Prison Hacks
30
comes after 29
it's hard to be white and really mad.
that is, bona fide mad.
sick eccentric a-bit-off-the-stride,
yeah, okay
but not
mad as mad should really be.
i'd
see the raving assholes
who'd never shit in country club johns
wag their butts around the playgrounds of really serious philosophers
who gave their lives
so that stones could
hug others not so blessed.
you
don't have to be a mathematical genius
to know that some gook
long before Einstein
figured out place and time warp
relationships
while chanting fuck for the eighty ninth millionth
time as the hack tried to remember
that 30 came after 29
at the Count.
you
have to be on the outside
to definitively under-stand
the inside.
now,
that is profound.
that's not whiteman bullshit,
that's the real scoop
dribbled in the dirt by
real mad mad assholes
whose journey is only through the inside.
it's
too bad
this enlightenment that says
“you are ever to be deprived, whiteman"
is all that I have to latch
my sickness on,
because it is so tantalizing.
i mean, shit, i too want
to be reborn.
but we forgot that jesus said
you have to be born again of a Third World woman.
shit!
so,
jack, there’s no way in
from the outside,
get my meaning?
yep,
i’ve ac-cepted
-- as you know they say,
“will you ac-cept this parole?”—
yeah, just that way
is how i received all of this
calmly
on the track one day
as some moses sauntered by
walking like i can’t walk
and laid a paper on me
like all those too hip lay fives
and he winks and gaits away.
the note says,
“Close. But not a winner.”
shit!
so
i left as i came
a babe in arms
actually, someone’s orphan
but with the realization
that not only could i get out
anytime i wanted
but that i could get back in
with all the privileges
of the creator of the place.
in me the serious philosophers
haunt the world.
it’s a comfort to know
at least
that i’ll never be mad.
i hate to misplace
adjectives.
get my meaning, jack?
A Definition of Freedom
the crimped man on the rock
whose eyes will never tire
peels the wall for a magical crack
he
has sat sentinel there
for 25 years and his encore
is applauded beyond life's grasp
so
who'd but excuse him
if he ogles a wall of pendulous weight
and like Joshua seeks
a paralyzed midday sun?
he
was someone's child, after all
a kitchy-coo and he looks like Uncle John
which was “Scene One, Print!
and now is fading on a fish-eye shot
into his final scene
who
knows the apocalyptic quest better than he?
on Patmos little John could see no clearer
so
when he told me
that one day -- the hour he was not sure of as to number –
but one day,
"YES! one day"
the magical crack would fissure
and the Greyhound bus driver would swing
the hydraulic switch
the door would hiss, serpentine
and he'd step up, juttingly.
9/83
the rumor lashed through the
yard
like a tidal wave uprooting sunbathers
of you got parole! you got parole! goddamn it, man,
"you got parole!"
eyeless
in a foreign city
where a 1000 addresses bear no friendly names
her heart breaks at mail time
as she weeps for the lost 20 cent stamps
at
the entrance the sunlight pained him
his jerking arms found safety in a shaded spot
where under a rock he read a crusty message
abandoned by his eyes 20 years ago,
"I will wait for you under this rock, forever."
she
bore a child amidst the heavings of the crowd
a strong hungrychild whose suck marked her
and in this whirling of feelings, tired and more than weary
she waited for the messenger, with the note
with the name, "Call the child .......
stopped
inconsequentially at an unidentifiable light
his window was down at half mast
as the fluttering speck of urban garbage
landed on his dash, he picked it up
it said, "This is the Day of your salvation,
love and love again."
she
was seven, he had just turned eight
how the shadows on her neck fascinated him, all day!
he was unfamiliar with the dryness in his throat
but he fumbled to compose
a symphony of feeling
as his fathers before him had,
and he struck the cosmic
tune which fired up his
heart with a thump which resounded down the eons,
"I like you."
