Thursday, May 19, 2011
the type that has all other creatures frozen in moments fond of her
a beauty that has mockingbirds directing original compositions of never before heard songs inspired by her
a sweetness that has admirers admonishing the quietest enduring longing for her
...longer and longer the pain will beckon in absence of her
as shorter and shorter the days become without the presence of her
she runs away as if and with the seasons passing
never taking root but always leaving behind an unfathomable everlasting passion
She's a wanderer
sometimes leaving those enamored with her in a whirlwind of uncertainty
yet, unfailingly, every year the snails come out still looking for a sign of hers
because she dreams up the rain that keeps them from getting too damn thirsty
shes the waterfall converting the icy winter snow into an overflowing ever-bearing and over-descriptive greenery
ever expanding the resiliency of colors within the simplest and most complex of forest scenery
leaving most of whom she comes in contact with in a battle against a shortening of breath...
only to later, in absence, resuscitate and rejuvenate those with the lingering scent of lavender
She's the wanderer of wanderers,
so she flees with such celerity on top her calloused pawed feet
yet past her hardened bottoms is the gentlest creature radiant yet meek
her precious presence being the priceless present that she herself never quite gave an inquiring consideration into
because she's been too busy conflating the fearful feeling of not wanting the burden of loss with the feeling, the rush of an everlasting proliferation break through
still, she hides herself behind layers of cynical rocks and underneath a facade of numb ledges
still... overlooking a vulgar cliff
she tries to disconnect from this place that has birthed her
freeing herself from the gifts that her mother has graced her with
See, she's the wanderer who's become tired of wandering alone
still... sometimes she feels no more significant than a murky puddle
yet before the sun gets to settle the wind takes up a rebellious rebuttal
he wraps his welcome around her in replicating the warmest of bear embraces
exposed, her face bares a nakedness that's fragile but not quite broken
she closes her eyes and begins to feel the indulgence of a smile
all the while, the wind continues with his touch
moving feverishly about her goose-bumped turned skin
weaving refreshingly in and out her dirty copper toned curls
and in one whirl she turns on one foot to spin and spin and spin
She's always been a wanderer but now she'll never be alone
because almost as soon as the wind came he left again
but this time taking her with him
she's a wanderer, always has been, and now he's the wind that will forever accompany her
Friday, October 29, 2010
A zine based on a zine I made... imagine that. It's like I'm famous, and yes it's so hard being this famous and good looking. But for reals, read it, shits good!
crazy rasberry ants
Thursday, August 12, 2010
resiliency birthed from within a beauty redefined,
I am the chaotic spits of yellow,
that ruin the trimmed green canvas of suburban yard design.
I bare within myself
A burning intent of revolutionary desire
with a flared windgust,
or from the wishes of a child's young breath, I conspire
So in time and in waves
throughout the weeks and months of days
like the regenerative wealth of a wildfire on a forest's well being and health
I stretch outwards,
simultaneously in two separate directions
down into the cold damp soil
and up into the warm skyline
But I'm not stretching for nothing
double negatives will always multiple to make a positive
so always remember that, there is no one way to grow
and so I grow
I grow radically rapid
from the roots of my rhizome; from the history of my home
from the seed that once played family
a genetic memory, a reason in this world for me to be.
but those who tower in power over me
only consider my growth to be:
terroristic to their hegemony
parasitic as their worst enemy, I'm labeled as:
as infliction upon man
and a disease upon the land
They label me an invasive species,
but they are the one's born from the bloodlines of colonizers, conquistadors, settlers and pioneers
they say I'm an illegal immigrant,
but if they were to follow their own logic and lies, that lie intertwined in law,
founded on the basis of property and ownership, they would soon see that
they are the one's on stolen land
They call me an undesirable,
and for once that might be considered a relatively good thing,
to not be directly sought after by Gilgamesh as he continues
his conquest to consume everything
They call me a weed,
and by that they simply mean, that unlike all my lost brothers and sisters
who, at one point, made the mistake, that I myself remain wild and refuse to domesticate
They label me an invasive, an illegal, an undesirable, a weed
but with cities outsretched, losing power, what do these things even mean?
She is a flawed and damaged diamond,
because she refuses to be shaved down and objectified,
hardened like so many other females from
the compounding pressures of carrying this world's weight
She has told me that, she has formed a self value that
cannot be, nor will it ever be,
anymore than her own bodily home
that's not to be confused with a homebody or a nobody
because no body except her's will own her body
her own body has been birthed from
the surrounding charcoal confines
it is within this blackness
she is able to find
her own earthly sincerity
a one of a kind strength
that forms her one of a kind shape
flawed by only a curse of uniqueness
she defends her right to not be mined
refracting light with every bit her love and rage
she resists their attempts to make her intent to resign
to their bleak manufactured blood riddened design
She is an inseparable beauty, bonded and grounded into her ancient surroundings
she remains there, contained in the mines bought by her oppressors
battling to engrain in the mind's thoughts of her oppressors
that she refuses their attempts to:
extract her into ownership
abstract her into an object
they'll hit her, break her, shape her into
the desires of what a man wants
they'll evict her from her homeland
sell her affixed upon a wedding band
to be placed on the finger of another woman's hand
who might not yet quite understand
that she, too, is absolutely priceless
and doesn't need to do this
to be hit on
to be broke in
to be shaped thin
to be forced into
what a patriarchical fuck of a man wants her to do
Yeah... she may be a diamond in the rough
but it is this same roughness
that has made her the world's toughest
so under every axe blow they swing
she remains undauntedly
proclaiming utmost passionately
"YA BASTA! YA BASTA! Enough is enough,
I will not give in, I refuse to give up!"
