I saw something today
That reminded me of you
So I picked up my phone
Put in your number
And excitedly waited to talk to you
But with every ring you didn't pick up
My heart dropped lower out of my chest
.
.
"I'm not near my phone right now.. that or I'm purposely ignoring you Shanon just leave a message at the beep.. or don't whatever"
.
Beep
.
.

And it all hit me all over again
The feeling of choking
On my own tears
Drowning out the rest of the world
Because it had been so long
Since I last heard your voice
Yet it seemed it was only yesterday
We were playing street hockey
And making fun of eachother
And talking on the phone all night long
Just to hang out all day after
...
We would talk about our past
And what our future may hold
We talked about our demons
And secrets we never told
...
I remember being so angry
The day you left
After all we've been through
No sorry
No goodbye
Not even a single note
Explaining why
You decided I wasn't enough reason
For you to not climb into that bathtub
And press that razor blade onto your skin
...
How dare the sky rumble
When they took your lifeless body just to throw it in the ground
How dare the others cry
When you didn't make a single sound
How dare the birds still sing
When the world was falling apart
How dare the moon still come up
When nothing in the universe seemed to make sense
How dare they believe poems had to rhyme
How dare they still talk about the good old days
How dare they believe for one second they knew you at all
And most of all
How dare you--

How dare you leave me so broken
How dare you leave me so alone
How dare you call me your best friend
Just to leave me on my own?
...
The darkness lingering around my past
Found a deeper grip around my soul that day
As I watched pieces of my heart
Leave with you
.
.
.
Now I find myself sitting here awkwardly
Finally being able to string these useless letters
Into coherent words
To ask you if you're still listening up in the clouds
How dare you not pick up anymore
When I call you on the phone?


~Who else am I supposed to talk to when late at night my demons won't be put to sleep?
Who else am I supposed to talk to when all I want to do is curl up in a ball and weep?

Day closes to an open window–
A sill, a still rest for my spent legs;
Torqued over to face the breeze, welcome chills
Swing the brush with each croak of my knees.

Laughs crane over amber roof clay–
And somewhere behind a white fence
It’s someone’s birthday, a dog brays, coos rouse a baby
Who cries off-key with the family’s song

A dark cluster shifts in the sky,
And the moon emerges from nil.
I’d forgotten my eyes but to see like this…
So long since the night kept me filled…

Spark lights strung in beads on a rope
-Chatoyant, chatoyant comme diamants–
“Brille et brille petit étoile” string the notes
of a mother’s rock-a-bye song

My squeak of a refrain pitters into the air
-Cassant, cassant comme verre-
No love from eclipses we sing to,
No peace from mullings in prayer

Then a fairy book glow sweeps this vision–
Its air thick and sweet to the tongue–
My glance caught by shimmering scales on the back
Of this Ville like a dragon in slumber
—oh, to dance on that spine
—to leap from his eaves into air!
—to fly with these legs where I don’t have to sleep
—and days don’t sit brittle and spare

But fingers to the pulse in my cheek—
To a cauldron of wicked alchemy—
Trace an infection spreading like dragons’ wings
Where beasts may be best left sleeping.

Painfully pretty, the light grows ever fainter,
I should drink it in while I can still see—
There’s a reason art’s left to the painter,
And my brush colors sorrow on everything.


But I’m not sorry now, nor sad, though my eyes water
And wobble the world ’til I blink;
With my back towards the concrete, grounded, this altar
Casts a reverence over everything.

I'm alone and I'm feeling stuck I feel the weight of an elephant sitting on my chest and  the pressure is unbearable. I'm in a different place but I feel like I see the same faces. I feel like somebody is after me and wants to **** me but I feel like that person lives inside of me. My stomach hurts because the pressure is building so I let out a yell from the very bottom of it. I can feel a hot rush to my eyeballs as my brain decompresses. I can feel the pressure agai Yelling is the only thing that helps. Still, I grab the first thing that I see and I throw it, it just happened to be a backpack through a windshield with a laptop in it. I want to hurt everyone who's ever hurt me and then I realize it was me hurting myself this whole time so I inflict another wound upon myself.



How did I wake up in prison again today when in last nights dream I got so far away. I love running away in my dreams because though I know I should be tired I never run out of breath so I'm able to cover quite a bit of ground when I run away from this place in my dreams. I also like to  breathe underwater. Right before I went to prison I was still flying freely in my dreams I could literally run and jump and fly from place to place but after three years in, I can't seem to get off of the ground. I'm wondering if it's some subconscious thing going on.