a
note is on its way
ex
nihilo
the shadows of morning in mourning for sleep
address you without words
the
sunrise sparks and slithers over forms
things, elements, non-biodegradable plastics
grasping a beachhead, slipping your cheeks,
molding on your face
the embattlements of eyebrow and lip
nose and ear
unformed, being created, from nothing
you speak
and the shadows are comforted
window
#1
my window is smaller
she
was he. like that rock
which became rocket
because of its unleashed insides.
it is only processing, a noise
outside my window smaller
he is she. like that heart
which became heartless
because they left nothing inside, beating.
window
#2
up there, by the fourth
branch the sunhole
is embraced by gnarly oak
things
even fly through, zing and lingering swoosh
letting almost too much in, no barriers
yet so few know its there, have the address
"branch number 4, gnarly oak"
from
either side the view is outside
only butterflies alight on the side
transfixed in a memory of translucent emergence
window
#3
the dust shimmers sideway on my uphead hole
a staved beckoning of earth wet rock
should
I recount the words which skid along the slime?
should I have kept an accountant's notation of the echoes?
it
is my crazy time, weirdness and huffing and hallooing
I cannot control it, the hole is for flushing
the debris from within oneself
I
know that if I stand on head that it would be beneath me
and I could fall, clawing at greasy spit walls
and be deposited on terra celestial but
only my shadow is spliced by the bars
my chains restrain my dreams, keep me clear headed
window
#4
I most times, almost can never but edge towards it in the dark
monstrosities
& magnificences, like unto kaleidoscopic
one's emotions are leached, on the half hour as
the sun trades light with the moon, and
the messages from beyond jump from somber to excited to awful,
this jeweled window, this stained page of the divine book
shatters souls, heals minds, wards off the demonic
and on overcast days comforts only the widows
window
#5
wash, wash, wash dreaded dreadful dirty job
worse
than her hairy lip, aging
more irritating than tv static
far worse than the indefatigable dirty kitchen floor
wash, wash, wash dreaded dreadful
every
vision is blurred, each wipe paints another smear
only to be clear is to see what a new angle reveals
smudge, unclear, unclean, horrible, impossible!
it
is an eyeball into our untouchableness
whereas we seek joy in its transference of out and in
accepting it as almost a wonder of nature, protector
translator, transformer, faithful without fail
when we undrape, vision is always granted
yet,
"I don't do windows!” masks but slightly
the allurement, the mystery of the pane
i had never known the power of words
that one man could harbor such mastery
in simple language and robot signs,
"Okay, let's go you guys."
we
hid behind each other's nakedness
as our armaments of nightly passion
were checked, "Okay, bend over"
he pronounced like the magician with a wand
and yard hardened muscles parted
in salutes to the flag of his indifference
four
short steps from you
sequestered in confessionals of flesh
we recanted the errors of our individuality
and awaited his blessing, "Okay, you guys,
get dressed."
and
as I sit beside you
his words rearrange the intentions of my gazes
as his echo haunts my ears
"One embrace when you meet. Another when it's over.
Okay, you guys, let's go."
when
he stole my mother from me
with a word that made her curtsey
as if before the Bishop
i knew that his blood would always
be stained upon my fingernails
and that memory would never forgive
his "Okay, get your arm off her, guy."
in
this room with the children of violence
i went to the coffee machine, often
just to feel the comfort of the coin of the realm
but it only taught me a hatred of freedom
she
left us during the last half hour
and i walked my fingers in musical display
on your knee, pounding out a tune
of yearning from my flesh which no longer bleeds
your
departing hug
stuck to my ribs like lashes from a whip
and I struggled to find a kiss
that would say "I'm fine. Don't worry. I love you."
but my message was aborted by the snap
of his jealous command, "Okay, guys, time's up."
just
four short steps away from you
he took me violently to himself
and purged me of the desire I had for you,
"Okay, guys, get dressed. It's over, for now.”