So, it is not until civilization gives up the notion that
it is the fittest to survive
we, dandelions and diamonds, will vehemently fight back,
undeniably with the knowledge that
we are just but two aspects of a larger world fighting to decide
not if, but when and how
we are going to take them down
The Earth is still surviving, as she always has
beholden to her own great resiliency
and resiliance has become the downtrotters biggest weaponry
because resiliance will not even be found within the gifts of civilization's viral industry
for resiliance must be born from within one's own self identity,
like a diamond from within a bed of charcoal
or a dandelion from within its own seed
we are born from the resiliancy of the natural world, of a community, of a home, of a family
the sun has started to break through this cityscape of smog
giving me the warmth I need, to finally escape into growth.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
"Sometimes it's not the stories we tell that matter, but the ones that remain untold." - a quote from someone that I either mutilated and paraphrased, or simply just made up.
Womyn in my experience, seem to be the one's mainly responsible for making doing time survivable. I'm not talking about the Cosmo and Maxim photos of womyn completely objectified behind jail cell walls. When the male inmates are done masturbating to these superimposed images they trade them out saying "I done used that bitch allready." Of course, that is not the support I'm talking about.
The womyn i'm talking about have a strength, endurance, and beauty that probably surpasses any inmate in here. The wife who writes her husband everyday even if she doesn't have much to say. The grandma (abuelita) or aunt (tia) who unfailably puts $10 a week on their family member's commissary books, even though they themselves are on an incredibly fixed income. The mom's that come and visit every weekend, no matter what, even if they are missing out on the 12:00 pm Sunday bingo. The sister's who let their addict brother use their physical mailing address as a "residence," so that when they do get released they don't have to go to half-way house for yet another six months.
The 5 foot nothing, 160 pounds of real authentic southern black women who comes by everyday to see the towell wave from her 6 foot 3, red haired, 135 pound, swastika-tattooed boyfriend. She was the only one who cared long enough to teach him real love, one that is not predicated on institutionalize racist brotherhoods.
Or the 17 year old pregnant girl, who smuggles drugs into jail for her 18 year old baby's daddy, all because the voice on the phone says if she doesn't do it, her baby's daddy will be killed.
Or the ex-wife of the now recovering, good-hearted methhead, who continues to explain to their 4 year old son that his dad is sick and in the hospital, all so that he won't grow up ever thinking bad of him.
Or the girlfriend who adopts the son of the man she was prison penpals with all before the state put him down. A womyn who is now trying to raise his son to be a revolutionary, eventually giving him the knowledge and empowerment needed to fight against the murderous state and all of it's injustices.
But it goes past prison walls... to the multitude of womyn stories that will always remain untold. The one's who sacrifice going back to Him because she believed that it is what is best for the kids. The one's whom never go back to Him again, even though their biggest fear is never finding another partner again.
Then there is the mom who emails and phones her son's bestfriends so that they know updates on his case. The womyn who takes care of the kitten he unintentionally abandoned when the small town Reedsport cops kidnapped him. The mother that was forced to make an impossible decision, when both her son's had court on the same day and she made the decision to decide which one needed her the most. The womyn who was belittled and harrased by the district attorney, but never once gave into misrepresenting her son's character. Relentless love.
Then there's the womyn who are also currently locked up. The ones that receive three times higher sentencing for killing their abusive husbands, when compared to those abusive husbands that kill their wives. The womyn who face a much high chance of being violently raped while incarcerated. The womyn who will have to struggle more than men, once released form the pen. Because no one wants to higher a felon conivct, but especially a womyn felon convict, not to mention a person of color womyn felon convict.
These stories, their stories, fill ghost anthologies larger in size than entire congressional encyclopedia sets. I don't want to pit womyn against men, I just want to recognize my own inequality in storytelling. Thanks to those womyn in my life, who have made doing time everything but soul-crushing. Especially, thanks to my mom. I know -but cant fully imagine- how hard this is on you
against the patriarchy
who holds the keys
responsible for imprisoning me
* maybe in an attempt to be honest, or maybe just top use my own experience as example: The womyn in my life have written, acted, payed, and given more for and to me while being locked up. More than any of the important males in my life. Exponentially more.
** it would also be fair to note that those male-bodied friends that identify as queer and/or gender neutral have done more than those who identify as otherwise.
Months later, I recognize now that there are more factors to play into what people are capable of doing for their loved ones locked up. Some of the males in my life were having more emotionally turmoil over my incarceration (in as much as that can even be quantified). Some also had jobs, families, and other time consuming life sustaining things. Ultimately, looking at each person as a unique individual friend is way more meaningful and productive than setting up groups to judge or qualify. I can't describe the importance of each and every one of my friendships. But I still think the relevance of my writing this given my circumstances still stands. Not to mention, most people incarcerated are not supported by a radical community. Instead, they are supported by communities with strict gender roles and I see no harm in celebrating the struggles, strengths, and love of the one gender that appears more frequent in their personal support systems. But if I'm wrong, please challenge me.
Monday, May 17, 2010
- Anti-Capitalist, Anti-Technology, Anti-Military industrial complex, Anti-Authoritarian
- Squatting and expropriation as main means of subsistence
- A willingness to use guerrilla warfare, sabotage, and violence when necessary.
- Resiliency to chemical warfare and inability to be pinned down by authorities
- A sweet tooth, and from the looks of it, little ants that know how to party
In Big Boy style, sometimes he will go pick up his lunch or dinner tray -prepared by under-paid hard workers just like his own mother- and instead of sharing it with other hungry inmates, he simply dumps the whole thing in the garbage, all while exclaiming such filth as: "I don't need that food, I gots my own store" or "Man! Players don't eat that shit." When he's not making his mom pay $7 a pop to three way call his girlfriend, just to let her know how big of a ho, slut, or whore she is, he runs around looking for anyone that will give him the littlest bit of attention.
