Whether it's an eight/twelve hours or more shift.
I SALUTE all men and women that daily places their life in danger.

Behind walls of correctional institution enhancing rules and regulation to inmates.
Of course you find that familiar one professing like it's an honor to be called convict.

Over phases of offender or inmate.

Unlike those street enforcers with weapons.
The only one you have is your vocal tones to control.

A prayer said daily, if you are of faith to calm your day.
Hold truth that any second, minute anything might happen.
While many families failed to comprehend you didn't make their child apart of the correctional system.

That was their child decision.

It takes strength and fearlessness to operate behind fences.
To be that honest officer following the rules.
For even some co-workers eventually ends up behind these same various walls.

RESPECT is an earned trade and trait.
Like your word is your bond.

But in a place that operates twenty four seven.
Your work is never done.
So to all correctional officers I SALUTE YOU!

Chapter Two

“I think of art, at its most significant, as a DEW line, a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”                Marshall McLuhan  
  
I attended Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania because my father was incarcerated at the prison located in the same town.  My tuition subsidized to a large extent by G.I. Bill, still a significant means of financing an education for generations of emotionally wasted war veterans. “The United States Penitentiary (USP Lewisburg)” is a high-security federal prison for male inmates. An adjacent satellite prison camp houses minimum-security male offenders. My father was strictly high-security, convicted of various crimes against humanity, unindicted for sundry others. My father liked having me close by, someone on the outside he trusted, who also happened to be on his approved Visitor List. As instructed, I became his conduit for substances both illicit, like drugs, and the purely contraband, a variety of Italian cheeses, salamis, prepared baked casseroles of eggplant parmesan, cannoli, Baci chocolate from Perugia, in Tuscany, south of Florence, and numerous bottles of Italian wine, pungent aperitifs, Grappa, digestive stimulants and sweet liquors. I remained the good son until the day he died, the source of most of the mess I got myself into later on, and specifically the main caper at the heart of this story.

I must confess: my father scared the **** out of me.  Particularly during those years when he was not in jail, those years he spent at home, years coinciding roughly with my early adolescence.  These were my molding clay years, what the amateur psychologists write off with the term: “impressionable years hypothesis.” In his own twisted, grease-ball theory of child rearing, my father may have been applying the “guinea padrone hypothesis,” in his mind, nothing more certain would toughen me up for whatever he and/or Life had planned for me. Actually, his aspirations for me-given my peculiar pedigree--were non-existent as far as the family business went. He knew I’d never be either a Don or a Capo di Tutti Capi, or an Underboss or Sotto Capo.)  A Caporegime—mid-management to be sure, with as many as ten crews of soldiers reporting to him-- was also, for me, out of the question. Dad was a soldier in and of the Lucchese Family, strictly a blue-collar, knock-around kind of guy. But even soldier status—which would have meant no rise in Mafioso caste for him—was completely out of the question, never going to happen for me.

A little background: the Lucchese Family originated in the early 1920s with Gaetano “Tommy” Reina, born in 1889 in Corleone, Sicily. You know the town and its environs well. Fran Coppola did an above average job cinematizing the place in his Godfather films.  Coppola: I am a strict critic when it comes to my goombah, would-be French New Wave auteur Francis Ford Coppola.  Ever since “One From the Heart, 1982”--one of the biggest Hollywood box office flops & financial disasters of all time--he’s been a bit thin-skinned when it comes to criticism.  So, I like to zing him when I can. Actually, “One From the Heart” is worth seeing again, not just for Tom Waits soundtrack--the film’s one Academy Award nomination—but also Natasha Kinski’s ***: always Oscar-worthy in my book. My book? Interesting expression, and factually correct for once, given what you are reading right now.

Tommy Reina was the first Lucchese Capo di Tutti Capi, the first Boss of All the Bosses. By the 1930s the Luccheses pretty much controlled all criminal activity in the Bronx and East Harlem. And Reina begat Pinzolo who begat Gagliano who begat Tommy Three Finger Brown Lucchese (who I once believed, moonlighted as a knuckle ball relief pitcher for Yankees.)
Three Finger Brown gave the Lucchese Family its name. And Tommy begat Carmine Tramunti, who begat Anthony Tony Ducks Corallo. From there the succession gets a bit crazy. Tony Ducks, convicted of Rico charges, goes to prison, sentenced to life.  From behind bars he presides through a pair of candidates most deserving the title of boss: enter Vittorio Little Vic Amuso and Anthony Gaspipe Casso.  Although Little Vic becomes Boss after being nominated by Casso, it is Gaspipe really calling the shots, at least until he joins Little Vic behind bars.
Amuso-Casso begat Louis Louie Bagels Daidone, who begat the current official boss, Stephen Wonderboy Crea.  According to legend, Boss Crea got his nickname from Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, a certain part of his prodigious anatomy resembling the baseball bat hand-carved by Roy Hobbs. To me this sounds a bit too literary, given the family’s SRI Lexile/Reading Performance Scores, but who am I to mock my peoples’ lack of liberal arts education?

Begat begat Begato. (I goof on you, kind reader. Always liked the name Begato in the context of Bible-flavored genealogy. Mille grazie, King James.)

Lewisburg Penitentiary has many distinguished alumni: Whitey Bulger (1963-1965), Jimmy Hoffa (1967-1971) and John Gotti (1969-1972), for example.  And fictionally, you can add Paulie Cicero played by Paul Scorvino in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas, not to be confused with Paulie Walnuts Gualtieri played by Tony Sirico from the HBO TV series The Sopranos. Nor, do I refer to Paulie Gatto, the punk who ratted out Sonny Corleone in Coppola’s The Godfather, you know: “You won’t see Paulie no more,” according to fat Clemenza, played by the late Richard “Leave the gun, take my career” Castellano, who insisted to the end that he wasn’t bitter about his underwhelming post-Godfather film career. I know this for a fact from one of my cousins in the Gambino Family. I also know that the one thing the actor Castellano would never comment on was a rumor that he had connections to organized crime, specifically that he was a nephew to Paulie Castellano, the Gambino crime family boss who was assassinated in 1985, outside Midtown New York’s Sparks Steak House, an abrupt corporate takeover commissioned by John Teflon Don Gotti. But I’m really starting to digress here, although I am reminded of another interesting historical personage, namely Joseph Crazy Joe Gallo, who was also terminated “with extreme prejudice” while eating dinner at a restaurant.  Confused? And finally--not to be confused with Paul Muldoon, poetry gatekeeper at The New Yorker magazine, that Irish **** scumbag who consistently rejects publication of my work. About two years ago I started including the following comment in my on-line Contact Us, poetry submission:  “Hey Paulie, Eat a Bag of ****!”

This may come as a surprise, Gentle Reader, but I am a poet, not a Wise Guy.  For reasons to be explained, I never had access to the family business. I am also handicapped by the Liberal Arts education I received, infected by a deluge, a veritable Katrina ****** of classic literature.  That stuff in books rubs off after awhile, and I suppose it was inevitable. I couldn’t help evolving for the most part into a warm-blooded creature, unlike the reptiles and frogs I grew up with.

Again, I am a poet not a wise guy. And, first and foremost, I am a human being. Cold-blooded, I am not. I generate my own heat, which is the best definition I know for how a poet operates. But what the hell do I know? Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon doesn’t think much of my work. And he’s the ******* troll guarding the New Yorker’s poetry gate. Nevertheless, I’m a Poet, not a Wise Guy.  I repeat myself, I know, but it is important to establish this point right from the start of this narrative, because, if you don’t get that you’re never going to get my story.

Maybe the best way to explain my predicament—And I mean PREDICAMENT in the sense of George Santayana: "Life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament." (www.brainyquote.com), not to be confused with George’s son Carlos, the Mexican-American rock star: Oye Como Va, Babaloo!

www.youtube.com/watch?v...YouTube Dec 20, 2011 - Uploaded by a106kirk1, The Best of Santana. This song is owned by Santana and Columbia Records.

