Memorial Day

4/15/2012

Put yourself in my shoes for a minute. What are you going to do? You’ve lost your mind. Twelve years ago today you had a psychotic break at your hometown’s rodeo ground carnival. You blacked out after cheering on your stepbrother/cousin, who was driving an old Cadillac in the Demolition Derby, and started picking fights with people, spilling drinks over people’s heads and riding on carnival rides made for toddlers. When you snapped out of the blackout, brought on by methamphetamine “come-down”, alcohol, lord tabs and weed, two police officers grabbed you under each arm and dragged you to a police cruiser. You went willingly until you blacked out again. You woke up again in a headlock with the passenger side cop holding your legs. You were thrashing, spitting, kicking. Something popped in your neck and under your foot. Again you black out. You wake up in a holding cell, nose broken with no shirt on. Blood all over the place. That was twelve years ago. In 2001. 

You ran away from home after that, to California. To just change the spelling of your name from Brandon to Brendon allowed you to get a drivers’ license and avoid any criminal record to show when cops ran your name. Two abortions, several suicide attempts later, you pull into your Hometown in a stolen Sprint Truck. You’ve reached your limit. It was time to grow up, you thought, and quit running. You were arrested and sent to prison for the stolen truck. 115 Lbs, sick and coming off a two year crack addiction, you had to fight to stay unmolested and alive. The prison sends you to solitary confinement for fighting. This is 2003. You do eleven months and they let you go home.  

While in solitary you developed these fears, this hate, this “animal-like” emotion. You learned about needles from a neighbor and psychotropic medications from another neighbor. You start to shoot cocaine and methamphetamine at home. Your mom starts you on medication.  You drive 400 miles, up and back, to Las Vegas every two days to keep your dope supply up and the money supply up by selling. One night after shooting up a gram of cocaine you and your girlfriend decide to sit in a hot-tub for a couple hours. Your brain starts buzzing, your body goes numb, you can’t talk or walk. She takes you home and spoon-feeds you creamed corn for two weeks until you can stand up. 

You start bouncing her checks. Running off with her car for days so she has to walk to and from work. She’s mad. But you can’t stop. He has every right to be mad. You still can’t stop. She turns you in and you are picked up by a public park with several grams of methamphetamine. Back to prison. Back to solitary. This time for 18 months. You parole to a halfway house and tell them to send you back the very day you get there. They do. You couldn’t take the stress after all that solitary. They send you home two months later. This time you make it for three weeks. On the third trip to Vegas you bounce a friend’s check for $600.00. And your mom is mad at you.  She turns you in and the police set up a roadblock between home and Vegas. You pull over, get handcuffed and placed in cruiser. You don’t want to come back to solitary so you slip your handcuffs under your legs and reach up and grab the officer’s shotgun. You see, the partition between the front seats and back seats was open. The cops see the shocks move on the cruiser. They rush you. You didn’t have time. You spit. You kick. They hogtie you. 

At the county jail you pull sprinklers and throw shit. They tazer you. You flood cells. They force medicate you for a whole month on full strip cell after you attempt to hang yourself and cut out the vein on the inside of your elbow.  See “my idol.” They start you on medication again. Back to prison. Back to solitary. This is 2006.

They send you to Olympus – the crazy prison. You make the mistake of lying on the psychological tests so you can get more medication. You begin to lift weights instead of taking medications. You feel better. They say you’re not crazy enough for Olympus so they send you to general population. There you complete High School, G.E.D., substance abuse classes, computer literacy, financial literacy, anger management, thinking for a change, and you held down a food server job for two years. From 115 Lbs you are now 220 Lbs. 

You graduated school from scratch. All 24 High School credits, in under a year. The prison takes everybody’s jobs and closes the gym at the same time you graduate. You’re fucked. You can’t lift weights. You start with the needles. With the heroin. Your arm swells up the size of your leg from an infection and you contract Hepatitis-C. Another stroke. Your back’s blown out from too big a stomach and too many squats in the weight room. Your arms’ veins collapse. Your heart and brain hurt because of the infection and the loss of vein. You decide to jump the fence. Either they’ll shoot you or you can escape. Dumb idea. Back to solitary.
... 