The guards yells "stand by for chow!" With elongated syllables and his voice travels down the run with purpose. This old prison has the classic looking Steele prison bars you see in cartoons and movies growing up, it's actually quite eerie. I throw my sheet over my bed and tuck the blanket into the edges so it sits tightly around the mattress and fits snugly in the 6 foot steel soap container type mattress frame that is attached to the wall in a way that you can for this frame up and ******* to make your 6' x 9' space a little bit bigger . I only do this after I put my books in a stack at the end of it because they were spread out with no organization like sub group of war refugees. I turn off the TV, click the desk lamp,  press stop on my tape player, but I let the fan still run. I fold up the drawing I was working on into my dictionary of symbols along with a couple of the poems that were simultaneously being worked on - it's like I have to work on 10 different things at a time to keep my mind occupied. I'm stuck in the cell 23-24 hours a day with ADHD and I was the type of kid to wonder the city for 16 hours on my bike.  I like it because I feel like I'm getting good at 10 different things at once and though I know i it's pretty much impossible to focus on more than one thing at a time I set aside small focuses for each thing in bits and pieces and then go to the next thing, it's quite refreshing to be honest.



I throw some water on my face brush my teeth and I comb my hair back  after I put on a fresh T-shirt, some new pants and my new shoes . Even though I'm wearing all orange I want to look the best I can because it makes me feel good. On the walk to the chow hall we have to go down the stairs and central unit in Florence, Arizona. We all squeeze shoulder to shoulder on the tight run of cells and have to walk Down five flights of stairs and everybody is in a rush but still acting like there just walking casual it's pretty funny to see people do casual speed walks. Everybody's cracking jokes and excited because   Tonight we get pizza and we only get it a couple times every six weeks for they have the menu on a six week schedule. It might taste a little bit cardboardy but who cares it's been years since we've actually had a real slice.  And if you bring some salsa with a little bit of your own cheese you can actually fix the pizza up to where it's quite delectable.  



We pass through the old metal doors and you could fill the air blow from above where the door fan is. As I walk into the chow hall, I can feel tension among the other inmates - it feels like when the lowest frequency on a sound scale with a bass comes in really deep at the bottom of your stomach and a high pitch of the top of your ear that is out of tune and doesn't sit well. You can always tell when something is about to happen because everybody gets quiet and you can feel it in your stomach it's almost like the same feeling of fear and anxiety because the guy who's going to get gotten never knows it's him. I give the guard my last name and I get in line to get my pizza. The food trays come out of the hole in the wall  pretty fast -  inmates that work inside of the kitchen have this down to a science and their muscle memory and pattern recognition is that of an expert sous chef.   Pizza corn jello and a cup for the potent artificially sweetened juice they give us. I'm going to sit down in the middle tables because they have the tables sectioned off for people of different color the white boys sit with them white boys the black people sit with the black people usually closest to the door. The paisas (Mexican national)  sit with each other, the Chiefs have their own tables among  the Mexican Americans. I never sit closest to the wall because if you sit at the back table closest to the wall that means you're striving to have prison political ties and that is something that never interested me because though I am doing five years that is still a temporary stay and I did not want to join a prison gang. But when you're on the higher yards like central unit everybody is pretty much down for the cause so sometimes I will sit back there with homies. Once seated I grab my squeeze cheese from my right pocket, bite a  small piece of the corner off the packet and and squeeze it onto my pizza. I  also apply  some hot sauce and I get o have my friends pizza because he owed me from last nights 49ers game with a bet he lost. This story was probably believable up until the point I said the 49ers won.



while all this is happening in the back of my mind I know something is about to pop off because I could feel it in my stomach. once you know you're good then you're good as far as not being the one about to get stabbed or stomped on but there is always a lingering thought in the back of my head like I hope it's not me that they're about to get. I know it wasn't going to be a prison riot because we all would have known we all would've been prepared with knives ready.



I started eating. Yup cardboardy. Now a little bit faster because my gut told me something was about to pop off and about 3/4 through my second piece of pizza I heard it.



Attacks are usually really quiet in prison usually you hear the stomping of feet, grunting and groaning or slamming against walls so you can feel the wall shake. unless the person that is getting attacked by anywhere from 1 to 4 people starts screaming for his life and begging the guards for help.



This particular attack started with hoofbeats feet on the ground and punches landing and struggling breathing heavy and grunting. You never really want to look directly at what's going down because you don't want to draw attention to the situation or yourself if the guards aren't  paying attention. Attacks like this committed in the middle of a chow hall typically indicate that the person being attacked has to go and is no longer allowed to stay in the general population with us.



I'm Going to say which particular race or who was attacking who because specifics can get a little bit sticky if you are journaling your experience I would hate to offend any particular race or be considered a snitch. three men were stopping another man and it happened really quick. I didn't realize that they had knocked him unconscious and he was breathing really heavy and snoring as if he were dreaming of a beautiful place and had a stuffy nose at the same time.



In what seems like is forever or at least a really long time only just a few seconds have gone by before you hear the guards rushing in. four now eight now twelve guards with fire extinguisher sizes Mace cans, Spraying the men on the face both attackers and victim.



It's crazy because when you're in a room and they use those mace canisters on one person in the whole entire room gets clouded with Mace or Pepper spray  and everybody goes down on the ground and  starts clinching their throats and gasping for breath. some men cannot bear it,  though they typically don't die it seems like they're right on the edge of their last ****** breath.



I just felt bad for the person who didn't get their pizza in time because they're  going to be hungry while we're  all locked down until  the situation re-centers itself. then again the other part of me was a bit jealous because I'm sure the Mace served as a hot sauce and they got to enjoy a little bit of that.  



