Today my son
Is to be sentenced
To prison. He
Lives 23 hours a day
In a jail cell, he will move on
Steeling courage few of us
Ever have to experience.
Consider your luck.
His mental illness
never to be a crime.
Will there be light for a prism?
Where he can turn to
Other pathways
Less dark and Forge
Himself into the open
Blue sky and all the rainbows
From here on out.
On the outside we are blind
On the inside some
Are given true sight.
I cry for a rotten system
In mental health care
We own. You might
Want to pull up some buckets
For all mothers tears
Knowing the best we have
Is incarceration. How is that
America? Tired of blaming anyone but yourself?

He was in his cell
Twenty three hours a day
Never was he an animal
Yet treated as such

The echoes off the walls, bounce
The metal doors that clang, bang
Endless boredom after
All the books are read
He paces his eight feet

Gray dulls the senses
Lack of color, lack of life
He saw a bug inside
The other day, alive
Looking up at him
Another form of life, different,almost brand new
His voice filled with hope through the Pauses

It rained and the summer was hot
They were released for the hour
Choices that are made in that precious time
He went outside where there is only the cement
Laid on his back, spread his arms like an eagle, like an offering
Letting the rain Fall onto him,
just so He could feel Something

Our cell has expanded.
Walls which were once eight-by-nine now extend infinitely.
The grey cracks in the walls run like rivers into the oval seams.
The window is now a barred prism of light from which we peer into the nigredo, rising from the mud with mercurial orb.
The mould is now the jungle on which I rest my *****—
This is the light of God which cascades across our concrete walls.
My cellmate is my lover; we both sit naked on the east wing,
Within the darkened hall.
Scars now etch across my body, from my ******* down to my rancid *****.
Sunlight no longer shines through our window;
We hide from the beams and from the insects which mesmerise with their shimmering forms;
And we hear the cries of our brothers whose cells do not expand, but contract;
And we hear the raptures of those whose cells have transcended physical forms
And can be reached into as one would reach into the membranous, astral walls.

Thrashing, kicking
Struggling to break free.

From a barless prison
That's inside of me.

You can lie in Wyoming,
they don’t care in Arizona,
you can mislead them in Mississippi
but don’t mess with Georgia.

You thought us “hicks from the sticks”
but we were wise to your tricks,
we just recorded your words,
now you’ll get what you deserve.

Your threats and fraudulent incitements,
have earned you several indictments.
You came down with your whole freak show,
so they charged you under RICO.

Come back to Georgia, Mr. Trump,
it turns out you were the chump.
Because we’ve got lots of new prisons
and DAs with surly dispositions.

In Georgia we don’t mind high flyers
but man, we hate traitors and seditious liars.
While many, it seems, fell for your blusterous aura,
you ******* yourself good by messing with Georgia.
.
.

the clock ticks by
foreign matter in my lungs
choking back the truth
and i don’t know why.

homeless nomad
clinging to chains
tied to the ground
clad in wormy silk.

i tried to change
myself for someone like you
someone with a
cruel mind
in place of a crueler being.

i tried to change
all for you
yet still crammed in a jail cell
with rats as friends
who scoff at my
loneliness and
feed off of my fear
take me over,
i don’t desire the person
i have become; who i have tried
not to be

Thousands of slaves of The Saviour run
bent over to a place to sit, belly to buttock
nose in the back, sections full of light pink
shoulders under the violet
shaved crowns

to open the brain
under sun and moon
to the Great Soul
and to gain self-knowledge
from the mirrors around you

the exchangeable bodies that
under the discipline of loneliness
among silent fellow sufferers
no longer can die
from everyday life's dangers

Everywhere you see yourself
among the hard faces
of armed guards
and you cling to
the changing of the light

the rustle of rain and
scents brought by the wind
"He laughs best who laughs last"
But what kind of laugh is that?
A laugh which is not shared...

There is danger down on the edge of town
Fire on the horizon it's scorchin' the ground
Hoards of unrest as people pass the blame
Who's the real culprit at the top of the chain
The burning sunset spills across the rot of the land
While the deceiving evil doer licks blood from his  hands
Greed riddled bombs fall from dead skies
Blanketing the poor, warm tears swell in their eyes
Oil soaked hills burn down through their valleys
While war torn screams ring out from all around me
The milky white sap is scraped from the flowers
Then sold in the streets as ****** powder  
Junkies fumble over spoons with needles in their hand
While the money is filtered to rulers of land
On with the show the director he screams
While the masses consume garbage projected on to screens
I sit motionless and stare at the wall
As the prison door slams shut I wonder how long
How long  will it be till I'm back on the streets
With a dagger in my hand and blood on my feel