I am told to feel regret and remorse because I haven’t assimilated into mankind’s most parasitic, hypocritical, chauvinistic, “racist”, mind-washed society ever on the face of this earth. They label us behind these walls mentally ill criminals as those that consume enough to become obese; who pay taxes happily to bomb the 80%; who plastic surgery, medicate and vegetate in front of Fox-13 believing the lies; upstanding law-abiding godly citizens a.k.a. the true criminals. 

All we did to get here in prison is steal someone’s TV and spit in a pig’s eye. Let’s see you pledge allegiance to the stars and stripes, citizen consumer, because those that do so are the terrorists. The true terrorists. Amen. Can I get a Hallelujah?

Now. What are we going to do? Now? Now that we understand that those calling us crazy are the ones truly crazy? I hold my psychotic breaks on my chest like medals of honor. The hell with society being afraid of me. It is I afraid of you. You with your X-box, I-phone, Kindle, GPS, Sirius radio, Plasma TV Hi-Fi, Hi-Def, Anti-depressants, Viagra, Botox, Jenny Craig, Televangelism, 1-800-Call-Pork, Amerikkan Idol, Big Brother, Corporate-C.E.O.-worshipping, Big Bank Window Brick Thrower by Night but Bank Teller by Day…

Occupy Wall Street why don’t you Occupy The Militarized Border with Mexico? Why don’t OWS-ers Occupy Iran or Syria before Uncle Sam pulls an Iraq/Palestine on them? Why? We all know what would happen if prisoners occupied our prison yards or block sections. Attica. We all know what happens to Palestinians who occupy their own land or First Nations (Native Americans) who occupy their own motherland. Intifada and Wounded Knee. 

Wall Street doesn’t mind if you occupy it. But let’s see you occupy the front lines. Between these modern day Koncentration Kamp razor wire fences or on the border of Iran. The front lines. Not in the pigs’ play pen. They don’t care if you’re in a pack in Amerikka in a fucking tent. Let’s see a vigil over every single one of the 15 million childrens’ graves who starved to death in 2011. And 2010, and 2009… Let’s see OWS on the wire fences with your signs. Camp out along prison razor wire. I dare you!

The struggles where the AR-15’s, AK-47’s, unmanned military drones, INS, ICE, marine snipers, any shock and awe’s ready to pop off.

Rise the fuck up where it counts or pick up a book and learn where it counts.

These are the words of a solitary madman who has learned the hard way to refuse direct orders. To say no when yes is mainstream is considered crazy. Crazy today is revolutionary. Amerikka orders you to pay taxes. Amerikka orders you to consume. Amerikka orders you to get married, fill up the gas tank, buy cigarettes and join the bloodthirsty military. The U$ orders you to vote, eat fast food, drink Pepsi and Coke, buy Tide with bleach and Colgate with mouthwash beads. The United Snakes orders you to hate prisoners, “Illegal Aliens,” Muslims, Islamists, Iranians, Homeless, Blacks, “Minorities,” ”Special Interests,” Women, Jobless, Socialists, Anarchists, Communists, Revolutions.

Amerikka orders you to love the stars and stripes and only the stars and stripes. What are you going to do?

Occupy Fox-13 offices, studio’s, and dissemination stations. ABC4, NBC, CBS, The New York Times, Hollywood. Know your enemy. What did Zucotti Park i.e. Liberty Park  ever do to mind-wash or murder? Shut down the mainstream radio / tv / newspapers and broadcast your voices or static. Some “Rage Against the Machine.” Occupy your fucking minds for once. What are you going to do?

It makes me fucking sick to see people protesting against Wall Street, or prison administrations, during the day, but curling up in front of its propaganda television or swallowing its mind control psychotropic poisons at night. Such a motherfucking disconnect so blatant “in-your-face” you can’t even see it. What are you going to do?

