Sunday, 28 June 2015

*Hurry Up* 06/28/2015


Like the steel of the shank
Rammed into your chest
And all you can think
Heart ceasing

Is the rain that created the rust
In my belly

So very...



Like the only way of pyramids
Of revolutions
In segments and steps
Generations of deaths
Heads we've kissed
We tread upwards onto

Pretty kisses turned broken teeth
Its this fear of being afraid
This " Time Peace "
Seeking okayness in its ticking
At all costs

Knowing your worst enemy is your friend
And being real hurts but only shortly

Tick tick

Fakeness fatal in finality
In length
So, my friend...

Pretty pretty please...


The machines slowly clear the trees
Cedar forest i grew up in
Robin and blue jay chasing

Alcohol slowly stripping the humanity
From the livers of the bloodsharing
Deaths sought and wished for
By all parties involved

So i uninvolve

I'm alone
But there's she
You've heard of it right? Move on...

Seeking things
Sharing of things coinciding

Its all it was
When gains are obtained
Seekings change
Creating obstacles serving purposes...

Blah blah blah

We begin basing thirty year knowledges
Directed towards two day
Month Olds
When we've taken this long to unlearn
What we was taught
We reteach?


Its not today or tomorrow or yesterday
Its all days guiding this day

Its the reasons gave for a fist
Verses the real reason of knuckles
Compared to what witnesses see
Divided by twenty years afterward

And the sun glinting off the scar tissue
Into the eyes
Causing a slight hitch in the breath
A memory
A determination. Quickening

Of Black Boots scaling a White House
*Trippage* 06/28/2015

"Congratulations", he says, the parole officer, "You're the first Green to complete parole successfully." "And early." Three years early."
Nice. I guess. . .
But we forget.
The years i did. Ten in total. In a solitary cell. The voices and body bags and letters unsent. The unspoken of the missing spokes in my wheel which i rotated and balanced each day. Each second. In order to one day rise above. Crawl above.
But now i just want the choice. The decisions to be mine. Should i work or not? 90 hours in order to just pay the process of getting to and from work with brushed teeth and full belly. I'm ordered to work. Its stipulation. But maybe now I'll quit, be a little hungry and have fuzz teeth. But. Have time. Have energy. For myself.
I can leave the state now...
No more surprise, armed visits and piss tests. No more monthly fees in order to keep bullets in the guns hipped and at the ready if i make a sudden move.
Sudden move... Maybe that's it. I can move now. Suddenly. They'll have to knock now before they kick in my door. They'll have to tell me to freeze now before they shoot.
I guess, what I'm trying to say, is Theres Alot lost. Its just not as simple as a completion of a process because i was " corrected" by corrections.
No. Because i wasn't.
Everything i was told to do in prison... I did the opposite. The parole programs upon release... I criticized. I laughed at. Because if i would of embraced their "Gods" and "relapse is a part of recovery" where would i be now?
No God. No relapse. No love for those that showed nothing but hate to me for years. No rehabilitation. But bucking. With strength. With the knowledge that the entire in-justice system is corrupt. That to even have reading material or food and water isn't a guarantee when your suffering in chains in this "land of the free."
That you can be murdered by state employees and be sent home as a suicide. That psychotropics are a tool used to break you, handed out by smiling, supposed "care" givers and medical "professionals."
I've worked. I've bucked you you dirty, crooked bastards. Even though you gave me three extra years for "refusing medications."
I've beat you at your own games in order to show the world you play unfair. In order to make known the hypocrisy of your war on drugs. The racism in your freedom and the lowness in your higher power philosophies.
You're either war recruited to fight for imperialist armies or chained. Chain or be chained.
Police force or policed.
Pork producing, cashier register, toilet scrubbing middle men. On the fence. Waiting. Supporting troops and perpetuating the prison industrial complex with your non-attention. With your captive hate.
Fuck your wars and your soldiers. Fuck your badged, coward, P.D. Swat teams. Power to all prisoners. To Jailhouse Lawyers, those refusing meds and compliance. To sprinklers pulled and shit thrown. Rise up you righteous.
To those warred upon. Luck. Knowledge that your cause is true and right and the contradiction is in your favor more each day.
Fuck your system. Set up to control at all cost in order to keep in power your elite.
But most of all.
Fuck those that still believe in this system. That still seek to raise offspring to assimilate into this shitmill.
Whatever happened to resistance?
To those that stand up for what's right even though they know they'll be knocked down again and again.
The fear of being knocked down. The redness of face in he who trips beside his peers. The terror of stumbling and slipping. Tripping.
But what is life, what is knowledge if not learning to be more sure-footed by stumbling? To learn to be graceful while doing the ungraceful?
Its this, this even-road, this "same-same" flat surface emotion and lifestyle. This ability to just take a pill and never feel good or bad but just O.K.
This perpetual war supported, never to be lost or won, but continued just for the sake, the money, of the business involved in war. . .
*Trippage ||* 06/28/2015
For the citizens that need to feel "better-than": the Christians that need to prove their fake religion is realer than someone elses fake religion.
Prison populations stagnant. Even though many die at the hands of the homicidal state. Because Theres always that son or daughter. That one, being groomed for chains, who feels good and bad intensely.
The enemy?
The ups and downs of life looked down upon. The rights and wrongs in beliefs. Proofs and disproofs. Common sense verses the common goose-step which is us. The U.$. Kkkalifornicated.
Seeing stars in homicidal soldiers. Black and white demons in the koncentration kamp khaki blues.
And damn if he or she becomes upset and slams a door or two. Damn if you can't control.
Damn the bumps in your road, please, as we perfect the art of road removal. See the bumps as fixable. Ignore until its too late.
Says he at the hands of this pristine, maintained, poetic jackhammer.
Its nothing. Swear it.
Just a little pothole. . .

