I remember Valentines Day
16 years ago.
I was staying at
the Salvation Army in
Des Moines.I was
going through a divorce
and trying not to drink.
I was competing in poetry slams
at Java Joe's downtown.
That little stage kept me sane.
Some of the guys at the Sally
asked me to write love poems
for their girlfriends- to get them laid.
I told them in order for the poetry
to not sound contrived, I might
need to spend a night or two
with their women.
They didn't think that was funny.
I wasn't kidding.
I ended up writing a decent
poem about the irony of the whole situation.

Well, it's February 2019,
and I'm in prison for drinking.
No romantic Valentine's Day this
year; but still plenty of irony.
Even in the joint, guys ask me
to write love poems for their women.
The other day, I did write
a poem for a guy's wife who is
dying of cancer.
I hope some day soon,
he gives it to her.

Pressures,
forces,
twisting levers—
gears ratcheting down
little by
relentless
little
against a box with
no walls
and no way out.

Mummified me tight in her web,
she finds it funny
that my eyes are left open.

I shake
but I cannot listen
and I cannot scream
and she stares until
my heart is broken.

she whispers and I read her lips:
"I am fate,
and you were held firm in my clutches
ever since man has fallen.

"Lay, watch, and twitch
and remember my dear,
every breath you take is testimony
that you were chosen."

I know I'm home and I'm not alone
sick inside cuz the wounds at the bone my friend
such a strange feeling getting to me
I contradict every thought that I have

A special friend blending words in my head
Secret to the trend is make everything feel threatening
Driving through the fog with my brights on
As the lights pass by I get mystified

I'm too big for the room I'm in
Am I wrong or maybe it's actually my skin
I'm going to rip apart this reality
and peel back the shades that have came to cover me

Staring out like I'm in a cell
In and out like a raging swell
I can say that I'm happy with the ones I love
Though I'm scared to go outside and lose comfort in the shelter

“Normality” people cry
And I can’t help but ask
Why?
A slave to the wage
Already trapped in a cage
What is it about life before
That you are all grieving so much for?
The freedom of which you speak
Having to book a holiday for a ******* week

Yes I miss a warm embrace
I want him here kissing my face
Technology overload
So ***** I’ll explode
Yet somehow I know
That back to ‘normal’
Is not where I want to go

When this is over
You’ll book that holiday
And take the next flight
To some far away place
To have the same sun
On your face
Then back to your cage
A slave to the wage

This simulation was not a success
Mother Nature cries
You’re all a ******* mess
She’s given you a chance
A time to pause
To reflect
To ponder
To dream
Yet you dare not ask
What does all this mean?

Do you sit there and wait
For world leaders
To decide your fate?
Will you choose to do good?
To have compassion for those
Where isolation is all they know?
Locked away behind bars
With their trauma and their scars
Out of site
Out of mind
They’ve been left behind

When this is over
I’ll ask myself the question
What do I yearn for?
And the answer will be
As it’s always has been
Freedom
From normality

In prison
when you have no
money, and you can't
buy commissary, and
the hours and the days drag by
like a tortoise searching
a garden.
It's the little things that
make the time bearable.
Someone gives you a package of
noodles or a cup of coffee,
or a bar of good soap.
Kindness in hell goes a long way.
It's the simple pleasures that
I took for granted
that I relish now:
Steaming hot water,
a bed with a real mattress,
and a library with thousands
of books to read.
I have writing paper,
ink pens, and reading glasses to
see with; it could be worse.

I'm in this place a prison
of homely comforts,
that
cut upon the wrists
                           of  
          
                             my sanity.

I used to see the walls as collages
of happier times.
Now I just put lines of
                   I I I I I I the seventh
is my reality that I'll just start
                                 a new one.

They look like I, I need, I want
but never getting past the I...

As I know I'm in here for the sentence
             of security and life.

                          But,

why do I have to do it in solitary confinement,



I'm                   so                         lonely...

Stealthily,
dressed in black,
late at night,
wearing a mask,
I will steal
the guard keys
from the wall,
opening the cells
one by one,
letting out all
the hidden,
forgotten, and
wasted talent--
the painters,
the poets,
the rappers,
the cartoonists.
Together as an
unlikely union,
a mismatched clan,
we will show
the world
just how much
potential has
been unjustly
locked away.

Judgement is our prison:
     the bars, lock, and key.
As we build its walls higher,
     our perspective grows smaller
Until our confines of Measure
​     become all we can see.