This life is my life and most will say I’ve thrown it away and am throwing it away. My future is bleak, to say the least. That is, if you gauge it by the status quo. Big house with mortgage paid. New car. Beautiful wife. Kids in the military. Crisp, clean flag flapping on a pristine, sprinkled lawn. Crab grass and dandelions kept in check with ‘round-up’. Pecker kept stiff from a pill bottle. Mind kept numb with sitcoms and cigarettes. Isn’t this the Amerikkan Dream? Isn’t this why everyone rat races, pays taxes and votes for the richest man? What are we going to do? 

Say no. Stop. Back the fuck out and have a psychotic break with me. I dare you!

You sit reading these words in your prison cell, either in prison or a vacuumed, tide-with-bleach- smelling apartment, and you think: “There’s no stopping it. I’m addicted to these pills, to this TV, to this feeling of being better than the world ‘cause I’m an Amerikkan.  Or this feeling that I’m better than the crip or the blood or the “terrorists.” There’s no stopping it.”

You close your eyes at night and before you is a graveyard. 15 million graves stretch to the horizon. The grass is crisply, smart green and the headstones are placed perfectly in line up and down the hillside. As you lean down to read the inscription, to lay down the rose you have clenched in your fist, a loud voice booms behind you ordering you to stand. Ordering you to take the sledgehammer out of his offering hands and smash the inscriptions one by one.

“These aren’t Amerikkan children,” he screams at you, spittle hitting your nose and neck, “These children were terrorists. They wore blue if your’re down with red.  They were south if you bang north.” The loud screaming man’s eye twitches and you notice sweat stains under his armpits. Behind him stands Goldman Sachs, Wells Fargo, CitiBank, Fox 13 News, The New York Times, Homeowners with Sons and Daughters in the Military cowering. Waiting. Hoping you obey. 

“You are crazy. Give me that rose you worthless criminal and pledge alliance. Now!” What are you going to do? “Now!!!” 

In strength [it’s on you, we are waiting…] Love and Struggle,

B.

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

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)

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)

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?

Owls eyes

Comrades. D.H. Lawrence wrote once that a sign of insanity in a man isn´t all the crazy shit that he knows. But all the normal stuff he doesn´t know makes him insane. The stuff he misses. Like, the stuff everyone else sees but he himself misses – makes him insane.

I´ve been told lately that I´m awful bitter and cynical. Or I come across that way in my essays. A person can deny it only so many times, and from so many people, before he, if he´s smart, hears some grains of truth in the words.

So, I´ll get personal here for a second. Even though you guys probably don´t want to hear me pooh poohing, I´ll share some words I wrote to my grandma. The context is how I´ve done ten years thus far for non-violent drug charges. And I got four or five more years to go before parole because Utah considers me a “threat to the community.”

            Keep in mind, here in Backwards Reactionary Utah, not paying your tithing is a capital offense. So they frown on stoned atheists threatening their bourgeois polygamist community´s mellow degeneracy.

Pardon the bitter cynicism. Couldn´t help it.

I remember as a boy my Navajo Indian friend ´Mickey´ told me that owls are a sign of death in the family. If you see or hear an owl it´s bad luck. After grandmother Norma died of cancer I shot this owl with my 22 caliber rifle. I shot it several times before it fell to the ground out of the cottonwood tree it was porched in. I was out behind grandma´s house beside the main ´North Creek´ river.

I came upon this owl, still alive, looking at me with its big yellow and black eyes. I felt so bad. I was angry shooting it, thinking I was “getting-even” with it for making my Grandma Norma die. That´s what I felt – at first. But then I came upon it laying on the creek-bed. Looking at me like: “Why, what did I do to you?” I felt real bad. But it was dying. And I had to finish it off. So I did.

But I´ll never forget that owl´s eyes, Gran, asking: “Why, why?”

I don´t know if I´m maybe insane – but when I look into the mirror into my own eyes – my eyes question just the same way as that owl´s “why, what did I do?”

