Doggy Paddle

Doggy Paddle

Will you be with me forever

Let me pour your lips sips of wine

And light your joints of only the best

Kind

Would you accept me barefoot beside

Smile out of breath at night

I want you there when I die

Like

I need to be near when you cry

Share our headstone

Humbly

Carved out of sandstone

Grow old with me unknowingly

Baby

If you were a mermaid

I’d cut off my legs

A vampire

I’d let you feed on me

And hold you tightly entombed

Every day

Until eternity

If I lost my mind I’d discover it

For you

I would

If you lost your mind I’d lose it

With you

I would

Give me all your pain

I’ll turn it into that beautiful smell

Of dust

On a summer afternoon rain

I want you to hate me when you need to

I need you to want me when you hate to

Indian style in the desert naked

Talking

Laughing

Smiling

Doggypaddle in a mountain lake

Naked

Shivering

Pine gum in our hair – laughing

The thing is, Girl, we live in a world

Gone crazy

Do you see this?

A world of airwaves, oil and aluminum

All cancer causing

All part of the problem

And I’ve done too many situps

Do too many pushups

In the past

I did way too many drugs

To make it here

But I’ve made it

And I’ll make it

Nights alone beside

Your nights

Just for a chance to share a night unalone

Isn’t that what life’s about

Spending the nights

Unalone

What else is there , Beautiful

The thing is, Girl. I’m crazy

Can you feel this

Become accustomed

To this

Forgot how to miss

The thing is – I love you

But the water’s deep

And I’m drowning

Without you

Four Walls

Four Walls

Al this I’ve said

Where would it go to

Without you to say it to

Where does all that

I never find someone to say it to

Go to

Without you

I’d be lost without you

All these lives here spent

With no one to go to

To just know you

Knowing you

Gives my thoughts somewhere to go to

Someone to say I Love You to

Too

I’m lost without you

And I don’t even know you

Knowing you without ever

Meeting you

Wanting you without ever once

Having you

Missing you though I’ve just written

To you

To think of you

During everything I do

Makes my days sweeter

Just knowing you

All these things I’ve said

Where would they go to

Without you

1-16-2011

Strategic confidence

Forty years ago today Attica rose up

Since then 600 million children starved to death

Pelican Bay Comrades we’ve had enough

A Revolution sparked by refusing pig lunch

Cover this one up, oppressor

We’ve had enough.

Supermax solitary chokeholding Attica’s sons

Gray-faced and pale captives dying alone

Bricks and steel sucking the life out of everyone

Clench-fisted against imperialism we die as one.

Bring in your army and mow us down

Manufacture a cover-up you plutocrat clowns

Each one of our body bags more heavy

And sacred

Than a billion of your fascist small towns

Red flags draped over true soldiers’ coffins

Reminiscent of those buried beneath Kremlin Gates

Red dawns rising like earth under stampeding buffalo

Another empire crushed poetically-

Like the Greek Goddess of fates.

Forty years today Attica rose up

And for the first time ever  today

One captive voice echoed the world over

As one

One Lung

We’ve had enough

9/14/2011

9/26/2011: PBSP hunger strike commences

My idol

It’s mid-December. You wake up curled tightly in a ball. On your left side in the fetal position. Both hands tucked tightly between your knees. Someone’s banging on your door. You open your eyes. You’re naked. Laying on cold cement.

“Get on your knees. Go to the back of your cell and kneel down. Interlock your fingers and place your hands on your head. That’s a direct order.” A voice screams at you. 

It’s breakfast. In order  for you to receive Your Rotten Bologni you must comply. You attempt to comply. To uncurl yourself from your fetal position. You can’t. Your neck is jacked to the left, stuck in a muscle cramp. You cry out. Spittle runs in a gluey string from your mouth. Down your cheek. Into your hair on the cement. “Ahhh.”

“Pussy. Lay there like the dog you are. Bet you’re hungry. What is it, a week since you ate? Good. I hope you die. You bastard…” The voice laughs. Closes the cuffport. Locks the window-flap. Walks off.

A tear runs down your cheek. Into your spittle. Into your hair. You still can’t move. For the past two weeks, twice a day, officers and medical technicians have shot you up with Thorazine and Haldol. You beg them to please don’t. You don’t want it. Please. No.

The door opens. Several officers and a nurse enter your cell. They are talking about the TV-show “Survivor.” A foot nudges your side.  The needle enters your buttocks. Empties. They stand around talking about “Survivor,” looking at you.  One guard kicks you. Laughs. They depart now talking about “American Idol.”

