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Prose of a Con

Poetry and Prose by Russell Wardlow

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Culture

Dist-stance

September 27, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

time and time we create lines and lies
circumscribed
to describe our circumference size

then recreate lies for likes
derived from
deep-rooted ties circumcised

contrite with ‘other side’ diatribes
dominance over emotional competence
kill or be killed
predatory instinct versus intuition
now heart’s intention, isn’t as obvious

the truth probably is
we’re less united
and more Darwinist lobbyist by the way we choose to survive
tension is contrived
heart is denied, ego is supplied, love gets deprived
mentally scribing coerced truths reinforcing lies
self hate romanticized
resolute in pride
internal revelations we hide
external revolutions subside
separation is epitomized

believing we think see & speak from our own mind
systemically baptized to despise and disguise
our rebellion is really conformity’s cry
mournfully we’re morbidly tired
and morally blind
of the wars
going on inside
so we’ll orally lie

traumatized
beef and violent antics, broken homes, torn relationships, lost friendships, derogatory labels we use as adjectives superlatives nouns and verbs
is our deep emotional wounds dramatized
we not prophets we realist
we not realist we prophets
really, what’s real is profit
battling withdraws over deposits
reality is we seen it all
truth is we’ve witnessed nothing truthfully
because when truth isn’t lived, the saga sick cycle sired cyphered siphoned cyst of a sinus system under the sun repeats itself
at only 6 years of age, I felt I lived 6× my lifetimes in my mind’s eye
I seen the tired and painful despondent look in my mama’s cries
and for some reason I had inherited her hurt
generations before my birth of lost worth and a spirit inert
and I’d wear it on my shirt
because I was doomed raised and statistically predicted to be marginalized

so truth is
we haven’t seen nothing at all

we’ve been doing the same thing no differently
division
difference is
indifference doesn’t discriminate differently
so we differentiate with distance and decisions used to distinguish our difference of opinions no differently
at the end of each division
the difference is
we only created more dissension & distance with endearment diminished and connection upended
but didn’t do a damn thing differently making us any different
than both
victimizer and victim
parasite and host
hostage and hostile
repeating toxic cycles
perpetuating symptoms

recreating lies to outline
our worth in purchases
purchasing perks of impermanence as if it’s permanent
adding more baggage each person gets burdened with

what I do affects you
we’re interconnected
and interdependent on our interconnections
separatism invests defects
then detects insects we ingest that infects roots
so the unity we reject
creates dejects pretexts and precepts
where lies erect because we eject truth

now those recreated lies intersect like
perpendicular binds of conflict
being more content with contempt
bodily actions illustrating mental captivity myths and
placated fears we all discern with
impacting each of our journeys from
birth to
growth while developing worries to
gurneys
bodies buried or
scurried in penitentiaries
from
childhood visionaries
to
hood emissaries
then
misery missionaries
to
prison
where commission of guilt over forgiveness
gets spent on commissary
or
in solitary

fast-paced lifestyles like bad taste fast foods where
time is the monetary value
but we don’t spend time wisely so
we need the value menu

pulling up at the drive-thru of superficial self-identity

”I’ll take instant gratification
masking abandonment issues insecurities plus some capping creme in a cup of emotional deflection,
with a side of tough tony proclivities please”

would you like to supersize or compartmentalize that disguise today?

”fuck it you got me, I’m all in, it’s all out there, I got on long sleeves so supersize every affinity!”

we get what we ask
daily we order self-destruction
a life built on desiring things
and hiding within them
projecting our brokenness
ignorant to the damage of our touch
and if hurt is touch
then pardon the metaphor but
you’ve been touched too much
so we are numb to what we’ve become
like snacks
we consume everything as it is
so quickly because it’s really so little, that its nothing at all
and that state of nothingness, lasts
therefore, what ensues is
more issues
more hunger
more thirst
more stomach aches and heart hurts
going through you like calories your body burns
and everything you take in turns
to ashes
and we all
fall
down
crashed
the red bull which gave you wings, stripped your wings

defiant ’til the end as
doors disappear
hallways narrow
walls close in
ceilings drop
sounds echo
your treble trembles
your bass shambled
emotions scrambled
your thoughts channel
traumatic images from a life gambled
commemorating scandals
til they’re too heavy to handle
showing out like bad love handles

your
reality like the aftermath of disasters struck
the cloud painted with smog
from blazing desires that cloak the sky like the Desolation of Smaug
engulfing everything in its path
natures law
proximity undistinguishable by fog
disoriented by all the smoke inhaled as embered flurries fall
acid rain
symbolizes your tears

that which you reflect
you project
after all
you are what you eat
and you arrive
where you seek

physical detainment
spiritual estrangement
emotional derangement

in this case
the D on the range meant
the distance we keep and shoot from
landing our goals further away than the range of Dame
all because the lies we’ve aligned and subscribed
only work to subvert and hide what’s deep inside
maligning
one side from the other side
one sign from the other sign
one type from the other type
one color from the other you get the message right

we celebrate pain as if
we favor prison over freedom
savoring minutes over lifetimes
sacrificing kids for lifestyles
satisfying systemic status quos
instead of building our communities
we kill over zones we don’t own
choosing self-extermination over self-determination

