Sunday, 3 April 2011

Gone fishing

It´s not me who stinks – it´s this place.
Not me who´s crying – it´s my face.
I sleep here but I don´t live here
Even though I don´t ever leave – I don´t stay here.

I watched one of my friends be buried February second
My Mama´s cousin died – and I delivered her a Valentine´s present
I held the hand of my Baby nephew Gage
As we caught fish in the North Creek river
By hand.
We picked “picture rocks” out of the gritty fish smelling sand.

My father paroles any time soon.
Our tent and fishing poles are just waiting
You wanna come – there´s room

I visited my brother Jesse in the Beaver County Jail
Him and I still can´t get along – oh well
But when I left I still miss him
I´ll still hug him the next time I see him.

My baby sister has got two babies
Gavin´s three months and I swear he´s crazy
He spits and kicks and giggles too much
He ruined my work shirt and poked in my lunch.

Everyone thinks of me as gone – not returning.
My captors think I´ve lost it – afraid to serve me
My fellows are mad without their medication
Trying to prove themselves in every situation
Games and fronts and insecure rantings
Solitary supermax – but in reality I´m camping
Firewood, campfire smoke – my family laughing
Woodchucks, pheasants - my family still laughing
(you see?)

(February 2011)