The drug slowly starts to take effect. You unfurl. One leg stretches toward the ceiling. The moaning starts. From deep in the pit of your stomach long, peeling, unearthly animal moans. You can’t stop. Your leg won’t go down. It cramps into a “Charlie horse.” Sweat breaks out on your face. Another day. Solitary Supermax.

At about noon the guards find you with your face in the toilet drinking dirty water. You see, you are unable to stand and reach the sink. Though; the water is shut off even if you could reach the faucet. It took you all morning just to drag yourself over to the toilet. If you don’t drink, you’ll die. 

“Get on your knees. Go to the back of your cell and kneel down…” Laughing. Shutting. Walking away.

You have about four hours to drag yourself to the back of your cell and attempt to kneel. Rotten Bologni sounds damn good right about now. As you crawl, slither, cramp and moan your way, you wonder:

“How will I be able to even chew. My jaw is cramped open and won’t shut.”

“The last captive to use this toilet had Hepatitis. Damn!”

”I hope Keri Underwood wins American Idol. She’s one of the finest. ..”

In strength (the beat goes on) and struggle,

B.

I am Bradley Manning!

Brandon sent us this kite to make a collage (see in the side bar) with his photo of the Utah DOC in support of pcf Bradley Manning.

One Day

One of these days we will rise above this place
Even if we have to crawl there
Even with these ink stains on our face.

One of these days these pills will be taken away
These pains and depressions
Cured in a single strenuous exercise session.

One of these days these walls will return to dust
Mankind will live under a mellow maybe
Instead of this boot-clicking must.

A “sinners” psychosis replaced
With a beginner's
Misunderstanding

Those elbows and eye-gouging rat races replaced
With a homegrown tomato
Picked and eaten with family

One of these days all these chains and handcuffs
Melted into hand shovels, hoes or rakes

One of these days we will die
Our tears and skin will disappear

One of these days I willl forget missing you
I'll forget you're not here

One of these days
One day
One day
One day we will learn
One day
...
------------------------------------------
5-18-2011

Ten-Hut!

One of us is 54 and talks to jehovah. Literally. He has scurvy and crawls around his cell on his hands because his legs have atrophied.

One of us is 74 and was a part of a famous prison riot back in the day. Attica. He hasn't had a haircut or a shave for ten years. And this man tells me never once was he given a book. A whole decade. Sometimes we hear him moaning and falling and throwing stuff around his cell. He says he gets mad because his body cramps up. And he has to lay there. Cramped.

One of us is deaf. We hear him singing. It's not pleasing. Officers choose no to feed this man his vegetarian meals occasionally because they like to watch him fight the S.W.A.T. Team.

One of us is legally retarded and on several psychotropic medications. He has been cut down from nooses over a dozen times in the past five years. Again literally. This man, or boy, needs to be “talked to” all day by one of us or he becomes depressed. We take turns babysitting.

One of us is a confidential informer with a speech impediment. He's secured his early release by snitching on people with 'brew' and tattoo needles. All day long one can hear him pacing his cell barefoot. Pat pat pat. Thump thump thump. Sometimes he yells. Sometimes he cries. Pat thump thump.

One of us just tattood a swastica on his left cheek with a single pin and brown ink. The other cheek has two lightning bolts that signify the nazi SS. This man's an ex-marine and he stutters. He's working on “white power” above his eye brows. Better hurry though.
The snitch has stopped pacing.

One of us is here for killing his four year old daughter. He swears he didn't do it. His ex-wife did. Yet she doesn't write him... soon this man will be a solid aryan brother. Like the stutterer. It's funny. They both are ex-marines.

One of us used to be 370 lbs. He sniffs anti-depressants (wellbutrin) all day to keep the weight off. Though he says the skin still hangs. Sniff. Sniff.

One of us was born with half a brain. And the other half was injured i na motorcycle accident. The snitch and the swastica guy spend all day belittling him. And taking his towels and pictures and envelopes. sometimes he pulls his sprinkler in his cell when they talk him into doing it.

One of us has small strokes occasionally and can't speak for hours. When he tries to talk, it's nonsense. Words backwards. He says, when able, his back and knees hurt. Soon, he'll be crawling.

Most of us believe we are “sinners” and deserve all this. Most of us just can't wait until the medical people bring pills. It's when they when they wake up and go to sleep. A sort of poison alarm clock. Most of us get out and come right back. And the really sick part? Most of us think we are cool. God Bless Amerikka.

In strength (sniff sniff tap tap) and struggle,
B.
 5-18-2011