Prose of a Con

Poetry and Prose by Russell Wardlow

Trauma

Politicized

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“Politicized”
everyone hates politics
so I hear
I flee debates and turn on the TV and still, there are politics
so I see
sports entertainment attire news and social lives politicized
so it feels
if I could taste politics
it’d probably taste like the water in Flint, Michigan or maybe French fries being called Freedom fries
if I could smell politics
maybe it’d be the smell of rain in Autumn or the smog and chemical emissions into our changing atmosphere and climate while arguing global warming contemplating how clean the air I breath really is
If I could become a part of politics
I’d stay exactly where I am, in prison, because money sets values to life and always becomes the bottomline
if I could name my child a truth of politics
his or her name would be left or right, or, right or wrong, because it seems there is no moral standard for compromise or neutral ground

“One moment at a time”
He turns the nozzles to the right until the just drips are visible
as the last traces of dirt and soap cascade down his body and travels down the deep black orifice in floor…
his thoughts trail off for a moment
feeling in sync with that deep dark tunneling unknown
in a way, he identifies internal…maybe even externally
pulling back the shower curtain slightly, then reaching for his towel
he starts the same process
drying his head
the towel is brought over his face
he closes his eyes, breaths deeply, and meditates for 20seconds
he is gone, lost to his world of internalization
a periodic escape
collecting his wits and gathering his senses
he reflects over his whole day up until that point in a rapid flash of mental pictures sequencing behind his eyelids
satisfied with the information gathered
again he breaths in deeply, and then exhales
rallying his strength courage and reserve
because this process symbolizes a start over
yet the repeating of this continual depravities’ reality
he then chants ritualistically “here we go again”
and with that, the towel coats the rest of his body
his eyes open
his ears are aware to the familiar sounds of running water and loud banter
he is back…
unfortunately
he we go again, as he leaves the shower in shorts sandals and no shirt wearing that renewed strength confidence comfort and pride buffed and sculpted from his jaw to his waistline
just enough water left on his body for its stainless and glistening effect
seemingly unphased by his environment
he has started back over
one moment at a time

“Segregation”
alone within the darkest hollow he retreated
darkness enveloped his now
inside and out, his light likened to coal
while blinds draping the windows of his soul, shut tight
there, dawned a blacker abyss
a decrepit contrast littering this deathly fog
imagination, colored as a gothic reflection of deep cave dwellings absent glow from distant moon and stars
sound as black as the upside down bodies of winged shadows
their screeches invading his senses
everything there-
as he remembered, yet not
only aware of self-
rewarded by that privileged knowledge
since he has stood stranger to company far too long
ignorant his place and fit
gestures and mannerisms foreign
etiquette and norms alien
gab and humor absent
the conjured echoes-haunting
a mystifying black ambiance he embraces
swallowing his last bit of resistance
his taste-a dried out well
he smells the void
touches nothing
and feels it all
best friend to loneliness
kin to darkness
married to space
he finds life and now thrives in the hole
harmony within his new habitat

“Process”
life is a process
food gets processed
inventory gets processed
information gets processed
memories love and scorn are a process
everything is a process, then it gets processed
am I person or process?
my mistakes were a process-
leading me straight into prison…after getting processed

“wonder why?”
My heart is my handicap
I have loyalties of principal and heart, but not of deep rooted emotion
so its easy for me to be misled or sensationalize moments
I guess that makes me human right?
I’m aware of this contortion within myself, but not many are
now, if you may wonder why many people become pulled in and a part of their environment
not rising above individually, for the worse or better
look at life look at relationships look at politics…look at prison

I was down

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I was down like left over ingredients in a cup
I am part heathen, it was hard for me to believe in me going up
It was hard for me to see, I was seasoned but the seasons had me seeking the easiest way of coming up
hoping my culture would coast and coach me, another hidden way of me coping instead of opening up
trying to be grown, my youth was a bad ode, and I wasn’t old enough
maybe faith in something would help me grow, mold me and hold me up

