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Do you remember this poem? I’m sure that I let you read it. Been in my head for years. Actually wrote it in a rehab, the hope house, in Bangor. Fall of ’93 before I was sentenced to the whole ball of shit that I ended up doing. 3-prison beds and 3-probation sentences. I was supposed to do 2-yrs. And a 2-yr. Probation stint. All of the other shit was suspended. So, I ended up doing 2-yrs., 2-yrs. Probation, 2.5-yrs, 2.5-yrs. Probation, 3-yrs, and 3-yrs. Probation, long fuckin’ story too…

 

How would this be to post on an ad? It might let someone know that I’m not uptight and take life way too seriously or anything. I don’t have any money for a picture right now, but I’ve still got to get a couple, so at some point I’ll send you one.

 

If I don’t figure out everything soon for when I get out, I may be needing to put my own ad on craigs-list and start pimping myself out. I’ve been sitting in this shit-hole for almost 5-months now and haven’t really been to concerned with my future.

 

The fat-bitch in charge is thinking about throwing me out of the program right now. The two guys I came home with from the dorms just tested for level-3 on Thursday. I should have too. She even let 3-other guys test that came in after me. Then on Tuesday 2 or 3-more guys tested. The word is she’s not going to let me unless I start doing little punk games ratting people out for a bunch of stupid little shit. I hate the way this “Program” is run. It’s retarded as hell.

 

You wouldn’t believe how hard it is for me to write anything good of my in here. And how much of a kick in the balls that is to me too. All of this down – time I would have thought I’d be cranking out stories left and right. Building up my collection. Working with Susan to get my shit together and make use of her publisher as a sounding-board. Having to pack my head with all of this crap makes no sense to me. I’ve learned everything that this fuckin’ cult has to offer. The rest is repetitious torture. Like another 100-120-days of beating a critter which has been long since dead and forgotten…

 

Wishing Well

If life were as we wished

no troubles to detain

just sunny skies and money trees

with a hint of rain

just beautiful girls with their tans

and none of hungers pain

life would be too easy then

for you and me and mortal men

and if we could go back you see

back again to reality

we’d all be confused as hell

and toss more coins…

…to the wishing well

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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

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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.

Only your vigilance on the outside can guarrentee that justice goes on on the inside.

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