Maybe the best way for me to explain my predicament is with a poem, one of my early works, unpublished, of course, by Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon:

“CRAZY JOE REVISITED”  
        
by Benjamin Disraeli Sekaquaptewa-Buonaiuto

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.

To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.

“Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell
Joseph Gallo, AKA: "Joey the Blond."
He was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,

That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)

“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .

They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table--normally a serene table--
At Umberto’s Clam House.

Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umberto's Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com)
In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.

Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

(Again, Martin Scorsese getting it exactly right, This time in  . . . Casino (1995) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0112641/Internet Movie Database Rating: 8.2/10 - ‎241,478 votes Directed by Martin Scorsese. With Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci, James Woods. Greed, deception, money, power, and ****** occur between two  . . . Full Cast & Crew - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards - ‎(1995) - IMDb)

Given my lifelong, serious exposure to and interest in German philosophy, I subscribe to the same weltanschauung--pronounced: veltˌänˌSHouəNG—that governed Joey Gallo’s behavior.  My point and Mr. Gallo’s are exactly the same:  a man’s ability to make it on the street is the true measure of his worth.  This ethos was a prominent one in the Bronx where and when I grew up, where I came of age during the 1950s and 60s.  Italian organized crime was always an option, actually one of the preferred options--like playing for the Yankees or being a movie star—until, that is, reality set in.  And reality came in many forms. For 100% Italian kids it came in a moment of crystal adolescent clarity and self-evaluation:  Am I tough enough to make it on the street?  Am I ever going to be tough enough to make it on the street? Will I be eaten alive by more cunning, more violent predators on the street?

For me, the setting in of reality took an entirely different form.  I knew I had what it takes, i.e., the requisite ferocity for street life. I had it in spades, as they say. In fact, I’d been blessed with the gift of hyper-volatility—traced back to my great-grandfather, Pietro of the village of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, Italia Sud. Having visited Moschiano in my early 20s and again in my late 50s, I know the place well. The village square sits “down in the holler,” like in West Virginia; the Apennine terrain, like the Appalachians, rugged and thick. Rugged and thick like the people, at least in part my people. And volatile, I am, gifted with a primitive disposition when it comes to what our good friend Abraham Maslow would call lower order needs. And please, don’t ask me to explain myself now; just keep reading, *******.  All your questions will be answered.

Great Grandfather Pietro once, at point blank range, blew a man’s head off with a lumpara, or sawed-off shotgun. It was during an argument over—get this--a penny’s worth of pumpkin seeds--one of many stories I never learned in childhood. He served 10 years in a Neapolitan penitentiary before being paroled and forced to immigrate to America.  The government of the relatively new nation--The Kingdom of Italy (1861)--came up with a unique eugenic solution for the hunger and misery down south, south of Rome, the long shin bone, ankle, foot, toes & kickball that are the remote regions of the Mezzogiorno, Southern Italy: Campania, Basilicata, Calabria, Puglia & Sicilia. Northern politicians asked themselves: how do we flush these skeevy southerners, these crooks and assassins down South, how do we flush the skifosos down the toilet—the flush toilet, a Roman invention, I report proudly and accept the gratitude on behalf of my people. Immigration to America: Fidel Castro did the same thing in the 1980s, hosing out his jails and mental hospitals with that Marielista boatlift/Emma Lazarus Remix: “Give us your tired and poor, your lunatics, thieves and murderers.” But I digress. I’ll give you my entire take on the history of Italy including Berlusconi and the “Bunga Bunga” parties with 14-year old Moroccan pole dancers . . . go ahead, skip ahead.

Yes, genetically speaking, I was sufficiently ferocious to make it on the street, and it took very little spark to light my fuse. Moreover, I’ve always been good at figuring out the angles--call it street smarts--also learned early in life. Likewise, for knowing the territory: The Bronx was my habitat. I was rapacious and predacious by nature, and if there was a loose buck out there, and legs to be broken, I knew where to go.
Yet, alas, despite all my natural talents & acquired skills, I remained persona-non-grata for the Lucchese Family. To my great misfortune, I fell into a category of human being largely shunned by Italian organized crime: Mestizo-Italiano, a diluted form of full strength 100% Italian blood. It’s one of those voodoo blood-brotherhood things practiced by Southern European, Mediterranean tribal people, only in part my people.  Growing up, my predicament was always tricky, always somewhat bizarre. Simply put: I was of a totally different tribe. Blame my exotic mother, a genuine Hopi Corn Maiden from Shungopavi, high up on Second Mesa of the Hopi Reservation, way out in northern Arizona. And if this is not sufficiently, ******* nuts enough for you, add to the child-rearing minestrone that she raised me Jewish in The Bronx.  I **** you not. I took my Bar Mitzvah Hebrew instruction from the infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, that’s right, Meir “Crazy Rebbe” Kahane himself--pronounced kɑː'hɑːna--if you grok the phonetics.

In light of the previously addressed “impressionable years hypothesis,” I wrote a poem about my early years. It follows in the next chapter. It is an epic tale, a biographical magnum opus, a veritable creation myth, conceived one night several years ago while squatting in a sweat lodge, tripping on peyote. I

I live in a small town outside of Tampa which used to be a small farming community, and still maintains some of it's small town charm; railroad tracks and farming fields. This being said, we live right off of the main road leading in and out of Tampa, and if we were to take a right onto said road, we would hit a SuperWalmart on the right just a couple miles up.

Around January of this year, I noticed a black military helicopter flying very low, back and forth along the above mentioned road - almost as if they were surveying it. I thought it was strange because it happened several days in a row during the work week and during the same time of day - middle of the afternoon. the flight pattern was the same each day - always on the same side of the road (the Walmart side of the road) with the helicopter making it to just about where the Walmart is before turning around and coming back toward our neighborhood to the the nearest intersection - then back to the Walmart again. This all happened a few months before JH was disclosed, so while I thought it odd, there was nothing to connect the dots to - until now.

Last week as I was driving my child to school and was shocked to see that 2 ****** recognition cameras (one pointing in each direction of traffic) had been erected at each stop light along the main road. These cameras were not there the afternoon before when I picked my child up from school. During the middle of the night, during the time span of about 12 hours, these cameras had been placed all along the main road of our small community, which also runs along a railroad track and leads right up to the Walmart.

4 days ago, there was a black helicopter hovering very low over our neighborhood with a man sitting half outside of the helicopter, his legs hanging outside the door, facing our homes and pointing what appeared to be some sort of scanning device toward the homes in our neighborhood. They were so low and so close that I could have tossed a tennis ball to them and they would have caught it. I noted that this helicopter activity also occurred during the middle of the afternoon, and on a weekday (when most folks are at work and would maybe not notice this type of activity). This continued for almost 10 minutes, rattling my windows and my nerves.

2 days ago a Sheriff's helicopter was hovering over our neighborhood, in the same area, but above the homes instead of in front of them like the helicopter from the previous 'visit'.

Now I'll share what I saw today that makes me feel we have much less time than we thought: This morning my husband and I drove to the feed store to pick up more chicken feed - which is just a few miles up the road past the Walmart I referenced earlier. As we were driving past the Walmart I saw an unmarked beige prison bus with blacked out, bar-covered windows driving up FROM BEHIND THE BACK OF THE WALMART. With all of the talk of Walmart storing up equipment for JH and the FEMA camp round-ups, I felt that his was very noteworthy. Anyone who has seen a correctional institute bus knows that correctional institutes mark their transport buses with the name of the correctional facility they belong to - this was not marked at all.