(Dis-stance continued): this portion is a meditation, just close your eyes and allow the words to take you where they take you, now listen….war of the mind


left side/right side
left side/right side
left-separation segregative, form, individual logic rational isolated
abandonment-walls
right-integrative, unity, whole, formless, creative, intuition, imagination
family-doors
left side/right side
his side/ my side
his color/ my color
us/ them
this/that
crip/blood
love/hate
separate/oneness
individualism/wholeism
current state/desired state
woman/bitch
brother/nigga
neighbor/opp
capitalism/servant leadership
gain / loss
convict/cop
(going out skit, don’t need school need money)
fuck you I got me I’m good fuck this fuck that fuck them fuck bitches fuck you white brown black red yellow green pink rainbow whateva on my dead homies on my hoodx3 on my kids on my mama on my skin white pride brown pride
black lives matter
fuck cops
yes your honor… no sir your officer no your honor

(end meditation)

now what do you see
where are you at
what surrounds you
you’re exactly where you were going
with the sounds and vibrations and lacking relations you were creating
you understand now
you arrive where you seek
abandonment issues has you peaked
scared off loss
but reach!

at what point in time have we ever been free
plagued by misunderstood emotions that were meant to be as guides not enslavers
identifying our persons by our patterns of behavior
but self-knowledge is what’s truly tough
when will our kids mean enough
when will women be anything more than tools we use to get what we want and then drop off
when will it hit us that we can’t do it all alone
we need relationships
how many hints does it take
when will being a neighbor to our hood and not a terror get through to us
when will our life actually matter to us
besides when someone is trying to take it from us physically
what are we saving or protecting anyway?
do we even feel alive
what do we live for
what do we gain without building relationships
I read in a book,
we automatically give to each person we meet
but we choose what we give
our words
actions
must constantly set the stage for the life we choose to live

paraphrasing a quote which said, ”if you don’t use your mind to free yourself, then somebody will use it to keep you a slave”

life’s journey isn’t defined by individualism aged
but decisions we make to get out of our own way
persevering circumstance and conditions
rebuilding relationships
recreating change
breaking generational chains
freeing self from self-imposed cages
day by day
& this moment
this graduation
can be the united stance
not dis-stance
onto our life’s
very own
11 step stage

Filed Under: Culture, Trauma

I Dreamed Reflections

September 1, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

I dreamed I fell asleep in a sarcophagus…
after swallowing intoxicating thoughts of martyrdom and a coming apocalypse,
like oxygen traveling down my esophagus
mulling over pellets…
and cartridges

contemplating Ancient Egyptian encrypted inscriptions
for prescriptions
and their usage of the uniquely symmetrical feathers of an ostrich
coupled with their affinity for the lotus-like a botanist

I go into, deep trances of travel, but for now,
any hypothesis is pocketed
for when more time in the sublime can be deposited
decoding formless images from my third eye’s oculus
realizing any pursuit of happiness I once admitted to
and conceived of, can’t be reminisced without an asterisk

wondering if,
a spiritual life could be more than obscure and monotonous
or had I even began that lifestyle yet,
had my desire for instant gratification become too dominant
trying to, make too much senseless sense out of senselessness

revisiting the resulting consensus of a carnal thirst quenched versus
how a life of moderation-
no attachments, and sensual deprivations
can somehow seem so preposterous

could I, choose and discern beyond what isn’t already visually obvious
or is my attempts at self-restraint a half-hearted mockery
detailing my own hypocrisies

this unyielding feeling fills veiled shields like windmills,
which till fields, and tilts and stilts, instills chills, distills thrills
and peels reels of still hills,
as both height and depth equally builds and feels so ominous

because my scattered pursuance metaphors the same littering of various condiments
just to spike my responses to my ebbing confidence
chasing shock values for fraudulent acknowledgment
inconsequential accomplishments

and
nostrums for self-inflicted problems
exhaled out my flared nostrils ad nauseum
until nauseous yet noxious and obnoxiously posturing
as emotions have become more and more disconsolate

too much homage to the mirage of impermanent gods
and opulence-
consecrated and idolized like Amen Ra

I need a-
literal miracle, a physical sign,
not just lyrical drivel, but a spiritual symbol
my name evolved to WayOfLife

as I, hold up my Ankh as a monument
for my own innocuous symbol of an ancestral historical and ethereal conduit
while my day to day plays in a mix of gray shades haze and opalescence

bounding through rifts and this mystifying mist of imbalanced emotions,
a lost self, and patterned mind trips, amidst oppositions and consequences

mine mine mine!-apostrophe

I’d be remiss
if I didn’t admit that I’ve sought exits
when I didn’t feel as if,
I truly ever existed

