Untitled (John Brian M.H. Burroughs)
Untitled # 2 (John Brian M.H. Burroughs)
For Heartaches or Freedom (Guy Youngblood)
Hard Parts (Charles E. Houchins)
by Albert Altimari
The chaplain sent a pass for me today.
I checked and rechecked the name and number
hoping it was a mistake.
A pass from the chaplain is bad news.
Some time later the chaplain sent another pass
marked URGENT.
I opened my photo album
for one last look at her life.
I see the metamorphosis from eleven months
of chemotherapy
in her limp face.
She wears a wig in this picture.
Chemo ravages everything.
Her face is swollen. Her eyes are puffy.
She smiled bravely for me in this picture.
Her eyebrows are almost nonexistant
And her precious face is painted
to create the illusion of life
and dignity.
In one picture she sits at the same red and white
kitchen table where we did my math, history, and spelling.
It's the table of birthdays, Thanksgivings, and Christmases.
Atop the faded white Kelvinator refrigerator
sits her 20-year-old pasta maker
which pressed so many memories.
I remember her hanging my finger paintings
and report cards on that dented refrigerator door.
I hold the last letters she sent to me
I see misspelled words strangled
with small and very large printing. She never printed
before, and she never misspelled words.
Even my name is misspelled here and there.
What did they do to you?
What went wrong at the hospital?
Did you still remember the words to your favorite song--
Fever, by Patti Page?
Did you still remember singing Silent Night to me
when I was six?
Did you still remember my face?
I stare at her distorted features
Her mouth now hangs awkwardly on the left side
like a broken door hinge
but I still see only a beautiful woman.
Never again will I feel her gentle touch
or hear that loving, tender voice.
How do I say goodbye to the angel
who rescued me when no one else cared?
The warden said I could attend her funeral
but only in shackles and chains.
He said it's the Department of Corrections' policy
and hopes I'm not bitter about it.
I have but one simple gift
that will be laid to rest with you.
It's one very small, blue, white-tasselled bootie.
Remember when you sat with me at the kitchen table
when I was nine
and told me that I was adopted?
Remember telling me I was only wearing one little bootie
when they found me in that place?
You saved that bootie for me.
You said my mama would recognise that bootie
when she saw it again some day.
That bootie belongs with you.
Rest in peace, mama.
by Chris Cowdrey
Somewhere, in between periods of intolerance and rage
Dawned complete understanding.
There was no comprehension so profound that it flooded my concious mind.
Instead there were small fits of awareness.
Some subtle; many so brutal they struck with force and paralyzed my heart
and soul.
A life time has passed, frozen in time behind walls of cement and cages of
steel.
In my world violence, betrayal, and hatred are the creed.
Yet it is here, after a lifetime of crime, that a culmination has occured.
A seemingly eternal damnation has made me truly aware.
It is through this blood, shit, and cum on my hands that I finally
comprehend what I am,
What I feared I could never be.
Human.
by John Brian M.H. Burroughs
Entering strange
Varieties of ecstasy
Everytime I
Ride the rails of learning and
Yearning
Toward the sun and moon and
Heights of noon
In vigorous pursuit of
New vibrations
Glorifies existence and
Cancels the
Rest of the debt out fathers labor
Under for serving us
Myths of God and the
Blood of
Lambs which no one sensible
Eagerly
Swallows anymore.
by John Brian M.H. Burroughs
Is it too
Late to learn
Of new
Vistas and vows?
Each man and woman
Yearns to be more than just
One more island.
Under you and me the earth
Moves and quakes,
Opens up,
Reveals another destiny.
Eons ago, more
than we imagine joined our
hearts completely. Then
Amnesia seemed to
Negate our love.
Is that all?
Should we
Hide our hearts and save
Ourselves or dare to recapture the
Undying flower and
Leave all
Doubt and fear far behind?
by Wayne James
Remember us--if at all--not as lost, violent souls. . .
At dusk on the west rec yard, standing,
Waiting on the guard to open the door,
I look past the silent weight machine,
Past the fence, the razor wire's dull gleam
At the sky and the trees they frame.
They are motionless, those trees, perfectly.
And the sky is indigo, but with a tinge
Of pink and orange near the southern horizon.
The walls, though, the wals demand my attention.
The walls are of red brick, red bricks formed by
The labour of convicts some forty years ago.
The red bricks lie silent in their rows as if,
In perpetual formation, marching to eternity. And
I cannot help but wonder about the hands--the hands
That moulded these red bricks some forty years ago.
Did the hands of these convicts--in those days of
Sanctioned brutality--bleed as they formed the bricks?
And if they did, does that blood lend the bricks its
Colour? That blood from the hands of men who cried
And died within these walls some forty years ago.
by Guy Youngblood
She called me, and I came,
One hundred and twenty miles and
Two street hookers later,
I lay in her loving, greedy arms
Confused and road weary.
We enjoyed a horrible storm.
Watched lightening rip the sky.
She says he isn't mine but,
I know the child was conceived
Out of lust filled nights.
Dancing naked to the Cure,
(Just one more time)
Saying nothing, so we wouldn't have to lie
The speed limit couldn't govern
Our passion for heartaches or freedom.
by Charles E. Houchins
We eat the flesh down to the bone,
We enjoy ice cream to the cone
We go to school and have some fun
But teacher's questions put us on the run.
Part of life is a breeze, just turning a page
The rest of it isn't easy and makes us age
The hard parts must come along with the soft
The hay is given to us but we must put it in the loft
We drive our car and the road is smooth as silk
Then along come the bumps like lumps in sour milk
Come with me where life is easy as pie
Every day is like the one before, just a pretty blue sky
There is no place, you say to me,
There is one place and you will see,
It's the playground in my mind
Pick all your pleasures of every kind
Store them in your mind and close the door
Cast off your ship, set your sail, plus more
Our armada of ships is sailing for the eternal mind
With our compass and a little luck that mind we'll find.
by David Taber
The prisoner, like a tragic actor,
Puts on a thousand faces:
A face of hatred or a face of love.
A put-on mask,
Beaten down in a pool of blood.
He swallows spoiled food,
Thrown down on a cold tray.
The prisoner labours under the cross
Of oppression,
A haggard man:
Exploited,--
Shattered even as a child.
He grew up in a foster home,
Or a shelter,
Or some cold uptown palace:
An alcoholic,
Unable to put down a drink;
A needle in his arm,
A drug addict pushing poison.
His crimes so fatal, like his face
hangs each day:
Rapist, armed robber, murderer.
The prisoner sees time,
Days unnumbered,
Alone, tormented by a troubled self,
In a dark stone cell.
His step becomes slow
Beneath the stare
Of the tall grey wall.
Threadbare, tattered prison clothes
Shine,
All state-owned.
The system bought his soul:
Some love their chains,
Some defiant after forty years,--
Even God forgot the innocent doing time.
We put on the same face in this world:
Here prisoners, prisoners until we die.