I don't think it's a coincidence that people all over the country are reporting the same combinations at the same time (military movement - helicopters and vehicles / Walmarts / train tracks / ****** recognition cameras / FEMA prison buses - some, like the one I saw behind a Walmart).

Please everyone - get ready - get right with God. Repent. Pray. Ask God to show you how to be ready and what to do when things unfold.

Your Sister in Christ

(2pac talkin)
You know what gang violence is, mostly
And the people don't want you to hear this
Somebody shoots your family member
So of course you retaliate, You know what I mean
Same thing the you. S does except nobody even shot their family members
You know, they see that, somebody bomb a school
And all these people get killt
So the united states feel like ooh that's messed up
We gotta go show em who tha real killers
This country was built on gangs, you know
I think this country still is run on gangs
Republicans, democrats, the police department, the fbi
The cia, those are gangs, you know what I mean
The correctional officers,
I had a correctional officer tell me straight,
We the biggest gang in New York state
Straight up
[Verse:]
Supress the revolution of premeditated scheme
Introduce a drug called crack, to us ghetto teens
Got a law for raw ******, now playa what it be like?
When will ****** see they got us bleedin with three strikes
Can't seem to focus hopeless, with violent thoughts I wrote this
Got these Devils petrified, hidin from my hocus-pocus
And so I learned to earn my currency in over time (muahahaha)
Affiliated, clearly click a military mind
May God forgive us though we dwell inside a paradox
Thugged out and drug dealin, from the womb to the block
My live mind got me survivin five rounds
My forty-five got my fortified with live rounds
When ****'s thick we plot hits, when our glock spits
All hail, Out on Bail, Wrath of 2Pacalypse
Forever ghetto necessary picture food stamps
Outlaw **** ****** never left the boot camp
Chorus: Busta Rhymes
We got the real live **** from front to back
To my ****** in the world, 2Pac is back
Where my soldierz is at? (2X)
Where the **** my soldierz at?
Where my soldierz is at?
[Verse 2:]
Now I was born as a rebel, making trouble for the devil
Take this ******* ****, to a whole nother level
Can you feel me now? Armies in every city
Definition of power, players are you with me?
See the war is the profecy, survival is the strategy
Rest in peace to my comrades that deceased
(Busta Rhymes: Notorious B. I. G)
Organize these streets in time
Youll have these devils petrified of a ***** in his right mind
They tell us that we hopeless and hell bound
This for the brothers in penetentiaries jailed down
I got you in my heart till tha day I die
Think of tha damage we can do, if we wasnt high
Can you picture me loc? Its a thugs wrath
Political contracts and blood baths
For Matulu Shakur up in the rikers,
Though they got you, I never let them stop me
The struggle continues
(2Pac Talkin)
Now if we do want to live a **** life and a gangsta life and all of that,
Ok, so stop being cowards and lets have a revolution
But we don't wanna do that, dudes just wanna live of character
They wanna be cartoons, but if they really wanted to do something
If they was that tough, alright, lets start our own country
Lets start a revolution, lets get out of here, lets do something
Chorus: Busta Rhymes
We got the real live **** from front to back
To my ****** in the world, 2Pac is back
Where my soldierz is at? (2X)
Where the **** my soldierz at?
Where my soldierz is at?

You can sleep at night.
I have to take tranquilizers
to stay asleep and
I'm not the one
proclaiming to be
"The Jerry Sandusky"
of the correctional facility

and I can't sleep at night.

Lately I toss and turn
thinking about the
deafening silence
after a single shot
and the dogs
left in the house to
clean up the blood
before anyone else
finds him.

Congratulations,
that you are happy with
yourself.
Congratulations,
that you are comfortable
in your
pederastic, putrid
wrinkled and washed up
skin.
Mine is white and soft,
and I can't stand
to be in it on
Mondays, Tuesdays,
Wednesday, Thursdays
and Saturdays
because half of that skin
is your skin, your brain
but
like I said,
congratulations that
you've declared your
noble head
"Grown Up" at 60, old man.

“Death Talk”

A. Language: The use of euphemism or metaphors to communicate a subtler or deeper meaning than those associated with a planner speech. Example, It Was Curtains- Which in one’s mind could mean, after they log the minute and tag your right toe; then then cover your peaceful corpse with clean white linen concealing your body from all the others until only the powerful certain selected one’s can watch your private encore show.

B. Music: Themes of loss and death are heard in all the musical styles. It has been suggested that death imagery rock music helped break the taboo against public mention of death. Music artists also use their talents to send out a message that somehow we all can one way or another understand and relate to.

C. In literature: The meaning of death is often explored as it relates to society as well as the individual in the form of a poem or novel. Jahan Ramazani says, “The poetry of mourning for the dead assumes in the modern period an extraordinary diversity and range, incorporating more anger and skepticism, more conflict and anxiety than ever before”. It is also how I have a safety valve after everything that I take part in. Yes some of my written works are insane but I also have a deep feeling of respect and honor along with dignity when preparing a passed loved one onto there next journey.

2. “Theoretical Perspectives”

A. Structural Functionalism- Society controls individuals through physical and material restraints, but its true power derives from moral authority. Moral authority is experienced as an external force, which takes on a sacred quality because it is experienced as unlike ordinary forces and objects. Religion arises out of ritual. It is in religious rituals that society’s moral power is most clearly felt and where moral and social sentiments’ are strengthened and renewed. All death rituals, irrespective of their substance, operate to sustain common sentiments.

B. Symbolic Interaction- is how people learn in a society to continue to and carry their specific customs and beliefs, through interactions with other members within their society by learning the practice they were taught, grew accustomed and to witness growing up.

C. Social Learning- When it comes to the topic of death along with the feelings of grief and loss, there is no singular way that an individual copes with the emotions that persist. Death is a very difficult topic to deal with, and at best we can really only hope to learn all about it. Understanding it is an undertaking all by itself, and becoming an expert on such a topic is not something that many people can say is an easy topic to talk all about. One learns social learning through demonstrations, verbal instructions and through symbolic witnessing by means of movies, television, internet, literature, and radio through music.

3. “Subcultural differences in Death Customs”

When thinking of some different subcultural differences in death customs the Asian’s African. Hawaiian an Native Indian population come to mind because although in each geographical area they all may look the same, they are actually differ in their customs because there unique tradition. Say where one group may only bury as to where the next group close only by cremation and etc… One could also think that it could be both sides of the coin when you think as to the point of it being either a comforting experience or an anxiety producing event. In my opinion it all depends all upon the individual.

4. “Myself vs. Students (quoted on taking Death and Dying Class)

After reading the students comments from taking the course on Death and Dying, I would have to agree with the consensus that I believe that a greater majority of students would have a total different way of thinking and would seek a greater outlook on their own lives along with having a better appreciation of live in general upon completing such a course.

I also think that taking a course on Death and Dying as possibly a requirement for a consideration on an early discharge from the Correctional System could lead to positive results and crime rates would then drop. Statics prove that within the prison population there are a vast number of inmates who suffer from depression of a loss of some kind that spans all crimes that are committed and is a contributing factor to their actions.

As for me, the new values that could be obtained after taking such a course were already instilled within me for many years and until recently those values have then manifested themselves and then slowly then came into true contrast.

Within the endeavors I am now slowly undertaking pursuing a degree in Mortuary Science and in the process after witnessing all that is truly entailed, I often ponder and think to myself, what is it that I can do different so I don’t meet my time anytime soon, and how can I also have many more memorable moments with my children? Because, all the gifts I have already have received now makes me wonder how many more rewards now wait around the next corner. I feel that the life I now feel I must live one should be able to be able to enjoy a comfortable one that I now dream of and if pursued diligently with a positive outlook one can harness such a life and I truly feel it is now finally, at my fingertips

Thank You for your time reading. I put a lot into this assignment.

