Monday, 25 July 2011

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.

Thursday, 14 July 2011

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.

Monday, 13 June 2011

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

Wednesday, 6 April 2011

Alone Strong


I sit doing ten years for a gram of dope
Witnessing Johannes Mehserle get probation for murder.
I sit watching men starve to death
Witnessing guards who can´t even alight a flight of stairs,
Because they´re too fucking fat.
I sit in a country that told me to stay in school
And educate yourself.
In a cell where they won´t give me a book.
I was told in my youth to just say no
To drugs.
And now that I refuse their psychotropics,
They refuse me parole.
They told me to Love Thy Neighbor,
Like you Love Yourself.
And now I watch my countrymen shoot Mexicans,
Swimming the border.
I sit in the Land of the Free,
Rattling my chains
Waiting
I see the hypocrisy and the bitter twisted lies
Do you?
I sit alone
7.4 million strong
Knowing nothing more than to carry on
Nothing more than my country´s wrong
Knowing nothing – nothing´s at all wrong
To you
… 

(Feb.´11)

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)

Monday, 14 March 2011

Bouncing Around (RIP Roger)

 
Bouncing Around (RIP Roger)

Another one of my old friends just killed himself last week and I want to share my views on why this keeps happening here in small town Amerikkka.

Roger Thomas, Steve Ruesch, Kenny Ruesch, Jackie Erwig, Paul Bradshaw, Troy Bradshaw, and “Mick.” My friends who grew up with me up North Creek. Poor whites. The lower class in a state that lacks, literally, any Blacks to sate the white settler lynch mob “criminal” hysteria. (our state is so racist we won´t even allow non-whites to move here). These men lynched themselves in some of the most violent horrible fashions in my home town in front of their families. And I want to explain why, scientifically, this happens.

One hung himself as his girlfriend went to the store to grab some bread. She found him upon return.
One shot himself in the heart with his girlfriend´s pistol. In her bedroom on her bed as his girl went out for a cigarette. She found him.
Another unloaded a .22 caliber pistol into his head in front of his mother. And the other two hanged themselves.
One in the back country with a power extension cord from a pine tree. The other on work release at the Beaver County correctional facility. He used the radio wire from the radio he was installing in sheriff Yardley´s police truck.

I don´t explain in detail to sicken you. I provide detail so it can seem more real to you. And so that you can see what this capitalist/imperialist patriarchal society is doing to its poor. And the lengths these men go to avoid becoming a bogeyman prisoner or pig.

If you still believe these U$ gulags are filled to the brim with law breakers or degenerates you´re blind. These cells hold the poor and unemployed. And my hometown´s graveyard holds those who refuse to be chained or badged; those who have remained politically unconscient, but who knew subconsciously something´s majorly fucked up with imperialist Amerikkkan society. These are the men who turn fascist minutemen, Aryan brother, pig, prisoner or commit a violent suicide. It´s simple, it´s sick, but it´s reality.

And I find in writing my Gran it´s easier to explain. So like “Owls eyes” I´ll copy a piece of the letter in response to the news Roger killed himself. It´s less bitter. Less cynical this way. More Amerikkkan. More tailored to the average reader. The ones the anti-imperialist, anti-patriarchal, anti-militarist struggle needs to wake up. My Dear Reader:

“I know the pain that Steve and Kenny felt. And Roger felt. I believe this pain is centered in patriarchy and the greed-driven capitalist “dog-eat-dog” “devil-take-the-hindmast” need for success. We men are taught to feel shame if we are ´unsuccessful.´ This even ties into the fact that so many women are single mothers. We believe a man´s superior and should be the breadwinner. And the woman is the caretaker and should be sheltered. And when the man can´t provide, it kills him. It ruins him and the relationship, because he feels guilty and unmanly. They separate. She takes the kids because it´s her “job.”
            Then she feels bad, because she´s alone and she thinks it´s her fault. He feels bad because he thinks it´s his fault. She continues on because she must raise her kids. She has that. He bounces around searching for forgiveness in a cruel world. At least cruel to the unsuccessful man who can´t provide. Loser!

