In Solidarity with the 2018 Prison Strike: Unfinished Poem - Per se

Firstly, I wanna express my apologies to the friends and family who have been worried about me during my recent, let's say, absence. Transparently, it was, I'd say, the ingrained paranoia of two spectra, two worlds, colliding with full-blown "manic tendencies." At least, that's about most of what I've learned since seeking on-going help while currently living still without a formal diagnosis whatsoever. I also learned the differences between the kinds of help that just watch and those which do too but which also listen, but I'll leave it at that for now.

Because now, I more or less know the deal. Like Bush, Junior said: "Fool me once..."

Anyhow, this poem, read by me, is not finished by any means. I am, however, quite finished with it...quite. So what? Right? Exactly. Here it is:

Fret not, the text is below if you couldn't quite make out, you know, words or rhymes or stuff with my accent. Since the poem will forever remain this way, I've included some required reading links (also below) to some of the inspirations behind it. Briefly, it was sparked by an idea I had about writing a poem for the Charleston church shooter (based further on a series of mine) set in a future where he might not be sentenced to death, but something else, entirely.

Whoa! Awesome! But the poem doesn't actually offer what I think is one of those kinds of help that not only watches and listens but also responds, at least, not explicitly and certainly not effectively, here. In summation, it became too much about me and my own experiences with the criminal justice system. Those and the thoughts of the things I'd like to do to a Roof were we ever, by some malcircumstance of unholy proportions, locked in a cell together are dark holes I'm, in no way, eager to revisit, on any plane of existence.

If you find yourself thinking, "Was that an allusion to prison rape?" at any point, I want my Christian, Caribbean grandmothers and all others concerned for my butthole to know it's still safe from homosinfadels. For those concerned with my morals, I apologize for the slur. It's just brazy to me ("crazy" is, after all, also a slur concerning mental health) how certain men, you know, just don't get it until you're shoving a limp dick (most probably, their own) down their throats.

Anyhow, I don't know if my vulgar spiral shows exactly how strongly I feel for criminal justice issues, but I just, candidly, think about them a lot. Sometimes a touch too much. Though, much, honest love to all the good law enforcement officers, first responders, and even TSA agents out there. Nevertheless, if you'd like to do something, specifically about the issue of prison slavery (just one of the "colourfull" kinds of slavery still in existence today! Yay!), there's still a little time until the September 9th conclusion of the 2018 National Prison Strike (link to resources below).

see thangs aint like they used used to be not in my county Not in my state, too busy to hate but gave both the white and black man a baton laced with pain and the power to beat it back from that grey area of the mind where he's reminded of reprimands by, of the house the so-called man who, ironically like a child when all is failed resorted to flailing and regurgitated nonsense about who this hurts most Only partly heard over snaps of contact and signals sizzling in his head Again and again and again and again and didn't you learn last time?Discipline is different though from what you now must face as a citizen of the United States of AMERICA see boy, orange's been the new black since about '75 and I must say you're looking mighty fine in your jumpsuit tonight now take it off And say yes In spite of questions on consent I’ll strike not a target So bedecked You know like who you look? This beautiful blue-eyed boy, Bobby Who back in high school was undoubtedly Destined to be a great attorney led not by smooth snobbiness but instead by A genuine grin of empathy, backed up, even better by classroom prattle softly pressed through the slender gap that proved him happy to hear my musings You see though, some stars fade out early, before we even knew they were burning The darkest traps tend too to turn suburban, taking blonde babies’ faces And scattering them into flecs and splatters of future potential indefinitely deferred like paintstrokes, the shade of sky-high Bobby blue, from the hardwood, two feet up the traphouse closet wall dried brown and burgundy Or like my nigga Smoke, who was, well, just as white as and on paper But had some soot for flavour in his footsteps and Biggie, skipping through the headphone splitter bouncing over speedbreakers, in the backseat of the schoolbus, on a scratched and smudged-up CD on repeat But the kid was a cool hustler who couldn't take the Southern heat So he cashed out cushiness for the c.r.e.a.m and fled down itp With an actual mattress full of stacks and soaked in teenage dreams But had nowhere safe for Runnin’ back during robbin’ season Or like John who tried like seven times to take his life for what I thought was a dumb reason And told him as much Until his luck did the opposite of run dry Or, that's at least how I felt Before I knew he needed help he couldn't get Before I, crying cold and drenched, by the vent on the top bunk of an empty cell in that county with plenty of time to spare for hate Understood it could only escalate The “or worse” on my gut dissected by knuckles was not only for he who'd dare attend my mother's funeral on some shit. It’s also for the runts of feral pigs, like that little light-skinned rookie, the cleanest face in a congregation of complicit sin and angelic authors of fairy tales about the differences between us and them, to whom I hissed “you're next” before the breath was squished out of me with, ground in my back a knee, the unnecessary application of which showed by way of example exactly what I had meant, namely
You're next in line to perpetuate the very same feeling of self-hate that brought you're mixed-up ass here in the first place to figure out where you fit in and maybe do some good, just with a bad aftertaste and which caused his quiet lips to fall agape As I was lifted limply back awake What if I had died before Sandra Bland, or before Eric Garner, or after Scout, no, I can't Counterfactuals are useful for figuring out forward thinking not looking back wondering Could now have been better? Right now as I dream in tender daylight? Reminiscing on the last “freedom” afforded to me as it is to you now In a free country Like how I tried to grow cold, alone, in a shallow sea of pee You may leave through them pearly gates But lord knows I’ll try to protect my property, For as long as it's under my care, if only temporarily My, does He know how life on Earth has changed Different rhythms allegorize experiences Deemed non-consensual domestic combat between two black males As low priority on securely, otherwise, civil days Until they hear back bout something shouted in the street Of something crack and head this or that To find a mother with her back kicked in twain A son splayed out in front of her with a hole through his brain And bled dead from his nutsack, eyes, and his throat On a stack of crumbling papers kept for a laugh’s repose In the kitchen corner by the china cabinet A man with no more except implements and whodunits No drugs, just a burned out roach on the porch You want a hit of this shit though? I heard your uncle used to grow Did he ever get caught? Nah? I didn’t think so. Does he still have that meager plot Out there near Lake Lanier? Here. Did you know Foucault’s metaphoric panopticon, had last breaths bricked in by Bentham long before Primitive pocket machines optimized self-imposed despotic harm? I mean, Ankle-bracelets did have their charm, better than geographical facelifts from necks pressed in by chain-link eyelets, tongues bulging blacker than cigars, and lids swole tight like an emoticon’s So I’d honestly say instantaneous transdermally induced sedation Administered unconsciously by me (plus my court-assigned nonlethal sidearm if you wanna see)
Is far from perfect justice but is so less barbarous than, well, slavery Or segregation, or native slaughter, numerous conspicuous internments, the outrageous fact of sexual violence, bombing starving children, self-deportation, voter suppression and manipulation, dying in debt to first-world corporations. Because, if this nation is to survive we must yet recognize both beast and babe in all of our kind. And the beast must be broken. Leave the collar alone, it's fine Alls I want is for organs to meet bones Though I must say, lucky for you I’m a kind master And you are not a slave, per se