(SirCARSr. 4-3-14)

So let us now place monetary value on information.
Let us return to the source,
Mining & prospecting that fertile intel seam.
To wit: WWII and G-2 shenanigans.
Wild Bill and OSS-capades,
Artificial disseminations.
Partial recriminations.
And PSYOPS:
A literary nightmare--
THE CYCLOPS from The Odyssey,
For example,
If you lack your own,
Your own personal Bogey Man.
Or men. For me:
Allen Dulles or Richard Helms.

The Intelligence Community:
It was a small tightly knit crew,
Less than battalion strength in 1942;
A few myopic soldiers,
Who, although could barely type,
Were still too cerebral to
Waste as infantry fodder.
It was a huge converted Army-green warehouse,
Space strategically partitioned,
Sectioned off into cubicle-like spaces,
By giant 4-drawer file cabinets
Standing tall like MPs,
Sentinels & Guardians,
Monuments to pre-electronic storage,
Data relatively comprehensive, and an
Archive secretive & intimidating.

Within the Army-green incunabula,
Scattered throughout the intel landscape,
Here and there a few commissioned officers,
A smattering of college psychology majors,
Personalities with predilections,
And penchants for mind games.
These self same WWII vets,
Would morph into Cold War Mad Men.
Stalwart, stouthearted men of Eisenhower,
And J. Walter Thompson,
De-mobbed, as they say in the UK.
Consumptive.
Self-indulgent,
Particularly when it came to the kids;
Children of the peace,
Called Baby-Boomers,
An entire generation enabled & destroyed.
Who would produce little of value
Except medical marijuana and
Coupons, clipped by that sober ruling class—
Fat interest-bearing college-loan portfolios
Held by that neo-Calvinist Elect: The 1%.
Fat cats one and all,
Loaded dice & canasta cronies--
In concert a stacked deck,
“Una mano lava l'altra.”
The words of my namesake--
My grandfather Giuseppe--
His vowels reverberating,
Rattling in my dreams.
Not friends, but
Fiends in high places, like
The Fed and dark liquid pools.
Thank you, Barack, for
Fooling us again.
For giving us
“Belief we can believe in.”

But I digress.
It was when the Government Secrecy Act,
In all its transnational incarnations,
Embraced capitalism in a big way,
Elevating the ideology to whole-Earth saturation,
Systemizing the ethos of Darwin,
Into one global Moby ****,
One solitary leviathan,
A multi-level marketing labyrinth,
Where wealth is the end game--
Greed: pure, unbridled & unrestrained.
Bond--James Bond—
Did his bit, supplying catchy
Slogans & tag-lines:
“For Your Eyes Only.”
“On a need to know basis.”
“Confidential Information.”
“Top & Ultra-Top Secret.”
“Hush, Hush & a Bag of Chips.”

The sealed letter sits in a locked drawer,
In that stout desk,
In the Oval Office
In The White House,
“To be opened by my VP in the event of my death.”
Another staggering work,
Of achy-achy-heart breaking genius,
The culture commoditized,
A disease containing its own cure,
Assayed, graded,
Portioned & packaged.
Priced accordingly,
To a logic that goes something like:
“Anything this tightly controlled,
Anything the government deems to be
This illegitimate and/or & secret
Must be really, really God-awesome,
Must really be Da ******* Bomb.”

Brother Coolidge was right:
“The Business of America is Business.”
And INFORMATION:
“The Most Valuable Commodity on Earth.”
So said Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III,
19th Century robber baron, and
Consummate Fat Cat.
Get the picture:
We were smoking cigars and sipping cognac,
Mighty comfortable in leather armchairs,
Muted billiard clicks,
Punctuating the atmosphere
In this spacious lounge,
His East Side
Downtown & private
Manhattan club.
I, his guest, had not the slightest idea
Why I was there.
"By God, man," he went on,
My eyes speared by his laser gaze,
His bushy eyebrows,
His monocle.
His bulbous nose;
His thick wet mustache.
And those EYES:  
Those crazy,
Insane eyes.

"I am talking about a profound change,” he continued.
“Back when the steamship
Gave way to electronic wireless radio."
He puffed smoke,
Removing the cigar from his mouth,
Holding it,
Examining it critically for a moment.
"I'm talking about communication,
Instant communication
With business associates, &
Cronies far away,
Way out there,
Far beyond the places we know well.
Picture it:
You're running a fleet of
Ramshackle Filipino banana boats,
Out of some nameless cove,
Indenting the south coast of Mindanao.
A cyclone comes out of nowhere.
Good God--there’s sixteen banana-packed
Coal burners lying on the bottom of the Celebes Sea.
Think about it:
You've got telegraph radio.
Everyone else has the post office.
Now, I ask you:
‘Who's going long,
Who’s getting rich on the
Caracas Banana Exchange?’
Good Lord, man, it would be
Like being omniscient!"
“This very conversation,” he went on,
“Could well be a verbatim transcription
Of a conversation right here in this very room,
Between people like: J. Pierpont Morgan
And some lesser Gilded Age nabob;
Some Astor, some Rockefeller,
A Gould or Vanderbilt,
Whitney or Duke,
Some Frick or Warburg--
To name just a few, old sport.”
He stopped suddenly.
He looked down at his hands,
As we both realized he had counted these names
Out on his fat curled fingers.
He looked at me and smiled.
I was afraid.
Why had I been invited to this meeting?
I smiled back at him,
Doing my best to mirror his
Carnivorous menace.

I knew it.
He knew it.
He knew I knew it.
Mr. Whitehead’s growling rabid jowls,
His slobbering canine smile held me steady.
“Okay. Touché. ‘Ya got me.”
He shook off the phony smile,
An absence, accentuating
His stare: lethal, carnal & rare.
“I never had much formal schooling.
I’ve been hungry.
Hungry enough to know for sure
That the correct fork,
Don’t mean ***** from shinola.
When I’m dining out, fancy-like,
Me manners is the least of me problems,
Far less important than
The dinner chit they
Hand me after I slake
My thirst & appetite.”
Again, he stopped suddenly,
Recognizing that, perhaps,
He’d revealed too much of his
Bedford-Stuyvesant pedigree.
He turned again and stared at me.
“None of that,” he said.
“None of that means squat to me, Boyo.
What matters now is I’m rich.
I’ve got mine, By God,
And ******* It!
Tough ***** on the rest of you losers;
The rest of you fecking whiners can go
**** yourselves over at Zuccotti Park.”
He pounded the armrest,
The padded armrest of the rich Corinthian leather—
( . . . ***, Ricardo?
Get your Montalbán
Mexicano ***, back in
Random Access Memory Land,
Where you belong.
**** ya’ Fantasy Island
Hospitality, Mr. Roarke,
Go be wrathful Khan Noon Singh,
Somewhere else.
Now is not the time, or,
Let me rephrase that:
This narrative will not allow your meme here . . .)    

Whitehead pounds the armrest again.
“My point is this:  
None of JP Morgan’s decidedly,
un-nattering lesser nabobs of negativity . . .”
BAM!  Again, he pounded the leather . . .

(Back in your ******* hole, Spiro!
Do you realize just how far back,
Just how far back
Maryland’s reputation
Has been set back by your venality?
Not to mention any shot at ethnic assimilation,
The rest of us grease ball non-Wasps
Have in this country?
You ******* Greek!)

I stopped thinking
When I realized Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III
Was reading my mind.
“So that’s what it’s really all about,” he said,
Rank smugness in his voice.
“So, I’m just a nouveau riche upstart,
A socially inept parvenu,
Yet they still let me
Join their tony clubs.
It chaps your ***, Boyo, don’t it?
I’m still Scotch-Irish, and
A WASP, Laddie.
Something your skinny
Greaser-Guinea-****-Spaghetti-*** ***,
Ain’t ever gonna be.”
But I digress, again.