This is why Amerikkka has 7.4 million men and women in prison or on parole. This is why so many kill themselves.

In order for the military to expand, in order for these prisons to expand, people like Roger or Mick need to be bouncing around in society. A percentage will pick up the military gun, put on the fascist badge or succumb to the poor man´s chains. (you can just leave the old military draft in the closet if you just take jobs away).

And the reason why some choose neither, and kill themselves, is because the military doesn´t accept ´felons.´ (just like the nazi party didn´t accept Jews. Jews – felons. Same difference). And because most human beings with self-respect and a social conscience see a minuteman, Aryan brother, police officer and prison guard for what their profession is. A fascist parasite.  Á la´ Amerikkkan neo-nazi. And most men can´t surrender themselves to such a low profession. Or one of these bogey bourgeois, middle-class hated modern day koncentration kamps. They´d rather die than be a social outcast or pig. They´d rather die than become the thing that the media propagandizes into hating and feeling superior over.

It goes without saying that the men who ran the old Germany´s concentration kamps were tried for their crimes and executed once the world woke up. And history repeats.

To be poor is a crime nowadays. Classism. To be an unsuccessful man is a crime too. Patriarchy. To join the bloodthirsty military is patriotic and applauded. Chauvinism. But to be in prison for a gram of dope for ten years straight is justice. Fascism!

Hitler did the very same stuff Amerikkka does now. Prisons and the military are the number one growth industries for decades running. Still growing. It´s just instead of Jews we use poor whites or “coloreds.” The ones unable to defend themselves with attorneys.

Amerikkka creates Rogers, Micks, Steves, Kennys, Troys, Pauls, Jackies by design. The prisons need jobless Rogers and Jackies. The prison guard unions need jobless Micks and Pauls. And the military and police force needs jobless Steves, Kennys and Troys. No need for another war or crime. Just take their jobs.

The only problem is, Amerikkka isn´t Germany – one of the weakest nations in the world per 1914-1940. The problem is, no greater nation is strong enough to come in and stop the U$ $$ neo-nazi system.

So just like Germany in its heyday it continues. With the support of the middle class. The same middle class who sat by as millions of Jews were marched off to gas chambers. We look at the past German middle class with awe and disbelief. “How could they not do something.”
Right? It´s because they profited off of not doing anything. Just like Amerikkka profits off of Rogers, Micks, Steves, Kennys, Troys, Pauls Jackies. (in fact, the bourgeois were the $$ and koncentration kamp guards! And all fascism is, is basically unemployed people finding employ in killing off a certain people among them. A la Arizona´s SB1070 law and the crack cocaine/powder cocaine sentencing disparities).

Just like Germany profited off Jews and Jehovah Witnesses.

The poor are expendable says Fuhrer Obama.
The Jews are inferior, says President Hitler.
But try and tell that to our “free” nation. They´ll not give you parole – or drive you to suicide.

In strength (I know you feel me) and struggle,
B.
Feb 13th 2011

Swindle Hearse

Pull the fucking pistol out of your mouth
And pick up a book
Turn off that damn bourgeois television
And take a look.
Shit´s getting hectic, Brother, sure
But a bullet in the brain, Amigo, isn´t the cure.

It´s too late for you, man, but what about your son?
What about his generation who´s been taught to run
To stomp and tantrum and tattle tale
Suck the plastic flea market and dodge bourgeois hell
Imperialist sons medicated for depression
A hybrid oppressor slash enemy nation
I´ll sell you this for a gallon of that
Then starve the world and die of heart attack fat
It isn´t the way it´s meant.

All these senseless suicides ain´t some static event
The reason exists .- the why´s right here
Your casket costs thousands – payment plan three years
Sucking the fucking juice out of life - capitalism
Then profiting off of your death – straight sadism
Rent the church to grieve you in
Buy the hole to bury you in
Pay the – poor -  priest to say some words
Then scribble on some grey marble how much it hurts
Picking the pocket of the family that weeps
Dying´s expensive while living is cheap.
Business in death and death in business
What´s the price, father, the price to miss us?