As I lay dying, I put my face in the ground in my arms and take the smallest breaths possible because it feels like I can survive these breaths and when you breathe deep it stings so bad that you can't help but to gasp for air and cough and perpetuate the struggle.



  I drift off to the beach... Here I am with my feet in the sand at the ocean. I hear seagulls flying above overhead and their calls are panning from left to right like the cleanest headphones you've ever heard. I can hear the waves crashing in and I can feel the sea breeze on my face.  it's one of those days when it's not too hot out but you feel good in the sun with the cool wind on your skin just enough to add A balance. Kind a like a sweet and salty sensation. I love this.



I'm really thankful because last time they maced the whole group it was inside of our living space and we had to sit there for 2 hours and cough but it was only the first 45 minutes or so that felt unbearable. The first time I got maced or actually experienced mace in a really bad way it was when they maced my neighbor inside of the shower because he didn't want to get out of the shower and I thought I could be tough and not feel the effects that much and I was eating crackers while I could smell the mace entering my nostrils. A few seconds later I was on the ground holding my throat because I felt like I was going to die and I couldn't even swallow the crackers I was gasping for air and hating God for this pains existence.



Now again we rise  up on our feet moving back to the run  where our cells are located and I can tell that a lot of the people who have been in prison for a long time who are not in the political movement Are really upset by this because they just want to do the rest of their life inside of these bars at peace.

Forget my face
Forget my name
But never forget the fun we had

Forget who I was to you
Forget about every minute we spent
But never forget what I made you feel

Forget the color of my eyes
Forget the feeling of my hand in yours
But never forget I loved you with all my heart.

I remember screamed profanities
I remember slammed doors and cupboards
I remember walking on eggshells, slipping silently around the house, not flushing the toilet - hoping to remain unnoticed.
I remember strained car rides and feigned happiness - for the relatives' sake.
I remember the blessed gift of headphones - that drowned out the rage and replaced it with joyful music.

I remember hiding behind schoolwork
I remember 5:00 AM Saturdays, doing yardwork, to keep the peace.
I remember racing through dinners, eyes down
Being done before being done

I remember strained birthdays
Unappreciated gifts
Forced gratitude

I remember graduating
Boarding a plane
And never really going back.

I am from Carmella and Peter, who are from Marie, who gave birth to seven aunts and uncles on each side and unknown fathers who were there but weren't.
From the Native tribes of Cherokees all the way to the Jamaican seas.
From the grandmother, I never met but love so much, from the grandfathers who died before they knew I even existed.
I am from the North-Atlantic Slave Trade, 400 years and counting, spread from the southern breezes of Georgia to the Caribbean waters of Jamaica.
From the robbery of my ancestors, the lynches of my great-grandfathers, the discrimination of my grandmothers and the fight of my parents and the reluctance of me.
I am from hugs and kisses of my mother to discipline and handshakes from my father.
From strict lessons about boys and the harshest of truths about life as a Black woman.
From the many years of Thanksgiving and Christmas spent with families who were always so happy to see me, from the hams and turkeys to the soul food made by my mother's hands.
I am from days with no tv, no heat, no idea about how to get by, but my mother made me feel the richest of rich.
I am from self-taught Christians, who never went to church but serve God as though he lives through them.
From the smartest of women and men who told me to never say "Can't", even as I rolled my eyes and told them I've already done it.
I am from a family of women, strongest I've ever known and compassionate as well.
From women who have beaten down by years of male egos and the darkness of their skin.
I am from the urban city of New York, where in two seconds and a metrocard, I am in the Gold Coast.
From the gentrification of Gates Ave, and the impending doom of it happening to me.
From the projects and two family homes of Bushwick, now turned into high-rises for the wealthiest of New York City.
From the architecture of a Trump tower right across the street from a low-income housing development.
I am from the hard times of depression and anxiety that were overlooked with alcohol and arguments, from the outbursts and crying myself to sleep, to not knowing the real thoughts of my father and what he thinks of me.
From the overachiever of my mother wanting to make a better life for me and me succeeding in her dreams.
From the many pages of poetry, I write to calm the mind and heal the pain.
I am from the generation who hopes to make our ancestors proud as they have made us.

A rustic lass of early teens
sells raw diamonds on a pavement.
black stones are laid on a mat
small rocks  fetch her livelihood.

‘See, the stones can cut glass sheets,
all are genuine raw diamonds,
buy now or you miss a gem,
going cheap at two dimes each.'

Her face is *****, attire shabby,
hair unkempt, eyes sunny,
around the dullness, monotone
a tulip slowly unfurls petals..

She holds the reins of little brothers
a pair of kids in birthday suits.
Has the mother left her shadow
to teach the tricks of steering life?

I’ve bought a little piece
kept it in my glass show case
a simple, uncut, glittering stone
memoir of a youth to be.

7th. Nov. 2016

Ticking of a forgotten clock

Broken mirror, and dusty old books-

Clutter the lifeless room

Scent of fading and falling rain;

wet the dry empty land

Touch, a shattered dream,

feel nothing now.

I am a lost memoir...