But if you observe this prick long enough -lets say, three weeks- you will find that he has a very big secret. If you pay attention after every breakfast and lunch, when the noise level from clean-up is still very high, dope boy makes his way to the toilet. At night, after eating a large $10 -$15 spread of ramen noodles, chips, tuna, nacho cheese, and mayonnaise, Dope Boy once again finds his way to the toilet behind his cell door. Its after that, that in staying up late you will hear someone throwing up a minimum of three times throughout the nights duration.
Dope Boy -self-described player, ballah, convict, drug dealer- suffers from Bulimia Nervosa, an eating disorder that effects millions of others. So why nothing can, nor should, justify his abusive and ludicrous behavior towards others, especially those he supposedly loves like his own mother and girlfriend, I cant help but to feel saddened when like clockwork, with the other inmates well asleep, he forces his two fingers down his throat to purge himself of much needed food, all furthering his self-hatred and self-destruction.
I can't even begin to imagine how difficult it will be if he ever decides to allow out his mouth the one thing he needs more than anything, not food, but a plea. An "I'm tired of hurting, can someone please help me."
I think I was so intrigued with Dope Boy and his eating disorder because it made me realize that even the people who act the hardest sometimes have the largest cracks in them. It also isn't unusual for people to beg and plead their family and friends for commissary money to fund bad drug habits, but Dope Boy just very well might be the first one to, instead, fund an eating disorder. I also couldn't help but to me moved by the fact that this seemingly and outwardly aggressive and mean person actually hated himself as much or more than others... but of course doesn't this culture force eating disorders on all of us. For the third world it's the not having anything to eat disorder, while for the first it's consuming and wasting an uncountable amount of food. An as individuals we all suffer from our eating disorders, and by that I mean to draw from the much larger dysfunctions this culture forces on us.
When I wrote this, I also had no idea that at the same exact time i was criticizing Dope Boy's eating habits, i myself was forming an eating disorder that would put my body, brain, and feelings through all sorts of turmoil not just while i was locked up, but even once I got out. It's sometimes so hard to see your dysfunctions and disorders all while their trying their best to kill you, but the goal is to not let them. Don't let this fucked culture get the best of you. Don't let it kill you.
Friday, May 14, 2010
This one I've had before. Years before, months before, and even days before. It involves me as a fugitive (hah, imagine that), running on an underground railroad to flee further prosecution. Sometimes the dreams are more cartoon like, and others have a twinge of hilarity, but mostly they are filled with frightening, surreal, and intimidating circumstances.
It starts of with maybe my worst fear, even worst than going back to jail One of my friends gets caught shoplifting and finds themselves in jail. We decide to act quickly to defend those that we love and we start taking action to bail-out our friend. I'm already wanted, but we have to boost to get bond money. It seems like there's a tension between my close friends about this, but we also know of no other way.
So next, we all quite hesitantly make our paired and coupled ways into the commercial gateways of hell incarnate. We take to our teams of two very well dressed thieves, and enter the mall from all sides. For the most part its like stealing the icing off from a cake with a machete, and by that I somehow mean; easy for us camouflaged as Misses and Misters Unsuspectings to get what we need with an end result that becomes significantly disastrous for those corporations unlucky enough to have our crew frequent their shops.
But there's a problem. Duh! There's always a problem. Back when we were drawing-up verbal straws to see who gets what stores, I talked my way into tackling the two hardest ones. This of course goes against any sort of reasonable risk management, but again I find myself falling back into the martyr friendship role. It's a role that I know is unhealthy and even undesired, yet I still continue into the pattern of thinking that I can handle more threats or that I even deserve more risk.
I imagine any of my close friends reading this can think back to at least one time in real life in which I tried to act on this flawed and selfish form of logic.
But on the very last store, by some force unseen (as if there's really any other in this type of dangerous anti-work), another dear friend of mine, and my current crime partner gets slammed down at a store surprisingly standing tall in resemblance of every real world yuppies favorite recreational, sports, and outdoor store. They've been hit by us before. It seems like for decades actually. And almost instantaneously it seems like they began hunting for me. Somehow, in just seeing my friend there collapsed under the weight of many knees and fists on the floor, they knew I was there.
In a very short time -but one that feels like light-speed in overdrive to the tune of some multiple magnitude in the billions (ie. faster than the race between creationism and evolution and then some)- I began my futile seeming leap for safety. Talk about a relative term, who would of ever thought that some of the hiding places we thieves instantaneously devise while being chased is the epitome of safe. But for someone in flight, it's exactly that under the church, teeming with black widows, crawlspace, that becomes heaven. Dumpsters, rooftops, ditches, alleys, sewers, and even backyards with really large dogs become our safe heaven in times like those. Unfortunately for me, it was currently in the middle of a seemingly century long drought of creative and enduring hiding spots. So I continued to run and run and run.
Their forces definitely began to compound. The police were on the hunt, accompanied by -but not limited to- corporate loss prevention, private for-profit military type forces, almost mechanical like hounds, and the never ending, all-encompassing, ominous chain of dime-dropping, god-fearing, good Samaritans, to just name a few. It's a scary place to be, when SWAT Teams and nosey self-righteous Grandma's have as much control over one's ability to flee a crime scene. Of course, no one ever reflects on the scariest place of them all; this world in which we all must, at one point or a thousand other traumatizing points, make again and again the decision to not flee the scene of a crime or to continue on living. This culture has found almost every way to outlaw, ban, and criminalize, not only and true form of substance, but also any and all forms of meaningful sustenance.
As a kid, and confessedly even now, I don't know if I see the difference between the two, sustenance and substance, as both are required for living, and so sometimes I actually will find myself saying, typing, writing, or even just thinking of a word I made up called substanance. I think even in my last year of high school, I somehow was able to pass my English class with a final test in which I answered the cliché question of “What is the biggest goal you want to accomplish in life?” with none other than “a pursuit of substanance” essay.
