prison is so. damn. traumatizing!
I mean the sounds are so blunt, sharp, and sudden
booming sounds that echo like a taunting monstrous chuckle
it’s like when they made the door locks, some genius said
let’s make the locking and unlocking mechanism sound like
a high powered rifle, handgun, or canon
being loaded, cocked, and shooting or blasting off!
boom! bang! click! clack! pop! squeeeeaakkk!
the sudden and blunt sounds make me jump inside,
I hate it with a passion!
then being in a unit condensed in such a way that all the sound effects are amplified
ricocheting off the walls,
catching all the thunderous loud laughter, chatter, and music and reverberating it back at you like a punch in the face
I can’t nap
can hardly hear the phone
and I’m so fucking edgy that…ahhhh,Bang!
(door closed)
Inside
What Type of Time You On?!
this is the dark, where they hide light
protect your heart, hind, and blindside
because war is the highlight
your ceiling is a twilight
and your floor is full of blind mice
there is no fistfights, only knife fights
fight for your life fights
before you can fight for your rights,
you have to fight for your likes,
for the end of each night,
where you can die or take life flights
you ride like a knight, align sides-
comprised with your might-
to describe and define size
ties cosign time
pied pipe, and lies lobotomize,
dried eyes, cries will compromise life
you can’t hide, only disguise and rise like-
climbed heights,
time in the limelight, will assign hype
and pay with your life, because life is the right price
because this time, is the ride or you die type
In My Void
in my void,
I created you,
in my absence
I re-created my void
and now that void is in you
that void, is you
I often wonder
what did my creation create?
I created you
I created a void between us
now what has been created because of it all?
because of me?
and will it die, so something more can be unearthed?
or can it grow and mature into something of worth?
or is it just me that will always make it worse?
because I’m not only the father of your birth,
but also the father of your first hurt
More Than a Call
I can only image how ordinary it must have felt for you getting on the phone with me,
but honestly both times I have spoken to you on the phone at work release- and now here-
have been nostalgic,
like a loose grip on a past that I remember vaguely by the vibrations strumming your vocal chords
and the familiar energy travelling the frequencies of your sound waves
images take shape,
and all isn’t completely idealism and abstract
how far I’ve gotten away from my past, that I can barely remember a friend of so many years-
from so many years back-
whom lived right across the street from my best friend?
it’s like where did you go…or I actually??
it’s poignantly symbolic of the very childhood I have lost to chaotic and traumatic memories,
memories I couldn’t have escaped a second too soon,
although I dream of visiting the memories to unearth a self
that burrowed itself to survive and protect itself from implosion,
but it took with it vital memories,
causes,
reasons,
and people of importance
and to have a tighter grip on where I’m going,
I need to also tighten that grip on where I have been
and although I detest the slowness of steps-
feeling more alive, in control, guarded, safe, and unphased by the speed of immediacy, impulsiveness and spontaneity-
because in the life I have been fortunate or unfortunate to have to have lived, each moment is special and equally up for grabs
because the next isn’t promised,
and rarely ventured with any serious contemplation,
survival and coping, being the preordainment of my existence more than anything else
yet, I have to admit that details get lost in the blur and velocity of things,
but I find more of myself in the piece by piece processes-
like a phone call with you-
and the loose grip that begins to tighten on who I was,
where that was,
how and why I was
and who and what helped shaped those lost facts
to you,
it may be more than just a phone call,
but to me it is the chance at a more whole and healed life,
combining the two forces of yesterday and tomorrow into the now,
all in just a call-which was more like a conjuring forth of the unnamable things forgotten that are equally important pieces to the jigsaw of my fractured memory-
in prison,
what was-is fantasy,
what can be-is imagination
and what is-is a blur
and as the focus comes in and out,
there are sharp corners and objects flying your way
and each moment is constantly spent bracing, not embracing…
if you understand that, then you understand trauma,
and that is all that needs to be said of it,
it has a language and knowing of its own that words do no justice to
but to call it out for what it is,
because the claws of trauma tend to tighten its grip on you
molding who you believe yourself to be,
or to have been,
and still long to become
so with all that said, thank you for picking up…
it picked me up
no one understands how much answering the phone does for people here
it’s those physical things like pictures and voices that connect us to freedom
Not just a Game?
he just won $50,000!
that takes him to over $200,000 in earnings
each slip up, each shot hit perfectly is followed by a raucous reaction
pure unadulterated joy!
revelling in the sweetness of victory!
gripped by each moment, as if it were life or death
but it was…for him at least
it is his escape
as he talks to the game
competing against the computer
bragging of his greatness in comparison to any on this side of the Mississippi
he was happy
and nothing else mattered much at these moments
because he was completely and utterly both lost, and found in this game
this game of pool pro
and he is a lifer
fighting for a chance to have freedom again
and that is also a fight for his life, literally
so he cant take each moment too serious
because there will be no escape
and he can’t be too loose in any moment
because he’ll lose the discipline needed to craft an escape,
let alone the chance of reaping freedom again
so I smile every time he cheers-
as if it is real money and bragging rights he is winning-
because I know, in many ways,
even currently confined to our room 24hrs/day
given a recent stabbing,
that it is in fact, more than a game
and it doesn’t matter what you think
nor how you feel about it
it’s all he has, and it’s what he chooses, and how he lives with it
I’ve seen up close the alternative
his alternative
and he is just as passionate and lauded in that choice as well
but he my homie, I get it and speak the language
which oftentimes is more listening than anything
making for an easy space of release
this his more his home than mine after all
better his distraction be entertaining
than your judgement as the distraction and entertainment
trying to figure out the rationales of a lifer
is like peering into another plane of existence-
where all things that once mattered take different form,
and now matter takes new meaning-
because you can’t understand with the same eyes and mind,
which has served you as tools of discernment and navigation inside of a unconfined lifestyle
because you’d be left indigent of understanding,
left in an adolescent stage of judgment only
and that in itself is as pointless as not minding your business,
preferring your opinion as fact,
but as a matter of fact,
in here, not minding your own, and having opinions can get you slapped!
if you’re lucky
this shit ain’t no game!
This Shit Humiliating
in prison we have few but distinctive privacies
all which we behold and apprise the most value to
and when they get lost,
in some cases it will cause angst anguish and anger
in other cases it will cause outbursts
but at the truth of the matter
it’s all shame
the few dignities that we enjoy being encroached upon creates for a more aggressive environment
acting out from the humiliation of circumstance
as I say this,
our unit is locked down for 24/day
and me and my cellmate have both been holding our bowels
hoping to wait out the unknown day to where the lockdown will be lifted
for two days…TWO DAYS, we have chosen not to defecate
a rare and prided privacy that will be destroyed
and an invasion that we both wish to not endure
but we haven’t spoken a word of it
silently going about our day trapped in this room as if the thing we aren’t doing
isn’t even a thing that is done
we urinate
we flush our gas
but we do not break that last line
it’s the last line we have left
before we feel every bit the savage
as the savagery that is being forced upon us
this is the last indignity we don’t wish to give up becoming desensitized to
because where do we go from here, becoming a pure animal