So I joined one of Uncle Sam’s
Lesser-known clandestine services,
An assignment appropriate to my ethnic identity,
Namely GLADIO in Italy,
A NATO stay-behind operation &
Cold-War comedy.
I infiltrated the Brigate Rosse.
I drove the Aldo Moro kidnap vehicle.
I cooked minestrone for General Dozier.
I sliced off J. Paul Getty’s ear in Calabria.
Ironically, I lost my hearing during
The Stazione Bologna bombing.
I am consequently pensioned off,
Off both the radar and the payroll.
Years later now,
I live in one of those gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55, sunny southern California
Lunatic asylums.

Most days I am drunk at 9 AM.
I fill Bukowski mornings,
Conjuring up Jane Fonda,
Jazzercised in camo spandex.
She is high atop a Vietcong tank in Hanoi.
Or Daniel Ellsberg
Enjoying a second act in American politics,
Praising Snowden & Assange,
& Bradley Manning,
I summon up the ghosts of
Julius & Ethel,
Benedict Arnold,
Rose of Tokyo & Mata Hari—
And Ezra exiled at Rapallo,
And John Walker Lindh,
A Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Born in Washington,
District of Columbia,
By way of Afghanistan,
Taliban Americano,
Kangaroo-courted,
Presently residing at the
Federal Correctional Institution
At Terre Haute, Indiana.
Spies.
Traitors.
Saboteurs.
And Poets?
No longer capable of keeping secrets.
Desperate now to tell
The truth.

Everybody in Russia loves Vladimir Putin.
In the years since he muscled his way to the top of the tree, he has established himself as the Champion of all Russia!

In the degradation following the collapse of the USSR, national pride in Russia spiralled down to an all-time low, there was little to be proud of. The satellite nations fled to independence abandoning the Rodina,  Agricultural and industrial production fell dramatically, law and order diminished dangerously. The economy shrank and the order of success in business depended largely on connection with Government and/or the Mafia. The Oligarchs became monstrously rich, the average Ivan monstrously poor. Life savings were rendered worthless overnight by the plummet of the value of the rouble. Russian society polarised from the ecstatically happy, filthy rich to the chronically unhappy, beggared poor.

Russian leadership staggered from Gorbechev’s democratisation through Yeltsin’s alcoholism to Andropov’s sudden death…. enter the fray Vladimir Putin.

Putin tightened the reins.
He organised regular payment of wages and salaries to the movers and shakers, the police and the military.
He changed the rules of doing business within the nation and made investment opportunities within Russia available to outside interests.
He took charge and commandeered discipline within the ranks of central Government.
He set about correctional treatment for the terrorists/freedom fighters in the Chechen Republic and elsewhere.
He raised the expectations of the common man and gave the people an element of promise for Russia’s tomorrow.
He invaded and took back the Crimea as legitimate Russian sovereignty.
He garnered the roaring support of the six million ethnic Russians domiciled in the Eastern region of the Ukraine.

Putin now stands, bare chested, astride Russia. He faces a hostile but cowed West with pale, blazing eyes and a ******* bulge in his trousers.
He is widely idolised by Russian women and admired by Russian men. He is their champion; he is believed to be their key to the future.
His nation is currently under severe trade embargo and economic sanction by Europe and the West which is hurting the strained economy right across the board.
The declining price of oil is adversely affecting Siberian oil profits and making further shale oil exploration uneconomic.
He enjoys hugely profitable Siberian natural gas pipeline sales to the Southern neighbour, China, but they watch the unfolding political landscape with careful, calculating tiger eyes.
Putin is regarded by Europe and the West as an unpredictable, serious threat who should not be unduly provoked.
Undeniably, the West, in their sour lipped manner, would be happy to see him and his Russian bear, fade quietly and permanently into the obscurity of the frozen wilds of the far Siberian tundra.

But if Vladimir Putin plays his cards well, he could actually bring the Rodina all of the benefits, glory and rewards that it seeks.
However, should he overplay his hand here, he may well crash and burn….and in doing so, could bring Russia’s dreams and aspirations crashing down with him.

Marshalg
Auckland
15 November 2014

The day is Monday, March 16th, 2015.
We are in the Idaho State Correctional Institution.
Today, the Idaho Commissioners of Pardons and Parole will decide if my ****** will be released on parole in September.

Many people come in, exchanging their I.D for their visitors' pass.
We all wait in a small L-shaped room, tense, waiting.
His family comes in, and the guard escorts them to another room.
Finally, a parole officer enters. She leads us through a metal detector.
We have to wait in the visiting room, while my ****** is brought into the hearing room.
His family goes in first, then us, along with my supporters.
The deputy calls us to order and explains what will happen.
He says his family may speak, if they have a statement.

She stands up.
"Your relation?"
"Mother."
"Go ahead."

He has managed to get his GED.
He has had his own struggles with other inmates.
He is a "good Christian boy."
He has served his time for his "non-violent crime."
I cry.

The deputy looks doubtful.
He tells the commissioners to begin.

Commissioner Bowstaff is first.
She asks him the nature of his crime, his five DORS, his lost job while inside.
She asks if he is aware of the recommendation they received.
He says yes.
She phrases her next thought carefully:
"Are you aware the interviewer described you as aloof, uncaring, and says you describe yourself as the victim?"
He seems befuddled.

Next is Commissioner Matthew.
He is a sharp looking man, and asks if he feels like his crime is "violent."
He responds.
"No."
"And yet you call yourself Christian?"
"I am Christian."
"God should be ashamed then."
His parents are shaking their heads.

Commissioner Moore.
"You minimize everything. You aren't taking responsibilities for your actions. If you can't follow the rules in here, how do we know you'll follow them out there?"
"I don't know."

Commissioner Bowstaff asks if, as the victim, I have anything to say.
I tell her yes, and she asks me to stand and state my name.
"Lauren Busdon."
"You have a minute to speak."

I tell them I am terrified to see him.
I will start my senior year in August.
His release will continue to effect my school career.
I have only just managed to speak the word "****" in the last two months.
There are other girls, so many others, who are afraid to say anything.
But they say it to me.

They dismiss us to make their decision.
I sob as we walk out of the room.

Everyone is proud of me, saying no matter what, I did my best. I was there, that's what matters now.
But what if it wasn't enough?

The deputy comes in to shake my hand.
"The commissioners have come to an agreement. Parole will be denied for 18 months, and we will meet again in September of 2016."
I laugh and my dad slams his fist on the table. My mom dissolves into tears.
"You are welcome to hear the announcement."
I say, "hell yeah I want to hear it!"

He hangs his head when they tell him.
His mother makes a strangled noise of upset.

We leave.
People are hugging me.
I am crying.
I don't know if I should be proud, or if I should just revel in the sheer joy of not having to see him for 18 months.
18 more months of freedom.
18 more months of trying to live.

poisoned well of the antichrist littered with ground cover
picking out ****** flecks of gravel
blacktop kneeskin
patience pieces of scattered space time
to go back to the future of continuity
lack of genius ingenuity
and the suckling of the pig entourage

riding in a flat top hatchback
cadillac of the daily grind
upperclassman japan onii-chan
brother in arms from anotha motha
hug from afar colliding with crackpot theory

terrible fantasia cooling bricks in soggy sun
swallowed his pride with a glass of self-worth
and these ***** don't cook like they used to
I don't look like I used to
warped veil of camouflage chameleon leather
with a ****** level of automobile salesman

tried to get closer to god
ground him up, picked out the stems
twisted him into thin paper
touched flame to his finger tip and a son of Adam was born

gum shoe gaze
or the emptiness felt at the end of reasonable doubt
correctional text messaging system
sent from hoarse corpses
tenderly poignant in their ****** coffins

will think for food
cries from an outdated MENSA
over ***** and under-appreciated
siting on hunched shoulders to get a better look
to be a martian in a plain port

wharf warehouse whaling boat
red tide in a Shanghai *******
floodgates made of bitter premise
that last bit of purple yam
**** Okonkwo
Things Fall Apart fell apart due to faded highschool ambitions and bloodshot eyes
cruel like the shade of off-cerulean

champagne fizz tickles at the soft meat of his tarnished throat
and silver tongue
as the matchstick framework
so fragile in comparison
fizzles out on drenched sidewalk
while cigarette ash floats by
like gray gnats