But back to the nightmare...
It felt a lot like Guy Montag in Fahrenheit 451. But even Ray Bradbury's over the top dystopia portrayal can't began to explain the mockery to which this megamachine has made from life. Perhaps to lighten the nightmarish blow of mockery, my mind came up with one mockery to sugarcoat all the rest we are constantly so forced to dream of. Because next thing I know, against my wildest dreams, but still very much within the dream I'm so shakily describing, I find myself obtaining refuge from within a Catholic Church. It's not quite clear, but they seem to all know about my history and I cant help but to notice the revere it.
Of course, I don't know what to make of this. Maybe just humor, or maybe it goes back to falling into the martyr friendship role mistake. A mistake I have so frequently made in real life. But regardless, I found my momentary safe space. In vivid and engrossing detail, an almost completely passed-out drunk, sprawling over a pew, puking out putrid spew priest explains to me a route to get to the outskirts of the city.
Before I know it, I'm in the suburbs of the city which in my dream have turned into the metropolis' worst hood (Now, don't tell me you didn't see that one happening. After all, what do you think gentrification is about?). So of course, my very incredibly white skin sticks out in this very dark neighborhood, increasing the difficulty in trying to remain safe. Not to mention I began the mental battle against racist insecurities, indirectly instilled in me from a youth of admiring the hardships of everything poor, urban, and black at a comfortable white lower middle class distance. It would be intellectually dishonest, colloquially speaking, to not admit to ourselves that imagery painted by the rap industry, the urban clothing monolith, and black film have not become our generations unequivocal equivalent to the once great “noble savage.”
The nightmare gets really bad. People everywhere are out to fuck me, and game theories like tit-for-tat have no relevance in dreams this crazy, nor even in schizo societies that inspire such dreams. I soon start fucking over everyone I can, even those ones out who I truly believe are helping me. Finally, I get out of the city. Finally.
But it doesn't end. Of course not. Not this nightmare. Just like in reality when you leave one city outward among one of the many stretching necrotic concrete veins that feed them, only to find yourself in yet another disgusting city, this nightmare doesn't deviate from the norm. Roads never lead to paradise. So, the nightmare starts over again. A nightmare inside of the existing nightmare. Everything intensifies. The cities become harder, the obstacles taller, and the air ever so thicker to breath.
It goes on like this for three or four cities. The same nightmare. The same bad guys. They are everywhere. And just like the perfect formula for a psychological thriller, the tone settles down. The sky turns from impossible dark, to slightly illuminated in the near distant. It feels like I'm getting away. It's the same exact feeling produced in the realist of real times that I have actually gotten away. It's comforting. Then finally as I'm exiting the dream triumphantly, I feel myself. I feel myself getting pulled back down. It's over and everything I'm feeling turns to dread.
I wake up. I wake up with tears burning through my eyes. I wake up at the highest pitch of a cry. It's myself crying, but it doesn't last much longer after I wake up. Then, the day comes or so it goes.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
A failure of the Texas public defender system Oct. 17th, 2009
Moments before court, Chris Iles, dim-wit attorney at law, was explaining to his client in an unreasonable, abstract, and undeniably foolish analogy to what his client was actually up against. 1 His infelicitous words, if anything, only delayed an unequivocal dereliction of not only the legal oath that supposedly bonds him to duty, but also any sensible intelligence one might have inappropriately assumed to find in him. The dialogue went as follows:
Chris: See, what you are asking for is like, well... it's like asking for a large pepperoni pizza when we are at a Whataburger drive-thru. 2
Client: What are you trying to say?
Chris: That you really only have three options. You could choose the Whataburger meal which would be 15 months at SAFP, 3 or the chicken strip meal which would mean 18 months, day for day, in State Jail, or you could get the Whatachick'n meal.
Client: And whats the Whatachick'n meal?
Chris: You go in front of the judge and swing yer own deal.
But then, From the ashes of a never once great public defender system, a phoenix takes flight...
Client: But what if I want the triple meat with cheese?
Chris: What does that mean?
Client: It means YOUR FIRED FOOL!
After firing Chris Iles, his client received a new attorney and eventually got a better much deal, 9 months in State Jail.
Texas does not have a true public defenders system, instead it pays attorneys -most of whom cannot find their own clientele- a meager fee ranging $300-$1500 to represent a defendant through any and all court proceedings.
Whataburger is a Texas based fast food chain. It was founded in the 1950's, in Corpus Christi, and comes second to none in Corpus' claim to fame, only to be beaten by Selena, who was born, raised, and murdered here, finally putting the dirty city by the sea on the map.
SAFP (pronounced Safe-P) is an utterly disgusting excuse for a peer-based rehabilitation facility. I and other inmates refer to it as Snitch-P because that seems to be the only life skill the inmates suckered into going there ever learn.
Can't Stop, Won't Stop, Stab-A-Cop
- Jayson Tx-
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
a milk crate of letters
a milk crate has surely become my most valuable possession
an unquantifiable love can be found scribbled in the margins
on the lines and in the headers of the pages stacked so chaotically in that little black milk crate
multiple voices some more frequent then others
some filled with more clarity
but all seeping with relentless and resilient love
essentially a little black milk crate that reminds me
a crate of words outweighing its weight in gold
outmeasuring itself in any possible or reasonable manner
a little meaningless crate that carried me through those horrible days in my life
but im scared to travel back down memory lane
scared to reflect on the tortures I faced
evermore scared of remembering the even more vicious tortures i was unwillingly playing witness to
i was witness to
i was witness to much
i still witness too much in weekly recollections
nightmares while other people dream of kittens or things not so fluffy
but it's this crate of letters that carried me through
this crate that is now somewhere between an eyesore and artifact
this crate is somewhere between nuclear fallout and standing on the right side of rapture
this crate that ill never let go of
sometimes i had to wait over a week to receive a letter
to receive word from anything sensible
to receive any form of love or affection
i think even once my inmate correspondence drought lasted in upwards of two weeks
but even then
my absences of loving words cant compare to that in what i bared witnessed to
i bared witness to the remaining shell of a man
a man so fragile in his hardness
a skin fortified by fourteen years of not one letter or single visit from any living soul
five thousand one hundred and ten days
five thousand one hundred and ten days without an ounce of affection or love
how does one survive that ...