I didn´t do nothing. Neither of us did. Me. The owl. It´s just sometimes people (and systems) get angry and confused and react without thinking. They believe they are helping or “getting even,” shooting people out of their life´s trees because of some silly “belief.”

The belief that I´m a “sinner” or “criminal” and a threat to them. To something? To what? I can´t barely… - There´s nothing even left in me to hurt with. I´m just ´me´ now. A person. Alone. I´m like a ten year old!!

I´m just an owl in a tree getting shot at by some confused angry boy/system. I didn´t kill their grandma. I´m not bad luck.

But damned if I´m going to end up in the creek bed! Damned if! I got stuff to do, one day I hopefully…

So I´ll flutter from tree to tree, day to day, dodging the 22 bullets. And cross my feathers / fingers…”

2.4 million of us / 7.4 million if you count parolees and probationers – flutter from tree to tree dodging society´s hate of us. So yes, I am bitter and cynical. But it´s because I can be. Thus far I don´t have to worry about censors. Or if what I write will mess up my death row appeals. I´m not in the creek-bed. I ´may´ go home one day.

But I´m damned aware of all these that won´t.

I´m sickly aware of my nation rounding up thousands of Mexicans and “detaining” them. Deporting them. Gunning them down like dogs. All in an effort to protect their jobs. (Jobs they´re losing because of capitalism´s unstable nature, not a brown people´s hated persevering human nature).

I´m intelligent enough to make the mental leap that if my fellow countrymen act this way towards innocent outsiders, not a fucking thing´s stopping them acting that way toward hated native-born felons.

I know I´m not here to be corrected. I understand the percentages – 79% recidivism rate, 6 out of 7 junkies return to the junk – if there´s not room for a handful of Mexicans in our society where do we 7.4 million Amerikkkans go? How long until you just throw on the old grand dragon sheets and start picking off parolees like you do Mexicans? Like you do Palestinians and Afghans?

Put yourself in our shoes for a minute. It is one of the world´s greatest “mind-fucks= which we sit in the very center of. The majority of Amerikkkans are so mind-washed sitting in front of their television believing all the bourgeois bullshit propaganda that they don´t realize (or they actually do and applaud it) it´s their very own taxes, their own 22 rifles, picking us off. – my countrymen.

D.H. Lawrence. His definition of insanity perfectly, almost frighteningly, explains the U$ of A. to a tee.

The world looks on, as uncle $am slobbers on himself, rocking back and forth in the gutter. The man has lost it, grabbing and snatching everything in sight. And twisting it. Shoving it. “Correcting” and “rehabilitating” it. Sanctioning and globalizing it. Bending it into something whiter; something cheaper; something less bitter; less cynical.

“Who” does he think he is?

“Why” doesn´t someone stop him? --------

I just wish I was still a boy up North Creek. And I´d of paid that damn Mormon tithing on time. --------

In strength (“who who” – “why why”) and struggle,

B.

27^th of January 2011

Damn me?!

There’s this confusing aspect I’ve never quite been able to understand about Christian morality. You see, I’ve sat alone for three years in a solitary supermax control unit sensory deprivation dungeon. Where every emotion is sharpened a hundred fold but every avenue to share or express this feeling is cruelly taken away. Except mail. And my pen.

So it irks into me to receive these fancy guilded colourful Christmas cards from total strangers where they´ll tell me they love me but damn me to the depths of hell in the same breath. Because I´m a sinner, my soul is in limbo and it´s time for me to repent and prostrate myself to the all-mighty glorious One. Or burn!

But I love you, brother, take care. Is this what a motherf#$ker needs? Maybe if you all got together out there and started chanting and holding hands, these walls that hold amerikka´s 2.4 million political prisoners would crumble and we could join you for a psalm.

Well?

Were waiting…

Of course, maybe because we are top notch “sinners” in your books, the last thing you want is for us to be released. Does that thought frighten you? Is it a whole hell of a lot easier to pray for someone´s soul than it is to minister to their torturous mind f%$cked life? Because, in reality, Christians and “criminals” are both mind-washed masses. I´d be surprised if one could exist without the other. The former needs the latter to lord over and condemn. And preach to from afar. (the further, the better, no?) And what would a “criminal” do without the piles and piles of guilt, shame, sense of inferiority and hurt his brother christian bestows? In shiny Christmas cards.

