AN INTRO: I have reached the point where I don't enjoy anything anymore. Perhaps I am sick. Mother tell me I'm finished. I am tired. Life is a pointless memory. I have gathered what I am going to gather, I have thrown away all that I care for. Pain is logic, truth is unforgiving. I have no effort for the tranquil beach at sunset, nor any love or lust worth pursuing. Perseverance is a double edged sword. What the two points are, I do not care to describe. I do admire the carefree freedom possessed by ordinary school children. I do not long for beauty anymore. I have a difficult time getting out of bed. I've been reading a lot of Camus.
I would not like to speak to anybody about my problems. Taking my necessary medication does not phase me anymore. Let's talk about desire.
1) Desire: Take my sharp sordid pain anyway, oh strange device.
2) Lust: Imagery is cunning and miserable in it's unfolding process.
3) Passion: Same as lust during depression.
DREAD: No want, need, or longing for any future event that will possibly transpire. I walk my days in a mystery blanketed in nothingness. The unwinding streets and ordinary passageways lead me onto the next point I will attempt to make.
MEMORY: Turmoil in recalling things too abstractly, torturous to individuals such as myself. Moments in time suspended, happier times, vivid daylight, everything I can never recapture is better than now.
TO DANCE: God I would love to dance.
REALITY: I spend alot of time on mattresses.
TRUTH: PAIN
PAIN: LOGIC
DEATH: the only reality worth pursuing, the only truth that is not kept secret.
SECRETS: keep you sick.
SICKNESS: encourages growth
ENCOURAGEMENT: I would like to say don't waste your time, though honestly I might need some of that.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Thoughts, and Feel this
What was I thinking, sitting at home drinking. The whiskey and bourbon rose straight to my infuriated temples. I got a tattoo that branded for me life, it says I am one of them, another self made subordinate to the inescapable system. My frail wrists ache and bleed with the weather. The dull edge to a cunning cryptic knife, dismembering my fantasies with reality. I beat on the neighborhood bar stools with stale desire and accumulating frustration. The thick black smoke of wasted years and delirium tremors caught up with me. Ginger and Jack, take it all back, I'll have a heart attack. Fill my raw stomach with empty peanut shells and bad timing.
Sports and the weather, fuck the weather, I'll take the weather girl in her push-up bra, her knees could use some work though. I'll endure another miserable conversation or two with this primitive inmate on p-pod. Shit, there ain't nothing else to do but stare at the luminous soda vending machines in awe. I'll attempt to have another nap, If I can bear it. "What they violate you for buddy, a dirty urine?", he says to me, "Simple assault", I says to him, "I've been through that a thousand times", he says to me.
It's all one big sarcastic joke on me, and the punchline consists of a black, a Jew, and an Indian. Afternoon juice pack boy, where'd you get those sneakers, I'll trade Sunday dinner and a rolly for one of them? County to state when does one find a moment to masturbate?, is it in the public showers?,. I'm pretty sure you'll get your ass kicked for that.
Sports and the weather, fuck the weather, I'll take the weather girl in her push-up bra, her knees could use some work though. I'll endure another miserable conversation or two with this primitive inmate on p-pod. Shit, there ain't nothing else to do but stare at the luminous soda vending machines in awe. I'll attempt to have another nap, If I can bear it. "What they violate you for buddy, a dirty urine?", he says to me, "Simple assault", I says to him, "I've been through that a thousand times", he says to me.
It's all one big sarcastic joke on me, and the punchline consists of a black, a Jew, and an Indian. Afternoon juice pack boy, where'd you get those sneakers, I'll trade Sunday dinner and a rolly for one of them? County to state when does one find a moment to masturbate?, is it in the public showers?,. I'm pretty sure you'll get your ass kicked for that.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Jailbird Observations
What the end verdict was, still remains within technical boundaries. The financial creed. The urban slate. Official cremated ashes, scattered along desolate highways of molestation. Judicial, it is the stern honorable man that casts the first stone, in narrow vacant cemeteries. The undertaker, the pedophile, the criminal, and the deceitful immigrant. We sprinkle long forgotten legal documents, along winding trivial walkways of concrete thresholds. Parole and Probation, insects and infestation. See where this road takes you, naive, gritty, adolescent pilgrim. How many years in this dissecting county will do.
The tall educated lawyer assembles himself upon a symmetrical playing field. The defendant who stuffs his inner awareness, possessing a gory gut feeling, the parasite that resides in one's empty stomach, has nothing to feed on, save the inner lining of his raw intestines. The cold morning sun, rising out of the east, of the inmate's cell window. The populated day room, and afternoon paralegal commercials, we're all innocent within the unworthy realm, of the justifiably accused.