Instead of the spots I was holding up
hold up!
systematic symptoms
from diagnoses full of isms
spewing venom and criticism
my vision was indigent
ordaining a preeminence ending with me in prison
living thru so much tension
as a fostered kid spending stints in detention
dissention, division, split decisions- mistakes versus intention
both perforating my core-this thin line dividing my external impersonations hiding in plain sight, perpetually perpetrating
my lips pursed, disguising my reserve being purged and permeated
living in the middle of a pendulum-
life and worth, and to calm my nerves, I was overprescribed Ritalin
too hyper was just a synonym
but for a troubled child, pilled vials, became an emblem
of too many symptoms
I was a young victim, but forget your criticism…or is something wrong with me!?! Love was missing…
More soul serpent than person
I never searched for purpose
forced in church, but I lurked behind curtains
because I was too hurt to surface
I don’t speak of deserve
my reason is because I lean towards the words that speak of my worst
my good evaporated by how fast my bad gets dispersed
I irk for and worship relationships
because too long I felt alone, and as purposeless as an atheist
forgive me, I didn’t know how to pray
my repayment is painted in pain with these pages
I stray like a pagan
I cannot be patient
I’m sick like a patient
I’m rough and I’m down and I’m beat under feet, understand I am pavement!
all I feel is side effects
I see and do, a blind follower like Simon says
I gotta big head with a giant neck
so I can balance and keep the weight of my pride in check
all I feel is side effects
all I feel is side effects
but maybe sippin this last bit of residue,
of pride in the bottom of my cup will do
if I start living instead of worrying about being uncomfortable
everything doesn’t resolve or dissolve easy, no matter how hard you try to mix the ingredients, you just need to be gritty and greedy, and tilt up
the last bit of resistance in your cup

Ignorance, not Bliss

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A c.o. asked if I were racist
surprised by the question’s basis
because it was the title of a book she read without flipping thru the pages
isn’t that a cliché…
but this is the same narrow minded perceptions our society has created
what?…
would she prefer my seeking of knowledge be nameless or faceless
or was it because the end result of what I seek started and ended with black faces
what is depth, when the inside is hidden to the uncaring consumer absorbing a calzone
so which part of the title was the threat? The conditions that face black people in America, or the valley of dry bones?
we all know that answer…
How could I speak on a subject in which in her 50 plus years it hasn’t even been relevant?
How can I speak of color, skin, the science of melanin, only as difference not as supremacy, if her history, cascades its skeletons?
She only seemed to understand the fact of me having close white friends, well I guess it really was a surprise
How can I give in and make allowances for the cliché, ‘ignorance is bliss’ while willful ignorance is just as incendiary to our society’s demise?
How can she believe that everyone experiences life the same, how can she be that blind?
Then I realized…
She only knows what’s been shown, whether conscious or unconsciously learning to deny and downplay
Maybe she doesn’t know that black is more than a color
Though color is not identity
Black is enshrined deeply with culture
Though most, of it has turned ghost, from being poached, since arriving on the Virginia coast, by boat, and the ensuing reconditioning played culprit
Maybe I should’ve told her
How black has become a stereotypical synonym posted
as loud and boastful
Materialistic, objectifying, absent fathers, promiscuous big booty crazy women, ignorant sagging slang talkin rappers, criminals, drug dealing abusive illiterate fast running, high jumping, angry gang banging wild yet lazy monkeys, the engineers of an inciting riotous hip hop cult, not culture!
but if that’s true, then despite the lack of reparations, and every movement and economic progression stunted, by governmental forceful tactics and Willie lynch syndrome inhabited, what you deem problematic, I call it coping
and religiously hoping
though this cult like culture, has been stolen and resold for exposure
I could’ve explained in depth our resilience, strength and accomplishments, but in all honesty her response may provoke me
to a black child, which the world doesn’t know, seeming to have given him a cold shoulder
his dreams look no further than a poster and apolster
disbelieving of making it to be an adult, let alone not understanding the point in cementing his vote/and inhabiting the mind of becoming a broker
he may chase solicited fame, designed to saturate his brain, which in the end will make him broker
this isn’t a word, but he wouldn’t know it
a rapper is just a misunderstood urban poet
that dreams to swallow pride enshrined in Moet
to numb the pain of facing a society that doesn’t understand him and a legal system he shadow boxes with as if an opponent
which preys on his lack of understanding and color, poaching-waiting to pounce on his worst moment
the problem is, I could’ve explained it all, and just as I tried
I realized I was talking to a door by the look in her eyes
It’s sad the unknowing narratives that rule our lives
clichés are shrugged off as a collective of agreeable and undebated truths, but the real truth is that saying, “ignorance is bliss” is just another ignored lie

“I can’t wait to be a person again”

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I swear! Every day at my job by 11:05 I say, ‘J 1 D 19-Lower, 78756, Wardlow’ like I’m rapping! Repetition blinds the animals for slaughter. Like damn, all this robotics is designed to dehumanize me and yet send me back to society to full function while being programmed. To hold a people captive, you do not try to empower them, because if they become smarter, then your power will be less effective. They rather us subservient and docile. I heard a quote saying never expect powerful people to teach powerless people how to gain power. Prison breeds mules and sheep, not shepherds. Compliant by repetition, which reconditions, brainwashes and desensitizes our view of self when NAME becomes INMATE NUMBER, Bunk and Location. We are stripped externally and even more internally. I am more item and subject, then person and object. We herd into lines or move in masses back and forth by scheduled prompts like mindless animals. I can’t wait to be a person again.

