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Devious dotted dirt… stand out inside court soaked & wet straight blue grass… barred widows of plexiglass for runner front & back, simplistic conflicted stack hunkered down on what is not, timeless possessions grip the plot. “ Ohhh here comes the usual pain!!! Ohhh here comes the rain!!”

Side steep into black, shadows linger and falter flat strut forth in contend this lieing, mmisleading peace of shit! A hand up is another hand down, stitched on smiles hide the frown strings cut leave a limp limb, focus on nothing so the nothing wins “Ohhh here comes the usual pain!!! Ohhh here comes the rain!!!”

And so I sit and rehash, what of mine is good and what of mine is bad I single out my indifference with knowledge I’ve conceived so with these new eyes of mine I see the better half of me!!!

Wind stroke and double stamped, fingers bloody bruised & cramped still pressure pushes this pen to wright, a flood of emotions fills these nights a sore score and a few more torn, default conditions and new ones are born a tinge of regret trickles in, but I’m no stronger to this as I bathe in sin.

I’m taking a look at myself… so to speak, I put it in words I wright them down with this pen of mine… and constitute the realm of the world.

I correlate what will and not be… Just to get a slight meshes for the print so I dig deep down inside, to places I hide, in order to unbury my unconfortable shit!!!

OHHH yeah here we go again! Shuddering stables & ink unadorned by trend OHHH yeah what have we here? Another one obscene twisted fragment of corners in other words “ Just a new born abortin’”

Sling shot your attention spared I know it to be false… (fuck fake fuck) underlining your faults and its pretense, I count a dime short and yet of course

When time for retribution is made and made not retribution is. Slick fingers find their way around your neck, you wanted to be treated a shot a kid.

OHHH yeah… here we go again!… Complex stories and nothing else everyday from start to end.

OHHH yeah… What have we here? Just another file fuck may the gods & goddess bless your souls everyone of you sluts. Blessed be “Just a new born abortion”

Constructive demolition of self pride, forgetting that my brain needs these wind so here at your feet I lay it down, Just enough for you to understand that what you wanted all along has over time turned to sand!

OHHH yeah here we go again! Shuddering stables and ink unadorned by trend OHHH yeah what have we here? Another one obscene twisted fragment of cortexes in other words “ Just a new born Abortion”

Sit still!  My mind says.  Close down and don’t open your fuckin’ eyes.  I’ll cut ’em out with my rusty old toenail clippers.  The strings holding my arms and legs together gives a slight yank!  And I fall on my face again.  Blood shot eyes with a heavy head that’s warm and fuzzy.  Slips in and out of the light.  Sound only continues to bother the skin as it crawls out from off the bone.  No shade needed – let roast the remaining thinking thoughts hopes and dreams.  Sickening to think of fantasies about the outside looking in, seeing through the colors of a happy heap of truly ungifted liars.  Such pretty creatures and made of man’s flesh and blood to only be bought to take anything but “sir”.

 

Can you breath?

 

I can’t.  I can’t stand to hold in the air that my lungs need so desperately.  Wasted temptation of pain and promise, kill me, kill me please to make sure I’m mending the cuts of purity on the outside.

 

Blessed be to only the stars and moon.

 

Love, riots and hand grenades,

 

Irish

“Okay!”  I said to Rob, one of the Corrections Supervisors down at the chow hall, as they prepared for lunch.  “How would you feel about doing a little interview for the upcoming issue of the Doing Times?”

“What kind of interview?  Are you a reporter?  Are you recording me?”

“An easy ten questions.”  I responded.  “And yes, I am a reporter.”  I showed him my press card and other credentials.

“Well,” he said, after giving it some thought.  “As long as you don’t ask me any questions about mechanically separated chicken.”

“Absolutely.”

I wanna answer ten questions!” Matt “Irish” Moscillo, veteran member of the front-line kitchen crew popped up beside us, obviously having overheard our off-the-record discussion.

“You can both answer questions.”  I said, pulling pad and pen from the inner-pocket of my herringbone jacket.

“Yay!” said Matt.

“Hmm…” said Rob.

“Alright,” I began.  “Ten questions.”

1.  What’s your favorite beverage served at chow?

Rob: “Ginger ale mixed with fruit punch.  I call it a Windham Spritzer.”

Matt:  “Orange.  All day long.”

         (This reporter’s exhaustive research shows that most inmates choose iced tea, orange, or cola.)

2.  What’s your favorite part of working in the kitchen?

Rob:  “5:30 P.M.”

Matt:  “Extra food.  Like, lots.  Oh, and the stimulating conversation.”

3.  What’s your least favorite part?

Rob:  “5:30 A.M.”

Matt:  “The humans.  I mean, really, will it kill you to say thank you?”

4.  What are you guys reading at the moment?

Rob:  “Men’s Health.”

Matt:  “Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse.”

5.  What’s the dumbest thing an inmate can do while in the chow line?

Rob:  “Beg for more food.  I mean… please.”

Matt:  “Pounding on the glass.  I mean… please.”