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, November 16, 2009
Curtis Townsend, recovering meth-head, and survivor of the police brutality lottery: His grand earnings after medical expenses and attorney fees weighed in at just under $54,000. Although less than the amount a typical American family will take home annually, for Curtis, this amount was enough to change his world.
Despite the facial scars, old age, and near eye crows feet, when Curtis smiles he more closely resembles a 20 year old virgin than a 40 year old father of two. The night he was apprehended he was tazed three times while handcuffed lying face down on the ground. After his arrest, it took an hour and a half to arrive at the hospital--but when he did finally arrive, carrying the artifacts of his beating, the emergency room medical staff were nauseated by the sight of his swelling, bruising and bleeding. Still, Curtis deems the facial scarring minimal, considering that when he arrived at the E.R. his face was smashed in so god damn far, that cranial fractures on his right side made it impossible to continue to hold on to his eyeball.
Locked up, the first thing Curtis did with his negligible prize winnings was to pay off the $20 grand still owed on the trailer his mom and kids live in. He then dropped another two thousand dollars on a down payment for his mom's fly new ride, and another grand on two brand new bicycles for his two kids to ride. With only four months remaining of his reduced 9 month sentence, he now tries to supply all of his friends on the inside with enough jail comforts to make their mutual time fly right by. Ramen noodles, honey-less honey buns, pre-stamped envelopes, and a pair of tube socks will do a number of wonders to a person's self-esteem while being forced to remain behind bars.
He will, without a doubt, spend well over half the amount that was awarded to him on his family and friends, and all before he leaves the pen. Down to his last dollar, he will still shine his surprisingly white-toothed smile, because as he sees it, with meth out of his life, he can finally be a father to his kids and avoid the horrendous and unneeded custody battles with his ex-wife. After all, it's never about the financial gain when someone actually survives the insurmountable odds within the state funded lottery of unjustifiable police brutality.
Can't Stop, Won't Stop
Monday, November 9, 2009
I know very little Spanish and he knows even less English, so when we talk it is very limited. The other inmates have come to call him "Seagull" because after each meal he hovers around the garbage can, with a large plastic cup in hand, he scoops everyone else's leftovers into it. For some reason the great majority of other inmates can't stand it.
The black inmates beat him to the garbage and the wait for him to get there. When he does, with exaggerated movements almost taunting him, they dump whats left of their meals instead of giving it to him.
The young Hispanics will accidentally drop their bread on the floor and then after recovering it will send one of their to deliver it. Sometimes the filth on the bread is still really obvious, but they'll hand it to Seagull with a sincere face of charity.
The group of older Hispanics always share portions of their beans and rice, but they never forget to add snot, spit and mucus before giving it. They will even have a friendly conversation in Spanish while doing it.
The whites of all ages, to no surprise, are by far the worst. They try to police the situation by complaining to the guard that its not fair that he gets more to eat. They loudly scoff, scold, insult and harrow him in a language he cannot understand but with a body language that is universally crystal clear.
I can't help but to feel that all of this is more than an exotic big bird being locked in a cage and fed scraps as a source of amusement. This isn't just ignorant cruelty, but intense and deep feelings of hate. I've tried to ask each group of inmates why they do this, and tehy are all quick to get aggressive and I am even quicker to go back to my form of self-protective silence. Sometimes I feel just as guilty for perpetuating this silence through my own silent passivity. How are we ever going to ever see that it is us the inmates, against them, the guards, if we can't even see each other as humans?
Even my use of the nickname Seagull really started bothering me, that is until I realized how anthropocentric I was being. I was viewing seagulls only as I was raised to see them. I was only seeing them as a scavenger of human trash but now I can see that calling the young Argentinian as a seagull is far from an insult and may be an accurate description,
Seagulls are forced to rummage through a city's trash only because cities have successfully ruined their original food sources. Industrial commercialized fishing has stolen most of the ocean's fish while hospitals, factories and refineries have polluted all the world's water. The ecosystems of beaches have become places of beer, tanning and other senseless forms of recreation. After seagulls are born on their native sea shores, they are quickly forced to migrate into cities to subsist on what humans deem waste and trash.
Now the young Argentinian is forced to salvage what he can from inmate's leftovers because he has no access to subsistence food sources. Argentina's land, people, forests and beaches have been converted into resources for hospitals, factories and refineries serving the on-demand exploitative consumption of cities, especially the rich and white ones. Ex-African slave/indigenous forests and shore communities that share the young Argentinian's beautiful espresso skin tone are all but almost completely removed from their native lands and are forced into city centers, slums and even landfills. Their natural communities they were once a part of are now Burger King cattle ranches and the ultimate alcohol and club filled spring break hot spots.
All of this abstract theorizing and critiquing does not change these very real world situation though. Seagulls are still dying from consuming pounds of plastic instead of pounds of fish, while Seagull himself is being subjected to extremely cruel and malicious behavior from other inmates in an already over-bearing, disempowering and oppressive system. Beaches and forests are dead or dying from our gross domestic consumption. Inmates are spending time policing and oppressing each other instead of making attempts to challenge their mutual and overriding conditions. The destructive ideas of waste and trash are still as prominent in the outside world as they are on the inside. The world is going to be completely discarded, just as the inmates in jails and prisons have been, just so a select few can have a world of power, control and money.