(A class for correctional officers
at the local community college)

Thirty-six-thousand a year to begin
No education or experience required
The recruiting posters are pretty, though:
Handsome young people uniformed in grey

But the poor sergeant can’t control his class
His students have their cell ‘phones and their ‘tudes -
“Tell Momma to pick me up like I said!” –
Slouched in their seats or wandering the halls

While dozing over her own telescreen
A fat corporal yawns by the soda machine

Alas, awakened to the glorious smell
Of grieving petrichor and lichen
Intoxicating scents of spells,
Has left my thoughts forsaken.
Aggrieved, unclean,
I wash myself in the river,
Alone again, once with my mind,
The cold water does bring a quiver.
Rushing gently across its bend,
Its current does drag along
A heartache inside a massive depth,
A misery that floods it anon.
It seeks to help wash stains of past,
Blood from mistakes without thought,
Caressing my hands as I dip them in,
It cleans at the souls I’ve wrought.
I’ve brought spite to all I’ve been,
I bathe in hatred and stigmata,
Correctional growth of paradigmatic folly,
Proves equality to tumultuous fodder.
-
There has been death here,
Drowning and sickness,
Villainous nature subjugated
To corruption and bleakness.
Disparaging remarks whispered of men,
Bring to light lost life and love,
Discouraging thoughts of mine herein,
Anticlimactic and soulless above.
The trees began to whisper,
Moving slightly in the breeze,
I thought I would move quicker,
But something that couldn’t trapped me.
-
Bringing about a fallout cloud
That kept my mind thus smoked,
It is hard to cherish anything
That the water itself could soak.
-
I wanted to leave,
But I was locked in the wood,
I began to need it,
Like any Stockholm would
The treasure trove in which I was kept,
Was something of a fairy-tale
It hid monsters, death,
And only one nightingale.
Its swansong allowed me to sleep,
Gorgeous at night, it cast in weep,
A story of one so scared, The fear of bleeding out
One day upon the growing creep.
Vines and lies surrounded me,
Its whole existence was false,
Nothing could be this natural,
And the dead forest scoffed.
-
Could there be someone else here?
Doubtful, I began my search,
Through vasts I spied, time again,
But nothing upon this earth.
The forest fell in love with my heart,
Its emotions curious to her,
She tortured me with affection,
My reality was blurred.
I found my way across her floor,
Trekking miles to a never-end.,
Purgatory does not know this pain,
Hopeless abandon, fell unto myself to fend.
A trip, a fall, unique and random,
I impaled myself with a sharp cry,
A sharp palisade jutting out, I then whispered
“What if I don’t want to die?”

Why do crime exist?
It's the community.
Who seem to accept it?

Afraid to report it.
Love to complain about it.
Even blaming law enforcement.

Who need every law abiding citizen assistance?

We aware that nobody's perfect.
Except we can't let criminals install fear within us.

Even if it's your son, daughter, friend , or cousin.

Oh, it affect all of us.
Especially the repeat offenders.
Who seem to love being held?
Or having their name linked to bail.

There's nothing great about being linked to a number.
Which you will be assigned within the correctional walls of prison.
Where you're not guarantee to receive any visitors?

Why do crime exist?
Simply because a few idiots seem to tolerate it.
Then complain to the politicians.

Who address the issues?
Then becomes linked to the problem.
When they personally commit a crime.
Then complain, they shouldn't have to serve time.
In other words.
When it's them, we should turn a blind eye.

Who made you become a ******, robber , murderer or embellezzer?
Or a ******* besides bad decision.

The world could be so much better.
If we decide to fight crime.
Don't complain about those legally with guns.
They mostly for defense to keep from being fronted with harm.

But don't cry foul.
When your child meets death from a gun trying to rob someone.

It is, what it is?
And this have nothing to deal with the second amendment.

I couldn't be a prisoner.
Sitting behind a correctional wall.
Not only thinking about the crime(s) that put them there.

While being contained by three walls, ceiling and a cage cell.
Reminscent about your girl.
As you face yourself in the mirror.

Trying to rush to the phone.
Hung upon the wall.
Requesting a visit.
And gets upset.
When she's unable to come.

Wondering sometimes,
If she found another man.

Making seventeen cent.
Or maybe thirty four.
If you're lucky to find a prison's job.

Sometimes, we held within our own confinements.
Even, in a relationship.
Where we have required times to be in?
Similar to the prisoners.
It's like our love interest is our correctional officer.

Sometimes, it's not worth being love.
When with freedom.
You feel like a convicted prisoner.

Some people accepts this fate.
Which is often a common mistake.

People skills, some have it down to a science.
Adapted to handling situation others seem oblivious too.
Which brings us to police officers in the news.

Where correctional officers must use it a lot?
Police officers hides their bravery behind a gun.
Within the confinements of prison walls most couldn't survive.

None, knows people skills, unless they had it from the start.
And most white officers hadn't learned this skilled at all.
Unless they in administration which requires more.

Yes, its a stressful job.
But so being an correctional officers too.
Where you face the same things police officers do?
And handle it more with just the tone of your voice.

Oh, you have hot heads in both division.
One feeling tough with shades and a gun?
Some feeling braver when one's hidden behind a cell.
Talking about things they would do.
Until that  same person's standing before you.

And now you must change your tune.

Instructors, advises them all cameras are upon you.
And let not the news be the judge of you.
This is mostly one battle you will lose.

So learning to talk wisely in life will truly help you.
Especially when people's skills are required.

I'm a juxtaposition, a correlation of the perverse dark and a beautiful light. I am your mark of gigantic endeavours, the tremble of the lip when you feel my tremor. I am not quite what i want you to think i am, i am a beautiful beacon of shining light, i will guide you through the storms with my gentle words and kisses. I will rip you apart, my wounds harsh, my tongue lethal, i will barrage your intimate space with your own miserable defeat. I am Constantinople, you are the pinnacle. You are nowhere to be found, yet hang in every essence of me. I am what you know you think you are, yet are too scared to find out. I am everything but a time when you thought i was....write me down and read me, i am your red pen in your correctional facility, i lost the meaning and didn't find it in you.

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.
To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.”

    “Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell

Joseph Gallo was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,
Also known as "Joe the Blond."
That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)
“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .
They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table, normally a serene table
At Umberto’s Clam House.
Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umbertos Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com) In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.
Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
*“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

Salute them.
Respect them.
For they most sworn protectors from the criminals.

They show up.
Sometimes, mainly out numbered.
Dealing with so call tough guys that placed themselves there.

See them cry, beg and talk a good games.
To various mothers, wives and lovers that makes you wonder about their brains.

They deal with grievances been alleged.
Deal with family's members , now trying to protect their child more than when they had freedom.

Deal , with lawsuits from opportunist lawyers ready at the jump o assist them.
Some of the best wealthy folks are living in prisons from lawsuits.

Correctional officers, the vocalists with skills.
No guns, just voice.
But weapons exist if need to be used to gain control.

******, robbers, thieves and more.
All correctional officers see them all.
And yes, some are not the best.

Then even they eventually get arrested.

Respect them that protects you daily behind the walls of prison.