6.  What kind of music are you listening to lately?

Rob:  “Lady Gaga, of course!”

Matt:  “P-6 and the Windham Philharmonic, baby!  The notorious P-6!  Praise be to the Hand!”

Rob:  “The hand?”

(Read more about P-6’s CD, Three More Julys, in our Holiday 2010 Issue)

7.  Tell us something we don’t know about the kitchen.

Rob:  “The extra ingredient… the special ingredient in everything we serve here is love.”

Matt:  “Huh?”

8.  Okay, what’s the biggest change you’ve noticed working down here in the last year or so?

Rob:  “A healthier diet.  Definitely.”

Matt:  “I’m seeing a better quality inmate, actually.”

9.  Moonlight or sunshine?

Rob:  “Sunshine.  While reading Men’s Health, listening to Lady Gaga and enjoying a Windham Spritzer.”

Matt:  “Come on, man.  Did you really think I was gonna say sunlight?  You know me.”

10. Final question:  what do you guys make of the alleged hauntings in the old tower of the education building?

Rob:  “No comment.  This interview is over.”

Matt:  “Uh… we’re not supposed to talk about that.”

“Thank you, both.”

And those were twenty answers to ten questions.  Thank you.

Read more about it on Rage’s blog: heres-a-little-behind-the-music-of-three-more-julys-for-you

“MCC for me (perhaps for all of us)  has been, productively, much akin to what India was for the Beatles. Being chem free (and free in many ways aside from the obvious sense), we’ve all written tons of tunes in just the last six months, probably at least fifty or so songs altogether. What appears on “Three More Julys” is really just a splash.”

P-6 and the Windham Philharmonics, "Three More Julys"

Note: The CD “Three More Julys” by P-6 & the Windham can be found at http://guitardoors.org

So this is it! this is where we end this abundance of methamphetamine methodical, metaphorical provendidems! my tongue flaps around with the gift of gab as it spits out riddles through my finger tips and into this pen, which they hold, and acts as if it were a scalpel in the hands of a lyrical surgeon… as ink bleeds from the words that are cut into the paper, like it were skin, done so with such lucidity, that if you don’t know what it is you’re looking for, you’ll be lucky to see the swelling around the few words that have become agall from constant picking and scratching at, like verbal scabs. I can dance around in my head with the others who reside there, while looking out these two glossy eyes of mine, that glare at themselves in the liquid reflection down at the bottom of the bottle. So I figure the best way to end my never ending is to tell you this last nothing!: “though they try to say and convince you that we live in the same world as they do, what they don’t understand is that they only exist in our world because we allow them to!! without our blessing, they would become undone back to nothing!!”

With constant rhythmatic voices always playing tricks on my subconscious, not to leave out the cell of what is to be called my room and board for another fourteen months. I sit idle, sometimes, and ask myself questions like: what will I do with myself tomorrow? Is all this really behind me? What did I take and keep with me so far and will continue to do when the time comes for me to go? I’ve participated in multiple programs and classes. But, for me, as one who is very musically inclined, I concur to myself “the 12-Bar Blues Project” was the one thing that sticks to my soul the most.

“The 12-Bar Blues Project” is one that lets the incarcerated inmates, who are really into music of any kind (unlike the name of it, anyways) a chance to show, give and release how they feel emotionally at the present time, or in the past through playing music, whether it’s writing songs, playing guitar or bss in one, or singing one as well. It’s also a blast to hear and learn other people’s styles of playing or ideas. The songs don’t have to be emotional at all, either, but can be comical for a good laugh or right-out-there too.

What did the program mean to me? Well…

The program meant to me, not only an opportunity to see where I stood next to really good musicians, but also, if my music was liked by not just me. Plus the fact that I got to experience the real act of recording a real CD was astonishing, to be part of something positive, some learning and therapeautic on top of FREE was and still is, to me, one of my life’s personally proud moments. For once I was sober and clean, playing my own as well as contributing to other’s music. I can honestly say that didn’t only make me happy, and lose focus on my surroundings, but also my family’s approval and respect. And not just theirs, but the staff at MCC too, noticed the changes I’ve made since I first started my bid. And the full come-around I’ve done.

For me to finally be able to say I wrote a song without being drunk or high, or for that matter to remember what I wrote and how I played it was a huge thing for me. I was homeless for three years on and off, with my family always trying to help me out but I took everything for granted and never saw the whole picture, prior to my incarceration. Since then (2008) I’ve come to understand the true meaning of trust and respect. Also that even the smallest thing out of the ordinary every day, every week, every month redundancy is a gift and not to be taken for granted. This program and the people in it and involved behind the inside of it have my most utmost respect and thanks for allowing me to participate in it and for their guidance and corrective criticism and suggestions.

Thank you all.

Special thanks to Grendal and Rage and to #1 (Lyssarian), also to my imperfections that help make me who I am as I yet continue or to change myself for a better person I know I can be.

– Matt Moscillo, AKA “Irish”
MDOC# 82613

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Political Prisoners

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

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