep

your dirt is your truth

your dirt is your soil

our shame is where we grow

taking ourselves out of that shame by fear

only traps us within the superficial dirt

that clings to us

never again feeling clean

no matter what we seek as our water and sun

Errday my birthday

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I die so much daily

living to reflect on the happening the next day

surprised I’ve survived

when I think so often

and succumb to frequently

my own death

but there’s a rebirth

unfolding like a cocooned butterfly

eagerly meeting its first horizon

resurrected,

I’ve lived again

Entrapped

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There’s never enough time
when time is all you need
thinking back,
time and time again
I’ve noticed,
that time is all I ever wanted
yet I haven’t had it for such a long time
even though I’ve been sentenced to time
imprisoned within its construct
counting down arbitrary calendars until I can be free from it
heh, free from time
is that a paradox?
or simply, life?
Usually that line of phrasing runs rampant with foreshadows of mortality.
Well,
whatever you wanna call it
it seems I’ve spent my whole life,
trying to escape one prison,
or another
either the prison of past
the prison of present
and the ominous prisons of presumption,
pretense,
and prejudice
all which mesh sporadically,
careening my tomorrows-
a path personally paved by perspective passion and pain-
where therein lies,
the slowly progressing process of-
any promise or promises promised
or provisioned-
caged within this imprisoning paradigm of time.
Time is free
but it’ll cost you everything
because nothing can buy it
and NOTHING,
but a heartbeat,
can escape it.
Although powerless to it’s illusionary onslaught-
even the mind knows-
that time,
is entrapment
and I seek freedom inside my mind
but there’s no freedom inside of time
until you’re out of time
and these moments inside-
of prison,
or time-
I find myself traumatized
but this day I will celebrate that trap that I survive in spite
and thrive inside
so happy birthday to me-
dying slowly
but I’m forever alive inside
YoungR.U.S.S.