This isn't a very good ending and that bothered me at first, but now I'm not worried about an ending. The world's major religions start with people and end with abstractions of faith and paradise and sometimes we as radicals/people/animals are guilty of the same thing. We look at theories as a relief ending point of some understanding instead of using them as a starting point for tangible and meaningful action. We look at events with their own beginnings, middles, and ends instead of looking at our lives as a constant struggle. Who cares if some battles are won if you and everything you are fighting for gets eradicated before the war's end?
This is not the only an end to my writing, but a beginning- no, a continuation of my personal struggle. A struggle that is interwoven into other struggles, human and non-human alike. A struggle of seagulls. A struggle of Seagull. A struggle against those who destroy life.
Monday, November 2, 2009
To My Dearest Sandanista, In the wee hours of 9/25/9
To begin with, to say I'm in crisis for paper and up past my bedtime would be an understatement. To start off a letter with an understatement would be blasphemous. To start off another sentence with "to" would just be annoying. To waste four lines when I have only 20 to write with would be quite inane. To use inane instead of silly to sound smarter is the epitome of Jayson Tx, to use it incorrectly or in improper context would be the icing on the honey-less honey bun... to say I miss you more than I miss full sheets of paper might become soon self-evident. To say self-evident reminds me of this country's genocidal forefathers, or to say in clearer words slave-owning crackers, to continue on in this format seems beyond my current control. To speak of current control reminds me of currency control. To write currency control, I feel I am paying homage to Tesla. Yes, Nicola. To further currency control the lizard people, Illuminati, Ron Byers, CCPD and the Zapatista will bankrupt the federal reserve to bring about the new world order. To get to the point, or to make a futile attempt at such would be to state that I found a "to whom it may concern" letter. To say I lost it for a while would be correct. To further leave it up to you to determine if it is of postable character would be appropriate to say the least. To end this ridiculous excuse of a letter now would be to save you the way Jesus saved my brother. To clarify: while in jail J-dizzy saved my bro. Eeek.
Evict me from your worries
and let me squat in your loving affection,
? 9/14/9 ?
To Whom it May Be of Interest (And Yes, Even the F.B.I. this time),
The last couple of days have been "do art and forget about the real world" type of days. My good friend the Colonel, as well as one of the sweetest people I have ever met got tased a couple of nights ago for talking too loud. The correctional officer who tased him has spent the last two days joking and bragging about the whole incident.
My personal food trays during the last couple of days have consisted of not much more than apple sauce and iceberg lettuce. I am told consistently by the guards "Damn, they doin' you wrong. Real wrong." Yet in the same breath they refuse to use what minute power they actually have to help me out a little bit. Even the tone of this letter is following my typical grievance-form voice.
About three of my friends that I met in here all recieved 10-15 year sentences this last Friday, all from the same judge, who as one underpaid public defender stated, "he was probably just having a bad day". My friends will have to do the majority of their sentences, because they were enhanced as habitual criminals- the Texas equivalent of a three strikes law. One will be 72 years old or dead before he leaves the custody, or more appropriately the ownership, of the Texas Department of Corrections. All the while, a Nazi-sociopath pimp who brags about raping and killing women, or in his terminology "facilitating a use and the discarding them", will be back on the street in less than sixty days. He has two brainwashed, desperate and traumatized sex workers waiting and saving up money for him. He explicitly stated that he's also trying to find a way to discard of them as well.
The most upsetting part- okay, I can't say that- but an upsetting part is, this neo-industrialist, rapist, drug dealer not so explicitly explained that one of them has to go because he's falling in love with her and that would disrupt his power structure he currently has and needs in place. You really do have to commodify and objectify something to exploit and destroy it.
But don't worry, even in this meek and disparaging mood I'm still thriving and surviving. Resiliency. It helps to know that I'm a white male and if I choose to, in as much as we can make choices in this culture, I can wear long sleeve button down shirts and slacks and never make it back to similar confines. Of course, I will probably make some right choices and my reward will be the gift of a longer repeat to my current conditions, but it helps to know I have choices. I actually feel more alive than I have in months, and more human, which if anything means simply that I have an upper hand in some unusual way against those oppressing me. That's more than the rest of the world, human and non-human can say. Or maybe the feel the same way.
Even the strongest wall will crumble
and the thickest of cages will eventually rust through.
Friday, October 23, 2009
I’m sorry you’re dying. If I wasn’t locked up in jail, I promise you I’d be doing something to stop this insanity.
Dear Destroyers of Everything Beautiful,
Fuck you! I just spent 6 hours locked in a jail cell reading the Wall Street Journal. Your attaboy! Your feel good newspaper. I read your numbers. Sure you understand millions, billions, and trillions but for the people making 5 cents an hour to $7.25 these numbers don’t seem to have a relevancy. For those not making any money, for those millions, they’ll just starve.
Your stock market made it back to 10,000. Great. You made millions when it crashed and now you’re making double that. Good job, you’re so smart.
Money is no longer made out of paper but 75% cotton and 25% other. Is that so you can launder the blood that it soaks in, that is soaks up. All so you can have a penthouse and a monthly visit to Cambodia for a taste of a new seven year old.
Wall Street use to be a place to auction slaves, now you trade them, how clever of you. I hate you. I hate you the way a poor child’s stomach hates hunger, the way a seagull hates the 5lbs of plastic that fills her stomach. I despise your greed the way a tree despises the tearing of its flesh from a well oil lubricated oil powered oil forged chain, I despise you the way an electric-less Iraqi village despises the oil that lies underneath it. I wish you lied 6 feet underneath me. I wish you were dead like 200+ dead zones in the oceans you have created. I wish you were deprived of oxygen the way you have deprived 8,000 square miles of once living ocean in the Gulf of Mexico.
