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.
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