Help me oh unhealthy family, I've fallen victim to the long dick of the law once again. I got the D.U.I. blues, and none of my old shoes fit me anymore. Don't listen to a word my slutty sister says, she's a filthy whore. She's got the daycare blues, got one too many rug rats urinating up and down her torn sleeves. While I sit in jail rotting one miserable day after another. Around here it is the common default of pinochle and spades. There are no dark horses that run the gammon, everything is placed in it's own deserving hole, we just don't like it. The primitive natives of unattractive despair, around here we dispose of our shower shoes the incorrect way. I took a wrong turn on the Jersey turnpike, and found myself hungry and restless, put my endurance to the test in the gravel carpeted courtyard. Make a phone call when the boredom hits you. Hard is the illiterate terminology we speak. Love is a weapon, as it always was, only now it's up the ass.
The tall educated lawyer assembles himself upon a symmetrical playing field. The defendant who stuffs his inner awareness, possessing a gory gut feeling, the parasite that resides in one's empty stomach, has nothing to feed on, save the inner lining of his raw intestines. The cold morning sun, rising out of the east, of the inmate's cell window. The populated day room, and afternoon paralegal commercials, we're all innocent within the unworthy realm, of the justifiably accused.
Help me oh unhealthy family, I've fallen victim to the long dick of the law once again. I got the D.U.I. blues, and none of my old shoes fit me anymore. Don't listen to a word my slutty sister says, she's a filthy whore. She's got the daycare blues, got one too many rug rats urinating up and down her torn sleeves. While I sit in jail rotting one miserable day after another. Around here it is the common default of pinochle and spades. There are no dark horses that run the gammon, everything is placed in it's own deserving hole, we just don't like it. The primitive natives of unattractive despair, around here we dispose of our shower shoes the incorrect way. I took a wrong turn on the Jersey turnpike, and found myself hungry and restless, put my endurance to the test in the gravel carpeted courtyard. Make a phone call when the boredom hits you. Hard is the illiterate terminology we speak. Love is a weapon, as it always was, only now it's up the ass.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
SMOKIN MIKE or/ A COUNTY SEQUENCE
1) SMOKIN" MIKE
Rumor had it that "Smokin Mike", once successfully escaped from the vast confinement of the Buck's County Correctional Facility. His major downfall was passing out from significant blood loss,. due to the substantial amounts of barbed wire he exposed his human flesh to.
Mike was nothing to "write home about". His passions in life consisted of expired television show episodes, and shooting cocaine through his mangled veins. Mike was said to be amongst the best in the courtyard handball realm.
Mike was thin with one tooth that protruded beyond his weakened jawline. Dark hair, and really he probably was the class clown in some far off juvenile decade. Last Christmas morning, Mike thought it a superior idea to place a piece of his hepatitis- C - stained feces upon a loose sheet of cardboard. He proceeded to sneak into his neighboring cell, (a four-man hut) while they were all sleeping . He then placed the speckled specimen attached to the cardboard into their metal toilet. A prankster he was. This way when the inmates awoke they would presume that one of them " dropped a deuce", in the toilet without flushing it.
Mike had many character defects. The one that would cause him the most problems was his thorough nuttiness, and a complete lack of regard for what anyone else thought of him. The rest of his problematic traits were unfortunately an inconvenience for anyone else that had the "luxury", to come into contact with him.
2) A COUNTY RECALL
In the restless community. Sleep was endured. Brief intervals of celibacy. Those of us residing in the populated perimeter,.gaze out of our own delusions, and into the uncomfortable mirror. We lay in our cots at night, with a complicated conscious, our eyes compelled to the unforgiving gray ceiling. Seldomly coming into contact with the outside world. Visits on Sunday afternoons, exchanging eyes with our forgotten lovers. Our thoughts drift outwards, beyond the sordid establishment.
3), SPADES VS. 500 RUMMY. A COUNTY DEBATE.
. Spades is a trivial card game that rests purely upon the flimsy foundation of bluffing and suggestion. If one has the leisure of unrewarded time and/ or punishment, he/she can quickly pick up the necessary tools needed to partake in this meaningless endeavor. I, on the other hand, crucially clung to 500 rummy, a game of skillful essence (if you ask me), their is no conspicuous attempt at cheating in 500 rummy that would suffice.
4) COMMISSARY MONDAY
Commissary Monday was one of the most desired time frames for us. They would lock us down for a good consecutive three hours, all for a mere five minutes. During the five minutes we were visited in our cell by a commissary task worker. (Another inmate.) He would deliver us the overpriced perishables (through steel bars) that we previously ordered from the commissary list. Exciting. Honey buns, peanut butter, a razor, paper, ramen noodles, candy, batteries, and whatever else we ordered that week.