I wish I could make an application for your I-phone that would give you the cancer from the production of its internal 32 GB hard drive, instead of it going to the Korean and her family that was forced into starving or producing. Or an application to turn whatever shit excuse for music you listen to up to a 250 DB to blow your ear drums and cause you to hemorrhage and die, in the same manner you kill whales in the ocean looking for more oil, oh, I mean Soviet submarines.
I know your house. It’s the big one on the other side of town. When I get out there will be empty forty bottles scattered on the ground and gas in your beamer to siphon out and one more cocktail to top off your drunken slumber making sure this time you don’t wake up.
Written from Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The blood that was all over his face and the floor made me feel many things. The first was fear, fear of pain, fear of being a victim of assault again. Then came the fear of violence, violence is very dreadful, very real. With the current inequalities and resource scarcities, a crazy amount of violence is happening right now, but soon it is going to have a more physical manifestation. Some people don’t feel fear when they see clearcuts or logger trucks or mills or paper for that matter, but first world people always react in some way to bloodshed. Some sadistic fucks get aroused or happy at the sight of it, but most get a similar reaction to mine. Our culture is use to police and military to do the dirty work. We are use to economic sanctions and prisons to commit our genocides. Back to the point – we are not prepared to see the bloodshed we are currently inflicting and the increased bloodshed that’s coming soon. I don’t even want to write about it, I wish I wasn’t. The next feeling I had was a fear of authority, I had already seen the images of victim blaming go through my head as this kid sat their bloody. I debated whether or not to talk about what I saw. Would it be snitching? Would it blowback on me? Could I say anything, do anything to hide this from the authorities and attempt to handle it on our own?
The final feeling, and I’m ashamed it came so late was, how can I fight back? How should I get this asshole back? How can I get back at the larger culture for making all this so real, so common? How can I get the cops back for putting all of us in here in the first place? How can I make the politicians and corporate executives pay for being even more culpable than even the cops? The guard finally walked over and then all the crazy lockdown, tons of guards rushing in and all that stuff happened. I sat there, well here, and standing, actually pacing, still thinking, still racing through emotions. I realized the assaulter was someone in here on a domestic abuse charge, a charge he bragged about. Why didn’t I remember that before? Why did I not go and immediately confront him? Why was I more willing to – or more rapid – or more able to fight when I was 14 and 15? Now my brain processes and thinks and analyzes. I guess this is good, given my circumstances and consequences. Why is self-preservation so high up on my worries and by worries, I mean excuses? I finally was resolved, ready to fight, and I was locked down powerless.
It’s been about 2 hours since then and I think I know why I’m still bothered by all of this. When it comes to defending those and what I love, I don’t want to act that slowly. I don’t want to have to think, I want to be able to pounce immediately. I don’t want self-preservation or consequences to affect my action/inaction. I don’t want a fear of authority or moral issues preventing me or slowing me from what I want to, what I need to defend.
I guess that’s why I’m so bothered. I already know what I want, what I need to defend and I’m not doing it. All these fears have me paralyzed. I always tell myself I’m waiting, waiting for leverage, for more bang in my buck, but maybe these are just excuses.
I don’t want to overly turn someone’s pain into a look at me, pity me, what about me-fest. So I’ll end it here. There will be no excuse good enough, no resolve resolved enoughed, no preparations prepared strategically enough, if by the time I’m ready to fight, I find myself locked down – so incredibly powerless. Repression is rising and the time for action is now. I’m ready to fight for what I love. I’m ready.
Never give up.
Jayson Tx #10126758
P.S. This is by no means meant to sound fatalist in any manner. I still look forward to fun and happy things. I still want to find more loves, grow more veggies, read more books and heck, even dance a little. It’s just having such a literal metaphor (I don’t know how else to describe it) I guess an experiential parable, yeah that’s it, having the Experiential Parable of being locked up when I was finally ready to act, made me realize that I don’t want that to happen again, not ever, especially not for those things I feel closest to.
Written from Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
David will be Dr. BHT, Alyssa - Captain Raccoon, Kaleb - Professor K-Dubz, Steve - Sir Pittstown, Charity - the Honorable Judge Leaf-Beer, Ema - Dr. Moonshine Remedy, Hudson - Pope John Paul the Negative, Thomas - the Decepticon, Ted - Bill, Tara - Subcommadante T2, Sandra - Sergeant Sandanista, Alyse - DJ Rage-a-Lot, George - Colonel Space Jam III, Jenny - General Yaya!, Jan - Ms. Mother Jones, my Mom - Officer Holdin' It Down, Spookie Hysteria II - El Presidente Spookie Hyst-a-ria II, me - Avril Lavigne/The Sentimental Senator...
Okay the names need lots of work and of course no one gets dubbed a name until they move to Picket Pin Ranch/Roseburg/Umpqua National Forest...
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
It is a sound I thought I had become so accustomed to,
But it’s a miserable sound, no matter how hard I tried, I never quite get use to
I turn to see light, splintering out around one of the room’s three door frames
And as I make my way to open it
I’m afraid to see the pain, I soon find on the floor behind it
No matter how I wished to be apart from it
I know that I’m inescapably a part of it
Inexplicably, I attempt to be there for you
As I ask you if you’re okay, your eyes quickly reply, telling me that you are not
And it’s not for a lack of trying, still answerless, in my ability to understand all of this
But problems only seem to multiply, with the entrance of each one of my sentences
You misconstrue all the intentions in my words, with that pocket dictionary of yours.
