Dragged in by chains
You won't leave alone tonight
With everything you've said
Every crime commited
Here is a prison
Made of everything you know
Throw away the key
Because You won't see the day
Again

All fear and shame
They knew my name
I was in ******* to every broken sin
All fear and shame
They knew my name
I was in ******* to every sin

And here I was lost
Bound to my cell
Past was calling
Burdened from hell
You took my place
Where nailed wrists bled
And the thorns that pierced
Where you died and bled
Taking my place

Breathing softly
As the casket closed
And iron maiden
To close me into binds
No escape
No closure
No escaping the exposure of this sting
Untill you came
And took the death belonging to me

And here I was lost
Bound to my cell
Past was calling
Burdened from hell
You took my place
Where nailed wrists bled
And the thorns that pierced
Where you died and bled
Taking my place

And here I was lost
Bound to my cell
Past was calling
Burdened from hell
You took my place
Where nailed wrists bled
And the thorns that pierced
Where you died and bled
Taking my place

Take this life and all its pain
Blessed Are you Slain
Blessed Is The Slain
Blessed, beloved return again

Yesterday I wrote to a judge
on the behalf of an old friend
who has done the unthinkable.
“Sitting where you are,
Your Honor,
you could not possibly know
the boy”—the
man,
the

What do you call it when
the desire of an “I
told you so!” stales
to nothingness.
Silence. Everybody
is invincible



“30 years.” the voice came through
the collect call from County.
“They gave me thirty, thanks
for nothing,” said the
the
murderer.

But now there’s nothing for you,
but time and prison wine.

head for
the jeeps

i'm scrambling and
crawling through
bushes over the
sand dunes

head for
the jeeps

just in front of me
a potato masher
detonates and both
the jeeps explode

head for
the jeeps and
if you don't
make it try
for the half
track on the hill

but before i
reach the half
track they've got
me surrounded

and i'm alone
with the enemy

in war there
are only winners
losers
and prisoners.

Everybody arrested
in Brooklyn
since they built the courthouse
ends up in
'The Tombs."

These days if
you require medical attention
when they cuff
you in Brooklyn,
unless there is some sort of 911 style citywide emergency,
you end up in Woodlawn hospital,
a medical institution no one
would ever choose for themselves
let alone a loved one.

First,
it is filthy,
on at least three levels,
and I don't mean three stories of building,
it is much bigger than that.

I mean three levels of hypothetical cleanliness.
Three levels of dust, muck, grime, and microscopic disease.

Second,
there is the track record.
A few years back a big fat mentally ill woman,
died of Jesus knows,
right in the waiting room.

High security.
You can watch the video of the staff stepping around her corpse
on YouTube.

I spent thursday night at Woodlawn,
handcuffed to a bed rail.

It wasn't my first time ...

A songwriter Brooklynite friend, who I am sure wishes to remain unnamed, noted this morning, with Agape' love:
"Hipsters are people just like any other minority class.
You may not like them.
You may not want to eat in the same restaurant,
Or drink from the same fountain,
but you have to respect them."

There is a reason folks like his songs to the point of stealing from them.
He has a way of distilling the truth of the matter and pressing send while I'm still working on my second of 10 paragraphs.

I couldn't help but respond"
"I don't care if you are the King Of Shiam.
You can't close my computer (especially when I am uploading said songwriter's video),
move it,
and steal my seat when I go for a cigarette
without getting a reaction from me.
I don't care if you are the ******* Sultan of Swing
or President Obama's mama,
you are going to hear about what an ******* move that is."

But I shouldn't have broken that window.
At the very least it would have saved me some stitches.
It is rather unpleasant getting stitches on one writ while the other is cuffed.
"Just a pinch" when they inject the local right into your gaping wound.
"Just a pinch."
Yeah right.
Maybe if the pinching is done by an angry pregnant wolvererine.

And I definitely shouldn't have gone next door,
ordered another mojito,
and thrown that against the door as well.

I like mojito's
wasting them in such a manner
is a filthy sort of sacrilege.

every time i wake up, i stare at the floor boards
waiting in silence until my thoughts **** me slowly
i take the stake, shove it through my brain
stop and think how much the devil has shown me
late at night, terror fright, taking flight, fighting might
shifting eye, little lie, guess i'll make this my plight!

demonic devil, do you use the deadly treadle
tapping toes too, to blue jam with your dreaded treble!
scratching claws now on chalk board black tops with your kettle!
shifting serpent spitting death you are black rose pedals!
kiss me quickly with bliss, i know the taste will settle!
watch my eyes close under sunlight, too late to level-

so, i let your poison seep deep into my concrete, abstract, and spirituality
hoping that the hoax has only one hold on my hellish individuality,
and that one omen of open obliteration making available my obliquity
stops before the second-strike sinks in my skin and makes me sing my dead man soliloquy-
how hopeful!
how hopeful to think that one mess is enough to get me by from the rest,
that enough is enough for me when i mess up,
and i will always be going good, going right, not running left.
sadly
i get mistaken by my madness for a smile and a pasture behind the veil that’s masked it!
while the laughter in my catacomb cerebellum crystallizes my coffin with convoluted clasps and cocoons me in my casket!
swallow the final wishes to walk away without wondering what would have went down without wanting to ask this
last question to push you powerfully over the edge without paying attention to the proper time, not seeing it’s all plastic!
because we’ve passed the only moment to turn our backs without the consequences of living in our bloodied baskets!
we kissed the serpent’s lips and ****** the spit off his silky-smooth tongue, mixing salt with fresh, leaving everything brackish!
cut off the arms and tongue before the venom attaches,
but still i swallow it whole and expect to outlast it-

They linger outside my room I hear them exhale
as the paint peels like snow flakes falling slowly
to the floor. Its only wood mahogany it think,
"nice, cost enough. I heard them mauling the
surface cleaving at different points as if a weakness
was to give way.

They bait me to see if I would gaze upon the shadows
that linger just past the door... I touch one with my
finger seething discomfort carries over my skin.
Murmurs sing lullabies at the corner of the hinges
they seem to get hotter with every tone that settles down.
I cant seem to contemplate its words, but it sings.

I look around my sheltered room, the windows are just
a look out to nothingness, I am like a flower in need of
sunlight to blossom.  but I am withered I'm suffocating
with my own deliberation. Have you heard the same
thought repeated in angles you never realized were
possible, every word deconstructed and syringed within.


Do you realize that a room even though with its formed
angles becomes nothing but a blur, patterns in writings
that migrate along my sight of vision. I'm a mine canary
trapped in a cage, and my only escape is the wishful thinking
of when will this gas seep within and silence my yearnings.
But I still breath, they mould the features of my prison in whispers.

I throw my features in random rotations to find even a
fissure that will be a keyhole to my eventual releasing.
But where my essence tries to evacuate they burn my
sanity and I scream in oscillating repetition and they just
seem to think nothing of my afflictions. I am a prisoner
within their walls. I will consume them when they fall.