The time has come to turn the tables. Your religion and these U$ koncentration kamps; your steeples and the judges´ pulpit; the church and the court house are one and the same. Tools of oppression. Both are filled with bigotry, racism and egotism. The priest and the judge. The gangster, the killer and the dope dealer. Who are the real sinners here? Who´s the bad guy? The true gang?

I heard once that to interact with true insanity in a person one has to be aware of the fact that craziness likes to jump ship. Meaning: a crazy person has the ability to make you feel like you´re the one that´s nuts. And I´d say the same applies to unjust systems I power. They have a way of mind-washing you into a nazi or a “crazed-fascist-mexican-border-minuteman.”

So father-elder-sister-brother our struggle is a fight to survive. Day to day. Minute to minute as human beings. Your creed and country are killing us as you pass around the collection plate and mail “form-letters” to us to ease your consciences. Our struggle attempts to raise our fellows´ ´self-esteem´ and heal -  not ´guilt-trip´ and destroy as your church does. The living, right here and now, interests us. Not some idealist bourgeois bullshit afterlife and prostrate and ask for mercy. And not from the all-mighty or some winged man. But from your fellow man you´ll kneel in supplication. And I´m going to ´go-there´, I must.

Why are we the ones hated? The prisoners. Who sit and study and starve to death. And why are they the ones supported? The soldiers. The ones who drop bombs on innocent people for a paycheck. Maybe because all we do is keep beds full and a handful of your employed, we´re inferior? At least compared to those that keep your gas tanks full and new amerikkan colonies occupied we are. No?

But I disgress.

Brother Christian, I´ll wish you a merry christmas also. And I send my love. But please note I´m not parting with some ´beefed-up-scare-tactic- ultimatum´ that might leave you in tears tonight, fingering your pistol. I understand that your kind, who keep medical science in a moral chokehold and evolution out of the elementary schools, are escapist and weak. I know a person who´s a citizen of earth´s most ´murderous-racist-atomic-imperialist-hypocritic´ nation feels a need to bury the old. Head in the sand. I feel you. I used to hide beneath the needle myself.

I just ask you keep your demons to yourself. Please. Never once did I try to push my dope on you. So give me the same respect.

And as you stand bent over with your head in a stale hole, know the rest of us have woken up and changed the cd. That bass beat you hear as you lose consciousness from lack of oxygen isn´t the ´Stars and stripes.´

We´re rocking the anthem of international socialism round these parts. The Internationale.

Let no one build walls to divide us,

Walls of hatred nor walls of stone.

Come greet the dawn and stand beside us,

We´ll live together or we´ll die alone.

In our world poisoned by exploitation,

Those who have taken, now they must give!

And end the Vanity of nations…

We want no condescending saviors

To rule us from their judgement hall…

And comrad Christian… comrade!!!

In strength (nighty night) and struggle

B.

@Comrade Christian@

(Blue Light Special)

Show me where it hurts

And I´ll stick a knife in it

Tell me all about it

But – you know – I´ve only got a minute

My flock sits perspiring

Fat, useless but pretty

Dressed to the nines

With pockets full of $10s and $20s.

I walkabout like a loudmouth cock

Strutting and condemning

My paycheck is paid on guilt

My new suit from J.C:Penny´s

A half off sale on common sense

Scare tactics and twisted history

Buy two get one free

Trading evolution for hypocrisy

Sell your soul to the denomination

Hurry before it´s too late!

Cast them muslims into damnation

We preach love not hate (right??!)

Fundamentalist islam, fundamentalist christian

Fundamentalist amerikkan in support of

A fundamentally racist system

I send strength to all Georgia comrades

And the other fifty states

I send strength to all comrades worldwide

Let´s do this damn thing mates!