My thoughts are a prison

My imagination a stockade

All that I am and all that is
Contained within me a bastille

My room is a correctional institution

My home is mandatory confinement

This community is a reformatory

These sidewalks, these streets and
the road side signs a penitentiary

The television, the radio, the news
and all the crap they want me to
buy is a jail

The lines and borders drawn on a map, policies,
politics, governments and religions
are a fenced pen

The forests, deserts, rivers, streams,
lakes, hills, swamps, marshes, mountains
and oceans are a cell

This planet, its moon, the stars and galaxies
are a vault

The universe contains me
It restrains me
There is no escape

An Inmate who escaped from prison
A reason forming Treason
The Inmate killed and robbed an innocent man
He was sentenced to 30 Years
But now the Inmate has a penalty of arrears
The Inmate escaped from Sing Sing Correctional Prison in Ossining, New York
The Inmate escaped from the prison during the night
Announcement was made but has the entire community in fright
Helicopters searched throughout the night using spotlights
But no trace of the Inmate in sight
Now the Inmate needs a getaway ride in order to hide
There was an idled Greyhound Bus parked in the parking lot
The Inmate felt the Greyhound Bus would be his plot
But I am sure once the Inmate is caught he will received a tightened knot
However, I didn’t tell you, the Inmate was a Former Tractor Trailer Truck Driver so driving a Greyhound Bus would be a piece of cake
Perhaps give or take
So the Inmate started the bus and headed for the thruway
But Greyhound already knew where the bus was since they have a tracking device that is connected to the Company’s Command Communications Center
So the authorities are on alert
The Greyhound bus of course was stolen
The Inmate has no idea that Greyhound Bus 4902 is on record and is all over the airwaves
Helicopters were able to pick up the trace what the Inmate didn’t realize
What a surprise?
So the New York State Patrol was apprehending
Suddenly so abrupt, the Inmate pulled the Greyhound bus off Exit 17 on the New York Thruway
Now you could imagine, the New York Patrol is now going to be mean
As the Greyhound bus moving side too side on the Thruway, the bus had a slight lean
Now the Inmate only has one chance, he can either continue or give up and come clean
So he continued
But moments later, the Inmate was caught
Now Greyhound’s slogan was always, “Go Greyhound and Leave the Driving to us”
But the Inmate may have changed those words to “Go Drive and Leave the Driving to anyone”
A hounding confess
No it was a test
I guess the Inmate would have said it best.

You must be brave without a gun.
To be brave with one.
In law enforcement you're serving a purpose.

You upholding a position of authority.
When you have a badge and a gun.

Within prison correctional officers aware of that danger.
Taught to read body reaction and vocal tone and ****** expression.
Because they have less than you do.

If you nervous when approaching a subject.
Then fear rules your heart although you have a badge and a gun.
Then you should wait for back up before approaching anyone.

Let not the gun place you in danger to hurt or be hurt.
But to protect.
Many officers wear that badge and earn various forms of respect.

Ya Know .....

It Truly is ... INCREDIBLE ... !!!

The Effect of seeing a ... " FlexibLe " ...
WOMAN ... who is ... " ****** " ... !!!!!!!!!

By This ... I mean ...
She's ... Credible ...
cos' her mind's ... BEYOND .........................................................

A ... Vegetable ...
with A ***' ... that's Far From ................................... Spherical ........ !!!

STRONG and ... FIRM ... !!!
cos' she makes it ... Work ...
in ways ... " Most girls " ...
Now Choose ... to ... shirk .........................................

Especially in ...
Those ... " Maturing " ... years ...

Where ... Staying Thin ...
Demands ... Shifting ... gears ...
and ... Exercising ... !!!!! ...

I met a girl ... Today ...
who made me ... Feel This Way ... !!!

We've Met .... Before ...
but it's ...... been a .......................................... while .................

You ... Know The Score ....
Kinda' like ... Her Style ... !?!

Got her ... " Digits " ...
WITHOUT ... Blinking ... !!!

Could this be where ... ?
Incredible ... Dares ...
to start to ... Share ...
What it is ... to ... Find ...
someone who ... Binds ...
with you ... for ... LIFE ... !!?!!

An INCREDIBLE ... Thing ... !!!
Like ... " Chance Meetings " ... ???

That ... make you think ....

" How Crazy is this ?!? "

Time will ... TELL .....................................

But it's ... " Tenable " ... ?!?
cos' our timing seemed ...

.... IMPECCABLE .... !!!!!!!!

But .... Moving on ......
WITHOUT ... Love Songs ... !!!

It's INCREDIBLE ... How ...
These words ... Expound ... !?!

Because of ... " Something ' ...
that could be ... Nothing ...

Yeah .....
The Mind's ... INCREDIBLE ... !!!
when thoughts become ... PLENTIFUL ...
and you "EMBRACE" ... Your ... Mental ...
in ways ... NOT ... Detrimental ... !!! ...

It's ... " Almost like " ...
A ... " Stencil " ...

Enabling us to ...
.... " Pencil " ....

Our Next Move and ...
... " Assemble " ...

A way to ...
Groove and REVEL ... !!!
As if you'd won ...
A ... Medal ... !!! ...

This verse is ... Existential ...
or just ... " Experimental " ... ???

Like ....
" New Techniques of " ... Dental ...

Involving ...

" New " ... Utensils ... !!!

This verse has ... " Rhyme Potential " ..
to earn myself ... " Credentials " ...
Instrumental and ... ESSENTIAL ... !!!!!
in showing just how ... SPECIAL ...

The use of words ... CAN BE ... !?!

Incredible ... INDEED ... !!!

Through use of ... " Poetry " ...

" Professional " ... " Exceptional " ...
Contextual ... " Collectibles " ...

Commendable ... " Indelible " ...
Credible ... and ... " Seminal " ...

You just wait and .... See ... !!!

Delectable ... Digestable ...
and Legible ... to Read ...

Prophetical ............................. ?

" Maybe " ......... ?!?

when speaking ...
About ... " Scenes " ..............................

Accesible in .... " Dreams " ....

Dreams of ... " Future Themes ............................

That change how ... " We Now Be " ...

REPREHENSIBLE ... INFLEXIBLE ... !!!

Susceptible ....
to ... GREED ... !!!!!

and acts Defined as  ... TERRIBLE ... !!!!!!

By ... Hypocrites Mostly ... !!!

The .....
" Electable " ... INTELLECTUALS ...

CONTEMPTIBLE ...
I Believe ... !!!!!! ...

Whose ... " Sentinels " ...
Directional ....
Points to .... Facilities ...

CORRECTIONAL ... " Man PLEASE !!! " ....

Their ... " Receptacles " ...
NEED ... " Medical " ...

So that ....
They can ... Receive ...

A ... " Congressional " ... REPRIEVE ... !!!

FREE OF ............................................................."Fal­lacies" ...... !!!!!

" Recessional " ... and Decimal.
According to ... " MP's " ... !?!

and Leaders .... INTERNATIONAL ...
Who Claim to be ... " Quite Rational " ...
when sending ...  " EXPENDABLE " ... Teams ... !!!
to make SPECTACLES ... Overseas ... !!! ...

Fit For ... " Flatscreen TV's " ... !!!
or YES ... for ... " Movie Screens " ... !!!!!

That Line ... would seem ... ?
to be a ... Connectable Seam ...
to some ... " Expendables 3 " ... !!!

But Before ... I end ...
This ..... Festival .....

of wordplay ... " Intertextual " ...

Has this been ... " Hypothetical " ... ?
or what's called ... Existential ... ?!?

Well ...
What It's ... NOT ...

Is ... ****** ... !!!!!

because it's from ... " My Mental " ...
and a meeting ... " Incidental " ..............................

That ...
Somehow got ... CEREBRAL ...

" Poetic and " ...
Quite Regal ...

Exhibiting to ... People ...

How my ... UNQUENCHABLE ...
THIRST ... is ... Exceptional ... !!!

for verse that's ..... Credible ....
Respectable and ... SENSIBLE ... !!!