Sunday, 14 June 2015

*This Time* 06/14/2015

Corrosive cornucopia of caring
Sexing constantly

Seeing that this that was always wanted
Causes this weakness

To begin at endings
Knowing its all constant continuation
And nothing stops just changes
Contradictions contradicting repeatedly

Too much not enough
Enough too much
Causing heart hurt from over exertion
Or pains from loneliness
Overgiving or underliving

You should see her though
The way her hips sing songs
Her eyes speak in tongues
About lost tribes sculpturing meaning
Upon this rock of meaninglessness

Skin that hurts in its softness
Anger that heals in its fierceness
Slaps and hugs and claspings
Letting go only to hold on

So much we've been through
And its only been six months
More emotions than six years in a cell
In just six minutes of looking in each others eyes

June 16th. One month shy
Of two years out
Missed one day of work
This whole time
And it was her birthday
My reason. She's become

" I want to go home to Mexico"
Crestfallen. Her children
Her parents she's missing
I'm the tether that holds her she says
But I'm wrist chained
Waist wrapped
Around her sweet existence

Never felt this tear clouded smiling
This sickness of heart that causes butterflies
This lifting and falling of feeling

I'm lost
Tossed upon her waves
Curled up in her hair like feminine finger
Tracing the stubble along jawline

Thinking maybe
Maybe this time
This month this cycle
A baby
Our baby


*Dear Heart* 06/13/2015

Its been six months since i switched jobs from the truck stop to the pig farms. On the day i interviewed i met this international Mexican girl. We've been inseparable ever since. We've got ourselves a place. Been living together two months. But...

Its driving me crazy. The worry. The constant wondering about if this is real. If what we have is reality or just some illusion. Like , have i built myself this castle in the sand that's already washed away and I'm just seeing the mirage of what once was.

Its all in the fact that I've got no life. She says. I mean, not meanly does she say it but its that I've cut off my life ive built, since getting out of prison two years ago, just for her. Left my dad and brother to fend for themselves. Gave up the addition id built onto my fathers house, in order to pay rent on a Trailor house in town. Town. I hate living in town. I hate not having time for myself.

Its like all i gave up for her was all that she saw in me to like. And six months to the day, in two days exactly, its all going to end. I feel it. We're done. Through.

And all i can think is " WHEW" . "That was wild and fun yet trying as all hell and I'm glad its over."

Its time to return to the cedar trees and the solitude. My solitude. My writing. My mind.

I've missed you. . .