Dear Sirs,
He loved your magazine.
At night
it took him to places
where he could never go,
to warm and smiling lands,
to adventures in the paradise of his dreams.
He met happy friendly people,
who enjoyed life,
who had lives,
people who went
where they wanted
to do
what they pleased,
people who had no care
but for the next experience,
the ultimate daiquiri
the best bite of lobster,
who dealt with weighty questions
about
the marbling of steak,
the proper age of spring lamb,
the quality of truffles in Perigord.
He lay awake
at night
and wondered
about the snow depth in Aspen,
about climbing the Matterhorn,
about accommodations in Katmandu.
He imagined
Malay shadow play
on the ceiling of his house,
smiling Sherpas serving steaming tea
on the blue ice glaciers of Mt. Everest.
He dreamed
of
finger dancing in Chang Mai,
outrigger races in Tahiti,
a mysterious rendezvous
on the Orient Express,
lazy boat rides
on the Danube,
a visit
to Kafka’s house.
He loved your magazine.
He loved its’ breadth,
it’s many pages,
it’s thick cover.
He liked to tape it
to his chest
in the morning
when his house slammed open,
when he lock-stepped to the yard.
He felt its comforting girth
a glossy pulp breastplate
armor for a paladin
in a savage island’s
waking nightmare
of
numbing terror,
grinding fear,
sudden death.
He strolled about the yard
in sunlight without warmth
nodding to devils he knew
ignoring the ones he didn’t
deflecting their knowing looks.
Defense was automatic:
prison is a universe of deceit,
lies are the coin of its realms,
in the market place of its interactions
charlatans abound and falsity reigns
undisturbed by facts or connection
to an outside world.
A man can be
whoever he chooses.
Behind the walls
it only requires
imagination.
The best liars
present a blank façade.
a conscious mirror reflects nothing.
it lies without effort.
But,
behind the reflection,
the liar dreads
front street’s abhorrent truths;
weaknesses revealed
raw nerves exposed
by
dueling tongues’escalation.
Under constant observation
in a search lit world
touche
means more than point.
Face is
the sole possession of the ******.
Loss of face is an injury to the soul.
Shame
triggers combat
mean street’s rock ‘n roll
the back alley ballet
injured egos’
minuet d’mort.
And so the duet began;
two bored men
picking at the scabs
of each others weaknesses
each wound answered with another.
Their hot blood’s impassioned words
attracted schooling convicts cruising the yard.
The observers circled ominously
the hint of ******
a carnal lure.
No one chose sides
it was a private affair.
Crocodilian eyes peered
out of the non-committal murk
awaiting a feast of suffering
reflexively prepared
to slide into the mix,
to make turbulent
the stagnant pool
of prison life.
Fury’s moment
relieves the boredom.
A crowd of cruel eyes
illumined the arena.
Fangs flashed
in their savage attentions’ glare.
Contending wills
weighed
by a deadly balance
clashed
with the gnash of steels.
Shanks fenced
point counterpoint.
A gladiator fell
his heart punctured
by a screwdriver blade.
The writhing form
grew still.
Life soaked the concrete.
Blood brought bedlam,
a contagious frothing madness,
goons, gunfire, and choking gas,
a grim entertainment’s finale.
Laughter and derisive shouts,
the demons’ choral refrain,
were funeral music
for a loser’s journey
on a gurney to the morgue,
and the pages
of a magazine
lay scarlet on the ground,
fantasies
trampled
under sullen jealous feet.
