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Things here are monotunis, chow, meds, chow, meds, chow, meds, bed. I box a couple days a weeks. I have yet to completely pic up jogging again. Maybe with the changing season. I love fall. Harvest time. Cooler outside. Smudged today. I love it. Beat a big drum last week, w/Jessie. Sux my Heritage has little to do with being Native to America. Maybe back when it was Pangoa. I’m english and Phillipono, ¼ to be exact. There is Indian’s tribal on that part. But it’s not American. I have been made fun of my whole life for how I look. Time to start embracing my Heritage. I’m not sub par, I’m above and beyond, anyway. I don’t fit in anywhere I guess. Good. Stealing cucumbers from our garden. To bad it’s consider stealing. Howe has done most of the work. I’m so scared of probation. I love pot to much. Sux. Hopefully, it all works out for the best.

Just cut up contraband veggie’s. Sad I have to hid out in the bathroom to do it. Like I’m shooting up or something a little Judas priest anyone. Awesome death metal, the bone, sun’s almost set. It’s 7:30, No more nite rec pretty soon. So A.A.’s been good. Couple of the guys from talk so that’s cool. So many movies I wanna see. So many times I wanna buy second hand at bull moose. Can’t wait to shop at Goodwill. Quarterroys and t-shirts. Good stuff.

“Freedom what will you make of it”

I don’t remember the cause as it all seems so bizarre.

How a quiet night at home became a bloody battle ground.

They flew into my yard all packed into a single car.

Now scattered on the lawn all seven can be found.

Each thread of time is woven into rhyme.

A blanket of knowledge passing from the darkness into light.

All brain activity has ceased there are no thoughts of crime.

As I hold the empty gun and ponder wrong and right.

I moved into a neighborhood where I could afford to live.

I fixed the house up some it looked good enough to me.

A gang came knocking one day but I refused to give.

It came down to this a mess of blood and misery.

I can hear the sirens calling from many blocks away.

My neighbors are my witnesses of all that happened here.

I’m still nervous of the cops and what I should or shouldn’t say.

The truth will have to do that my family will not live in fear.

There is nothing that these prison walls have left to offer me. As I have spent eleven long and tedious years under their scrutiny during my incarceration I have lost many family and friends to death. Their final regards being sent with their last gathered breath. Others have moved far away to take a chance on a new life. Uprooted from their communities were both children and wife. And, so it has gone that I have done most of my time alone. Hundreds of people to play cards with though nobody phone at one point I had become bored even with my writing going to quite well. Then the next thing I knew I was put into a prison – rehab cell. Fourteen hours a day were filled with confusing rules and routine. It took me several months to figure out what it really did mean. I was informed that the rules were to break me of my negative ways. So I crammed and I studied them all the rest of my days. In some of the meetings I related my long and pent up grief. Thus making it easier to turn over a new leaf. I sat and I listened as others told stories of their disastrous lives. The loss of their children and separation from wives. I pondered long and hard before making my final choice. It was time that the world got to hear my voice. I looked hard to find my areas that I needed attention. And, also dug out harmful thoughts that needed prevention. In time I gained an entirely different way of thinking. Gone were the old routines of spending long hours each day drinking and the mornings waking up with pounding headaches and bloodshot eyes. The new days were to be much brighter, happier, with clear skies. I had been through a process of molding my thinking habits and more it allowed my vision to see that this would be my last prison tour. I wouldn’t ever again be forced to live another man in a tiny cell or have to breathe the stench that is a prisons’ well known smell or drink water from decaying pipes long unfit for human consumption or eat food I am told is beef, atleast by the cooks assumption. No more nights laying on a plate-steel bunk wondering if I’ll get any mail. Staying out of prison is something at which I cannot afford to fail. I am learning all of the tools I will need to live my life in sobriety. While making a place for myself in a sane and rational society. Through the years that I have been sitting around in prison. Short-term and long-term goals have both fallen and risen. Today, I am not into making plans for a long and eventful life. I’ll just take one day at a time and see if I can find a good wife. All of the aches and pains that fill me will never miss this place. I could never come back here again because it would be an unbearable disgrace.


Scorched just looking at my own reflection

Something like paper, mummified

Picked up by the wind


I will better that one then

Nothing that reaches so high –

Should fall so low

But they do, as a rule


Without failures bite, no –

No glorious flight

all this for that

like a tit for a tat


What have I spun?  “A Yarn?”

A drowning dream gasping for air

A self-made fool

A jester without a care


But a better juggler

–        and a better struggler

–        a lonely devotee, with

His night table perched high in a tree


Rocking in the breeze, ‘waiting’

Finding a Symphony ion the rustling leaves

Taking short hand as moonbeam dictates

Shadow dances sermons and

morning sun renders his less puzzling dialogue


Many words are falling to the forest floor

From wide spreading branches

I collect the words into catches

For this bread we burn the midnight oil


Some forgotten seed spill out onto the litter

I sort them to make a meal

One for my teacher and one for the same

And one for the fool to re-bury and forget

Yes sir! July 1st. Because I’m sick of the town I live in, and I’m sick of Maine and I’m sick of the people who are bugging me. I’m just sick of it, so. I’ll be staying with my friend, hopefully. He’s down there.
Don’t ever give up on your dreams your hopes and your wishes. I’m jail free, living well (living better).I thought I was doomed by this depression, a lot of it post-prison-partum.
Hope and pray for me that I find my future and my purpose. That’s what I’m after.

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Political Prisoners

Welcome to the blog from inmates of Maine's jails and prisons.

In collaboration with the Holistic Recovery Project, the Political Prisoners Blog provides a prisoner's view into what's happening at Maine's correctional facilities.

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