5) A COUNTY CONCLUSION
On the day of my release I was visited by three ghosts that were all doing life plus sentences. They all had gun charges but it was none of their own faults.
Rumor had it that "Smokin Mike", once successfully escaped from the vast confinement of the Buck's County Correctional Facility. His major downfall was passing out from significant blood loss,. due to the substantial amounts of barbed wire he exposed his human flesh to.
Mike was nothing to "write home about". His passions in life consisted of expired television show episodes, and shooting cocaine through his mangled veins. Mike was said to be amongst the best in the courtyard handball realm.
Mike was thin with one tooth that protruded beyond his weakened jawline. Dark hair, and really he probably was the class clown in some far off juvenile decade. Last Christmas morning, Mike thought it a superior idea to place a piece of his hepatitis- C - stained feces upon a loose sheet of cardboard. He proceeded to sneak into his neighboring cell, (a four-man hut) while they were all sleeping . He then placed the speckled specimen attached to the cardboard into their metal toilet. A prankster he was. This way when the inmates awoke they would presume that one of them " dropped a deuce", in the toilet without flushing it.
Mike had many character defects. The one that would cause him the most problems was his thorough nuttiness, and a complete lack of regard for what anyone else thought of him. The rest of his problematic traits were unfortunately an inconvenience for anyone else that had the "luxury", to come into contact with him.
2) A COUNTY RECALL
In the restless community. Sleep was endured. Brief intervals of celibacy. Those of us residing in the populated perimeter,.gaze out of our own delusions, and into the uncomfortable mirror. We lay in our cots at night, with a complicated conscious, our eyes compelled to the unforgiving gray ceiling. Seldomly coming into contact with the outside world. Visits on Sunday afternoons, exchanging eyes with our forgotten lovers. Our thoughts drift outwards, beyond the sordid establishment.
3), SPADES VS. 500 RUMMY. A COUNTY DEBATE.
. Spades is a trivial card game that rests purely upon the flimsy foundation of bluffing and suggestion. If one has the leisure of unrewarded time and/ or punishment, he/she can quickly pick up the necessary tools needed to partake in this meaningless endeavor. I, on the other hand, crucially clung to 500 rummy, a game of skillful essence (if you ask me), their is no conspicuous attempt at cheating in 500 rummy that would suffice.
4) COMMISSARY MONDAY
Commissary Monday was one of the most desired time frames for us. They would lock us down for a good consecutive three hours, all for a mere five minutes. During the five minutes we were visited in our cell by a commissary task worker. (Another inmate.) He would deliver us the overpriced perishables (through steel bars) that we previously ordered from the commissary list. Exciting. Honey buns, peanut butter, a razor, paper, ramen noodles, candy, batteries, and whatever else we ordered that week.
5) A COUNTY CONCLUSION
On the day of my release I was visited by three ghosts that were all doing life plus sentences. They all had gun charges but it was none of their own faults.
Monday, March 5, 2012
A Preliminary Piece
When it was over,...or close to my actual release date,. We waited together. With our trials pending down on court side. The tricky Muslims,..one with a hand full of pills. Muscle relaxers,...and then some. The carpeted faces,..with their sealed shoes and county blues. Bunched together like a pack of miserable wolves. We hated each other,... we hated ourselves.
Time was a one sided disc in a sloppy cell. My celly tried to break some ice and said it reminded him of South Philly. It did. What Winter window closed the eye of trivial despair inside the tinted glass of filthy day rooms. What afternoon television does for the grieving soul I do not know,.. and perhaps never will. Fantasy is a mimicking nun within the boundaries of prostitution. Design is not sublime. Happiness is feces on Christmas,.. during a morning hour.
What happened to the gourmet food at the corner stand. The same thing that happened to the beautiful layers of the darkened storms at midnight. The same view that leads you out to the nocturnal highway populated by frost bitten transportation.
Time was a one sided disc in a sloppy cell. My celly tried to break some ice and said it reminded him of South Philly. It did. What Winter window closed the eye of trivial despair inside the tinted glass of filthy day rooms. What afternoon television does for the grieving soul I do not know,.. and perhaps never will. Fantasy is a mimicking nun within the boundaries of prostitution. Design is not sublime. Happiness is feces on Christmas,.. during a morning hour.
What happened to the gourmet food at the corner stand. The same thing that happened to the beautiful layers of the darkened storms at midnight. The same view that leads you out to the nocturnal highway populated by frost bitten transportation.
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