Pro se Con-tint: Politics, Parole, People

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Politics. Prison is governed by politics. We learn from politics, we emulate a structure, code, and a means of survival/order through politics. Politics are quid pro quo. There can’t be order without moralistic compromises. And so in prison, which is a place of disruption and order. If you aren’t a source of power/respect, in return you have less of a voice. We watch local and world news, because we worry about the world we are going back into. Will we fit back in? And how it affects our loved ones because it directly affects the energy inside these walls. Today I walked into a group of friends, (all black), speaking about politics in detail and with passion. One argued looking at the outside bigger picture, and the other took the stance of being the guy directly affected by these policies, stereotypes, and assumptions that result in the lack of chances given because of what others have done. Even more, the argument was centralized around whether our black senator that fights for the inmates-if he really gives a fuck. But I made the point, the thing about politics is you have to give to get your agenda through, quid pro quo. But It’s not easy here, we have a governor that is so pro capital punishment that he went in his own pockets to get a drug not cleared by FDA to start executions again in our state. We see, we hear, we feel and all we can do is think and debate because still a felon’s opinion doesn’t matter anyway. And they won’t let us forget that.
Warning: Rated M, for LSV
The parole board asked a convict, if he saw someone on his mom, would he help his mom, or go run and get/call the police. This answer was the decider on whether he’d get paroled or not. He said he’d help his mom, they sent him out briefly, clearly not liking his answer. When he came back in, he held his tongue and told them what they wanted to hear..”now that I thought on it more, I’d go call the police for help” politics…he had to play their game, and yet still didn’t get paroled after he told them what they wanted to hear…now take a moment and think about what just happened…now what would you do? And should that answer keep you in prison? The price of freedom…compromise in prison is likened to being a whore being fucked by the key holders until they’ve gotten every bit of pleasure drained from you, now go back to society with your head held down, or we’ll beat out every inclination left in you. Raw, but real.
People argue about debating in prison and an innocent debate turns into a heated or violent argument. No one wants to debate because they say it’s arguing. We debate a lot about whether debating and arguing are different…point is, connotations form the attitudes behind actions. In prison, it’s arguing..in politics, it’s debating..and peaceful disagreements and jabs don’t live here. We fight over brains with bronze..irony? Bronze can rival brains, but brains can’t rival bronze? Contradiction…aren’t most of our rationales? So how then can prison contrast from real life? When there’s no space to solve and heal differences, then there is nothing left but collisions. Ironically a cage forces the animal out of you, and space to roam- can supplement those animal traits within us all. Thoughts cultivated to instincts are people cultivated into animals.

Prison Dad

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Shame face. So I’m here, who am I to say what’s best for a child in the realm of speaking or reconnecting with his father that resides in prison. I do believe the role of fathers is under-valued, just the way my second son lights up at times and he’s never met me since an infant. I guess my only opinion for others is, don’t make a decision for your child that reflects more your personal feelings than their real needs. A child can’t think or put wants into words like adults. We baby them too much when we shouldn’t, and then treat them like adults with decisions they can’t fully understand. I figure I’ll love my sons best by respecting their mothers’ wishes not add pressure or confusion. My youngest son doesn’t listen to me because he is his mother’s son, but really because I was so happy to speak with him that everything he did, good or bad, was so funny to me, I unknowingly encouraged his behavior showing him I’m the nice guy, which I am! He thinks he can beat me up at times, (pssh! boy please!) he loves me, but I guess I don’t know how to show the proper amount of authority when all I feel is joy yet caution being able to experience him. I don’t want to lose him, so how do I father best? I’m still figuring that out, I’ve read books, took classes, but when you have your beautiful reflection interacting with you and you don’t have to deal with the day to day stresses, everything he does-even when he doesn’t want to talk because he is busy watching his shows (like father like son)- I still get joy from it. I can only imagine when we have our first visit! Nothing more I love and feel obligated to than fatherhood. But my sons Josiah, 9 and Treyvan, 6 don’t know each other.