9/83
return to top
when he came to me i feigned
a shadow boxing and a clout on his ears
but he stood as simple as a flower
patiently in place alluring the bee
this
is not to be, i screamed into my ears
i am not a toy nor a plaything nor a sweet carnation
i am the rock and the home run hitter and a rose with thorns
this cannot be!
what
am i to do with these shivers?
am i to take myself to bed and drink hot tea?
what shall i do if he calls
and says that he has free tickets to the movies?
there
must be some cruel cartographer of the genes
who has violated the universe with his dreams
for this cannot be,
i cannot let it be!
i am a male and so is he
where is the logic to his dreams?
why
is his shadow so real
that i wake to chase it from my wall
and jump from bed to check the locks and the bolts
i am too nervous to judge this fear a hoax
deep
within me the rivers run
my thighs celebrate deltas of the moon
and my hands give praise to the fires of kisses
yet the thrill that scars me is of the sun
am
i to find that there is more within me
than my father told me when i was his son?
more than the godly chants assured me
would be my duty and my obligation and no more?
i
cannot see--i do not want to see!
his chrysanthemum face and his firm stalk
i want only to die as i was born
a wailing child in the arms of my mother
these
days press hard upon my heart
the rivers have broken their banks
and the plains give riot to seeds long buried in the desert
what
shall i take to my grave
that i did not bring to light from my mother's heart?
9/83
the
purple butterfly settling upon your face
illumines the yearnings within your soul
coded in a message of strobe lightnings
it
was an inauspicious beginning
three men on the hunt in a Minneapolis bar
spitting piss beer and leering at the dancing dames
i
sat there taut of body and howling in brain
14 months on the yard primed me for that moment
i ate the air with a sucking breath
as pretzels and chips crumbled under foot
it
was a time of inestimable fear
i walked with Lazarus and worried about my stench
who would touch a man from the grave
or deign to gaze upon the mangled and mashed instrument
of his dreams?
it
was not your beauty nor this painted insect on your face
rather it was in the decaying bathroom
where you chased it away and answered
that i would not, could not be yours that night
that i knew how much i longed for the dawn
you
brought a basket of fruits
some fresh, some moldy, some without pits
and we picnicked in the attic for a year
charming the ants and making mad rituals
in attempts to lure healings from our shaman bones
when
you left me for dear ole Columbus
i cursed his ship and wanted to declare
you already sovereign territory
but you sped away on your snorting motorcycle
flying the flag of the jaunty buccaneer
now
that you have braked for a visit
that attic in my heart has once again
been opened for Spring
and i am relishing the memory of odors
and the sweet taste of your intense tears
in
every bar and around every corner in every hotel
in every city for every day
i had peered in anticipation of that dancing prancing butterfly
but now I know that it flits about
only on the beat which has always been
our hearts
9/83
return to top
Wisdom
and Ah! Fond Memories
bare lightbulb
mornings
before morning coffee
and the trash on the doorstep
find the droopy lidded
great unrecognized one
slipping bare threads
of recycled dreams
through his head.
it must be time to turn on the ra-di-o.
four
corpses from the last train
which left without departing
took themselves up the stairs
without an elevator.
they banged on his door
bang bang bang.
it’s
just too stupid
that they never painted the wall
afterall if they knew how be-oo-ti-ful
was the glossy shine
the government put on solitary.
they would never be civil servants.
ne-ver.
the
issue before them
not on the radio this morning
was the state of all
human culture
which they argued from bits
of toilet paper
smuggled from the inner
sanctum
of various local jails
madhouses and pens-not-made-for-bulls.
only the cold coffee
made them stop. and
it started them again.
luckily,
two were blind
the bare bulb did not give
away its lightning secrets
and two were deaf
so they did not carry
the prejudices of the radio.
luckily, again, toilet paper
messages
are best read in the dark
by sign language of
not so sanitized fingers.
in
the end
there were five corpses
lamenting the shit-ass
condition of the world
as run by free enterprise.
security after all
is having someone
else responsible for
Lock-up and Count