What is literature to a convict?
with his name erased from his shirt, his memory
sitting in a warm chair
his only poetry is the girls he sees from across the glass
with jargon hanging from their sweaters
hem untied, tongue tied
“I want to live in a hotel” he tells his social worker
“all the way on the last floor at the very end of the hallway
I want the privacy in every suburban bedroom to be a joke
and I’ll laugh so ******* loud”
this prisoner has never killed a man
but his gums always bleed, like boiled beets
what is lost to a convict?
nothing, if you’ve searched long enough for it
“I don’t read, I have the best works inside my head
not memorized by pleasure, but by force
like a bullet to my knee, like a birthmark
not small enough to hide.”
“baby, I used to be a free man sometime”
and he was. He was free but he was also alone
a felon in his own right, grew a mustache
when he was only 15 and lonely
Walking alone one night he stumbled upon neon signs
upon god’s fruit, not everything is dressed in flowers
but a woman with caramel legs doesn’t need such luxuries
under dim lights, under smooth songs
this man found heaven to be boring
but the malaise in the gates of paradise
made candy melt down tight skin
“so this is fair. to be accompanied by hell
I could almost buy you a drink” he tells her
he tells her
he tells her
he tells her again
she smiles
this is not indulging
this is business
she used to write those words
on cigarette wrappers
until she could say it in her sleep
no love for poor men
and why does he wear a suit with a stain on it?
What a fool, she thinks
but this suit
this calamity of an accessory
was worn by that man’s
best friend
before, before the world turned cruel
before he knew what the difference
was between justice and closure
“sit down, tell me your bravery
spill it as easy as your skirt,
***** it as quick as the
dirt that’s been thrown on your face
you’re more than just
lemonade on a summer night”
but she swings her hair
and she asks for more
than a mortal man can offer
she wants the world
she wants the money he doesn’t have
and she calls him a thief
and she calls him a liar
and he’s left in a room
some bodies are nothing more than consolations
“I wanted more than a taste of life”
so he searches for her
but he gets lost in yellow taxi cabs
can’t decide whether he
should be in a hospital
or a cemetery
but he goes to a cathedral and
speaks with a priest
he beckons, he screams
he rips his hair off his head
in clumps they fall into his faded jeans
he clamors about the ****** he’s never committed
about how he just wants to be a famous writer
or a composer everyone cries to
he wants god to give him a bruise
he grabs the priests’ collar and kisses him violently
as the priest gasps for air, clutching nothing
all he wanted was a little peace, a little passion
why can’t you understand? None of this is carnal
none of this was made for the intention to be ****
he was sick of feeling ***** without ever being unclean in
the first place
and as he sat on the curb of that church, that solitary step
after being hurled by meaty altar boys
he wanders once more  
his crooked feet knocking posters and people
with closed eyes
until he reads the paper, until the obituary has her name
but it’s not her name he recognized
But her picture, the brutality of the night being exposed in daylight
he sees it everywhere, in the subway’s screens,
in the dry mouths of old men
there’s his ******, the one he’d been looking for all along
not committed by him
but a ****** nonetheless
set a flame for unforgiving service, for
inexplicable excess of satisfaction
set on fire like Salem witches
he wants to hold her hand one more time
it’s not the absence, but the obsolete
revenge, a platter served medium rare
what is vengeance to a convict?
an eye for an eye, a soul for a soul
he can smell the **** in everyone he crosses
he taps his foot in the downstairs
of the neon signs where he smells
nothing but sugar
and as they whisper in the dark
of the man responsible,
of the sentenced ready for his execution
he can almost taste him, running in shadows
and riding in comfort
Until he finds him at the bottom of a hotel
with his tie sloppily tied around his neck
and his eyes bearing the wicked semblance of a vulture
he goes upstairs
all the way to the top floor at the end of the corridor
and as he walks he can feel his steps amounting to something
this is what he was born to do, since birth these
were the footsteps he was told to follow
the death he was meant to document
savagely prepared for him to feast
he taps his shoulder after this ******, this sadist
has opened the door, ajar
clean and astute, clean cut
our inmate throws him into the
blow of hardwood floors, lamps flying
make his eyes go wild
his spit falling into the carnivore’s mouth,
he asks what is solitude to a slaughter
he trembles, he’s alive in this moment
wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his suit
digs his fingernails into the whites of
this ****** body and he cackles,
he’s a raven, ravenous
he’s a ghost ******* nothing but hot metal
grinding his teeth, blood flows out of sockets
the shrieking echoes, pain splinters the walls
but nothing is heard because no one is there
this is love, this is the romance he
always wanted
gouging the egg yolk out of another man’s eyes
our hero cries a primal cry
and repeats her name over and over again
like a prayer told too late at a sermon
and as he drown this poor man, who is
no vulture anymore, but a wet parakeet
he recites the words he had written into a paper napkin as a child
and if the first apocalypse ends the world in flames
the last Armageddon will end in a deluge
he watches the criminal’s head swells
drunken with happy fervor, he celebrates
by resisting arrest
what is literature to a convict?
his life told in verse
the catharsis this sad existence could never offer him
until it did
and he smiles
like a man that has known freedom only could