But NOT THIS WORD ...... !!!!!!

... " Lamentable " ... !!!

YES It's ... " Intellectual " ...

Comprehensible and ... Connectable ...
because it flows like .... Ventricles ........................................................

It also is ... Commendable ...
and ... I'd say ... INCONTESTABLE ... !!!!!

When saying ....

" It's Incredible "

I am now 38.
Justice shouldn't be a courthouse debate.
We shouldn't have to wait.
To be successful to feel great.
Never will I ever forgive who I hate.
Hopefully I will get married before forty.
I have no self pity or a complex of "poor me".
A truth you can feel but not see.
The old lady filed a restraining order against me.
To keep me from my only family my baby.
The custody case dragged on a year & a half until never replaced maybe.
She kidnapped my child.
Portrayed me as mental & wild.
The Madge Bradley Building mediator Georgia Mansury didn't believe my story in 2006 when she took my daughter away from me & gave her to my mom.
The family courthouse should blow up like a bomb.
I know I am in her best interest.
Ariel's mom she had missed.
The town of North Clairemont in San Diego.
A place friends never go.
We went to Alcott Elementary school.
Laws can't protect the ****** from rules.
We lived at 3266 Idlewild Way.
A place I am glad we no longer stay.
True story the police said it was a low priority case.
The future can't make the past erase.
I called them 20 years later.
So the reason my mom & why I hate her.
So I hung up & said "nevermind".
Somewhere evil still exists in this place & time.
They said it would take a really long time.
A nightmare of mine.
When I was 12 & my sister was nine.
We got ***** 365 times times 4.
A stranger showed up at our door.
He had a metallic blue helmet & motorcycle.
He got us bicycles.
She never had a clue.
His execution is long overdue.
My mom moved in a pedofile.
To live with us 3 or 4 years for awhile.
I think he had been on Americas Most Wanted for escaping from a correctional facility.
Monsters like him don't get any pity.
He said if we told anyone he would **** us.
His felonies were never a bust.
Registered or unregistered.
*** offenders should never get parolled.
They should stay locked up til their dead & old.
In mexico or anywhere else children's *** is not something that should be sold.
I hated my life.
No one ever asked me to be their wife.
She bought him cartons of cigarettes & beer.
My dad she had kicked out that year.
My dad died at 81 in 2009 I told him the truth before.
How a child molestor made us his *****.
He made me carry dead fish from the tank in my hand to the toilet.
It traumatized me bit by bit.
My life has become ****.
He strangled the dog next door with his own leash.
Nobody knew about our grief.
Justice has no relief.
When he went away.
We could go out & play.
After that all new days he hadn't had his way.
My mom told me to touch his **** telling me it was okay that it was just skin.
I never did. I knew it was an illegal sin.
He whipped us with his belt for being late.
I was unsure of my future fate.
Being there was not happy or fun.
My mom bought him a gun.
Where would we go if we had run.
He spit in my cereal is the rest.
He ****** on my toothbrush I detest.
He choked my sister to death.
He ressitated her she told her teacher.
The police never knew to reach her.
1988 our lives got ruined.
The damage is congruent.
1991 was when the **** ended.
Children got sexually offended.

Oh there they go again with reporting news for dramatic effect
Showcasing the young black youth.
Showcasing the young male Latino quickly upon the news.

Without fairness to report the youth/older white male for being a *******.
Numbers shows , they rule that route of crimes.

Showcasing the dealer on the street.
But not showcasing the well paid secretary or executive purchasing the drugs.
Or white politicians using schemes to serve time.
What many call the deal killer?
Using excuses after excuses to be a committed member of the correctional services.

All because, they need the poor for news dramatic effect.

Obviously, the ones with the guns think they secure.
Until they ****** by their own family in the neighborhood.

If you have it.
You could go into any situation and talk your way out of it.
If you have it.
You make a good doctor/lawyer/negotiator.

If you have it.
You truly make a great correctional officer.
And mostly likely to avoid the trouble that comes to others.

Yes, yes people skills.
Which is a different form of body language that has its purpose.
We ALL have it.
Might not have the control skills to use it.

Yes, people skills.
The ability to leave someone feeling comfortable.

Agony Bearing My Serenade (Opus 1)

Cruel  is the flow of time
Like a river's flow
Life can be a never ending hardship
For people die everyday
The pain continues
As our dirt roads hit constant bumps
Sometimes we don't see the path
We're lost in the dust storm called regret
We try to wish for better
But wishful thinking usually bears agony and loss  
When I was young and innocent I was blind  
To the perpetually cold world


Claronim Hominum Morte (Opus 2)
Genocide overseas
Global pollution
We strive for better
Through struggle we all attempt success as we face the truth and stop hiding in a shadow
Society isn’t built to fail
The correctional system isn’t a bail
and politicians just kiss ***
and philosophers spew their rhetoric and tales
This world is selling itself to the devil
As we shake with the treble of life
We keep pulling forward
In a syncopated march to death



The False Illusion of Spring (Opus III)
False Images of hope
Seen in the flower petals
The colors will die
Just like us
You just have to wait
It's kind of like a tease
Nature's tease
Please- nothing lasts forever
I just wish people would see
Inside themselves enough to know
Will fate will eventually come
Unlike seasons
We only get one chance- how will you change the world

Painting Pictures of Society (Opus IV)
Our societies corrupt
Illegal drugs thugs
And prostitution
It makes me so sad to see
The girl next door transforming to a streetwalking ***** help society change for better
Don’t rule the world- Don’t let the world rule you


Media Bastardization (Opus V)
Stop brainwashing us with opinions
Give us the facts
Stop telling us lies  
Fill the cracks
Liberal
Conservative
Tell us the truth
FYI- nothings fact unless proven, know to know just what you believe

The Solemnly Played Notes of Regret (Opus VI)
It strikes a chord
When one does hoard
Knowledge for himself
Instead of sharing
And caring
He chooses to be an introvert
And he's smart
But introversion will hurt because he is choosing to stay silent  


Talk it Out (Opus VI)
Got a problem with someone  
Talk it out
Make it better
Words can severe heads together
To solve the world’s problems

WELL AREN'T YOU THE QUEEN OF SOMETHING OR ARE YOU THE PRINCESS OF CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTIONS

i can't tell
the world makes less sense
through a tinted lens

Look at this sweetheart, his handcuffed wrists wrestling
Casting his cries on the clouds of Cleverack Correctional
Fighting a soul as fierce as his targeted arrow
That he only felt in his flesh firing his crossbow
What if you needed violence to get emotional?
Despising the very day you came into being?

His skies were probably as blue as a sodalite
But yet you kicked him out of the path of Light
In your fake flawlessness, you threw him into Hell
You denied his delights, he became your fallen angel
Eva, don’t you complain, your son has slain, you paranoid
His classmates, but you wanted to fill your life from this void

We need to talk about you before we look at the killer
Eva. You bear the name of the first woman on Earth
Do you think she could have begotten a monster in her hearth
Aren’t you this sick America, wicked and weary in your woes
You wanted your baby to call you his beloved mother
But destroying what you had become became his vicious vows

And he was on the list. You never read the map correctly
Maybe he was your final destination, your last addiction
You are right when you write that you never found the solution
To the cunning curio he represented- of him you took a dimly
View. But did you once look back in his eyes, lit with desperation?


‘’What do you mean, special?’’ probably is the answer
To his enigmatic and yet so crystal clear
“I used to think I knew," " Now I'm not so sure.”
That inspires nothing but a fantastic fear
To the courageous and curious reader
Can you still feel this unhinged pressure?

Oullins, France
May, 21, 2014
After watching the 2011 We need to talk about Kevin movie and reading Lionel Shirver’s book.