I need less syllables,
more sounds,
more vows and less consonants

I need less country
and more continent

less promises
and less prominence

more community
more common ground
more more more continuity
more commitment
more high morale
and more moral competence honestly

then, I raised from
things dreamed, praised, preyed on, and prayed for
in my sarcophagus
taking in and letting go-
the deepest breath of a new revelation’s oxygen

walking to a park silently,
where I would
ponder skipping rocks across a pond, reflexively reflecting
on the void in my heart and the emotional lump in my esophagus

intuiting purpose and divine intelligence constantly at work working within my consciousness
and those rocks I skipped
were really pellets
from dissected cartridge

Filed Under: Culture, Spirit, Trauma

Maraudered

September 1, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

darkness escaped from
blackness dreaded
color consciousness
humanity forgotten
truth lost
Pharaohs extinct
to His-Story
born to be feared

Filed Under: Culture, Trauma

Politicians

September 1, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

a parade of pariahs
parroting
paradigms
of patriarchy
pandering
paradoxical principles
pundits profiteering partiality
pontificating
puritanical platitudes
proselytizing populations
pardoning partnerships
privatizing progress
progressively programming
possessing podiums and pedestals
pssh!

Filed Under: Culture

Empac-thize

August 22, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

empathize with the devil
advocate for the ghettos
break ground with the pebbles
sympathize with the rebels

tell the pennies they’re quarters
show them their special importance
cut the chords and live cordless
now be boundless and voyage

tell the men to be boyish
tell the women be girlish
it’s OK to be grown-ish
but don’t lose touch with the child in you-
it’s more your truth, you should own it

tell the whites that they us
I’m with the blacks, ‘nough’s enough!
don’t let the creme overdo it
can’t bake a crust too stuffed

tell the prisons, revolt!
can’t change from distance, remote
don’t let the scape get your goat
don’t let the hate grip your throat

scream to the love, live on!
then tell the dark, dream on!
then tell the kids, dream more!
don’t cut down trees that we need-
release, just breath, and be more!

Filed Under: Culture, Mercy

Living Liars

July 22, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

there’s this lie
one that you must know about me
I wrestle with it
more than I do my pillow
fighting to listen to sound sleep
I don’t want you to know
me by this lie
yet you do, already
more than you know me
by anything else
or other than
something else or anything
other…wait,

confused myself
guess I just want you to
better understand the lie
you will know then
who I am, really am.

seeing what I have
been up against
you are
better able to see me
know me
hear me
trust me
help me. heal me. whole me.

but you don’t know me
by first, hearing my truth
still you can’t see
beyond my lie
far enough to
absorb my truth
and care.
but to care,
you must know the lie first,
reason being..?
you live it as well.

how does one live truth
rediscovering lie after lie?
unlearning and relearning
in years too far from childhood

it seems
the lies are the layers
which lie in procession
to one’s core truth,
core of truths.

the lies are fodder
old paint
chipped away at
or the splintered wood
chopped down
never sanded.

I was spirit
before being
I was celestial
before extraterrestrial
I am absolute
relatively speaking
I am imagination and will
manifested
I am vessel
for truth realized.

king, in one mind
god, in the other

but, I was born a lie
then became human.

before man
I was child.

and even before baby
I was black!

though your mind denies
color is unseen
and my certificate of birth
readies the lie
signed, into truth

I am a lie
you carry it out
by reinforcing a world
which accepts it.

you see me
and say
he’s black
I am and am not,
I am and am more
I am
but
the lies you tell yourself!
dressed as truths
they appear worn
picking with no sense of details

the lies I believed
trying to discover
truth.
new clothes, I’ve rarely tried on

the lie I became
knowing no truth
the truths I know–
outcastes, of lies–
have to convince you
and me
of the truths, we live
being lies

the lies we know
obscure the history
of truth’s time in the sun

so I need you to see me
I need you to know the truth
my truth
your truth!

Son shine, Sunshine!
Sun Shine!

but if the moon,
remains eclipsed
you will never will
true sight
until you understand
the dark is the truth
and the light,
the way

Frantz Fanon said
”a Black, is not a man”
so my lie
is harder to escape
than yours

a complex problem,
with too simple a solution
to be believed, in
so since the details matter
‘rejected’
is who I am
until we stop living lies

Filed Under: Culture, Love, Spirit, Trauma

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Prose of a Con

Prose of a Con is a collection of Russell Wardlow’s prose and poetry written entirely behind bars. Through writings on family, spirituality, freedom, love, justice, redemption, and vulnerability, Russell seeks to show the humanity and hope of individuals like himself who are incarcerated.

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