The one you found on the clearance rack, mimicking your life, written in only past tense
So your past tensions begin the progression towards a relentless retention covering your body with every painful memory
With your hands resting on cold ceramic and your head wearily above it, you lean
Barely above it, you heave with a hollowed revereb, that only a bathroom can lend
You give up the food, that sustains your every act of existence
In hopes to purge yourself, of those memories, that keep reenacting your inflictions
Disease, disorder, abuse, control, trauma, and self hate
Mirrors, beauty, identity, family, what equates to in one’s weight
All become words, as cold and meaningless as the ceramic bowl, you hug onto nightly
As I hang on tightly to memories interpretation of what once was known as you
I too, find my own books on the clearance shelf, in order to fix you
Those words inside paragraphs, pages apart of chapters, front to back, cover from cover
I broke so many spines, searching to find, what to do
Ink imprinted paper, carefully edited, but never perfect, misled me dearly, even more away from you
I searched for a universal answer, to what I falsely called my particular problem
All while you defied the universe’s ends with your own particular beauty
And that’s all you needed to be, and that should have been what I embraced
But like almost all others, I was trained to fix, solve, abstract, and equate
And so I subtracted you from you; from the specific
Dissolving our connections; our bond, dropped reflecting your weight
Colder than the tile floors, colder than the ceramic bowl
I gave you a cold shoulder to cry on
In which you refused to take
Intake, input, internalize, the very Culture that I hate
I stopped touching you as if it was you
Gave up your smell so distinct; forgot it, as I never knew
Share, compare, compartmentalize
I continued to commodify
All your despair into a word; into emotions
Deny, demote, decide, demolish
For what it all comes down to
Annotations; your entire experience
Touching, feeling, breathing another
Become disposable experiences
Long before I ended us; you and me
Entering into a relationship, your past tense dictionary, could not define
Being not having, my clearance rack stack of books, three words in a row, never able to find
So you heaved, in hopes to give more than food
So I left, in fear that I was owning you
So we both wrecked, too damn busy, to listen anymore
Heartbeats, gone ascounding, left pounding
In your breast and on my chest
We both became blind, dumb and deaf
Impaired beyond repair
We got scared
And lost touch
Relationships always start with that very first touch
And inevitably end when we give up the belief that
To touch, that to feel, is no longer enough.
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Hey you guys, and gals, and those that prefer to identify with neither.
Today, my eyes filled up with tears
I know that’s no way to start a letter out from jail
But let me make my case
This world is dying!
I take that back
The world I’m in
In this jail
In this town
On this freeway
Apart of a network with other cities
In this state
In this nation
A part of a global system
Is already dead
We live in modern pyramids
That converts everything living and wonderful
Into dead things
Things that have value to them
Money and tools
Houses and cars
Jobs and pools
Banks and bars
Value – what a useless word
Use another useless term
It’s in our languages, it’s in our religions, it’s in our sciences and in our governments
But not the same death
That once was celebrated along the side of life
Not even the same death
That was once a part of life
Capital-D, Death as its own thing
As it capital-Departs from life
As it capital-Destroys life
Thing – we view the world in things
Abstractions, Definitions, Ideals, and Beliefs
Everything is a thing
Everything as a thing
What a silly Ideal!
Science, religions, governments, and languages
These are ideals
These are our ideals
These are based on their own ideals
Ideals of control, isolation, explanations, control
Definitions, understandings, beliefs, control, love, hate
Separations, control, life, death, definitions, control, intangible
Untouchable, incapable, unknowable, control, Angels, Devils, spirits
Souls, control, freedom, liberty, democracy, control, study
Experiment, discovery, control, letters, words, sentences, paragraphs and pages
“I think therefore I am”
If you add another “e” and flip the “a” and “r”
You can then desecrate
That fucker Descarte
Reality – what a human thing
Human – yet another thing
Another – still some other thing
Other – a separated something
Separated – an isolated thing
Isolated – a definition, an ideal on how to view certain things
View – a way of observing, speculating, or seeing such things
Things – everything is a thing
Nothing is a thing
No thing is still a thing
N – O – T – H – I – N – G are all things.
Things are dead and dead becomes things
Existentialism, even has a particular meaning
Existentialism – what a silly, useless thing
I think therefore I am
I am therefore I think
The other is based in insanity,
But both are ideals and ideas are mere things
I don’t want a new philosophy
A new definition, ideal, or worldview
While though I will never be able to break from
Viewing things as things
I can at least break apart some of the parts
In this death-craving mega machine
Here’s to a world where everything surpasses the tangible defines in intangibility
Where anything refuses the definable limits of undefinability
So that somethings are not left limited to an unbearable unlimitedness
To the point where nothing can be explained
Here’s to everything being wild past our wildest dreams
And it may have been expressing dreams that first defined this world into things
But now it’s dreams that make it possible to break through every single thing
So to those in power, you can try to keep me locked up behind steel doors
But eventually even these doors will wither down until they are no more
And then I’ll be the one knocking on your very front door
Written from the Douglas County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
Can anyone get more info on this 18 year old kid that was set up by the government? Ultimately, although this isn’t always the case, it doesn’t really matter whether he was a crazy right or crazy left extremist. He was a kid. A young one. Coerced and lied to. But nonetheless, more information would be nice.
In case you don’t know, the 18 year old I’m talking about was set up by the Feds to blow up a building in Dallas, Texas. Life in prison (with no chance of parole?) is what he faces. The charge he’s facing is some bullshit post 9-11 Bush era anti-terrorism charge. All I know is the whole thing depresses the fuck out of me.
We just got racked up for 2 hours and shooked down for a spoon that went missing. Nueces County has 2 jails. At one (not this one, but the other one, the annex) you are issued a spoon and cup, at the other you are not. So even though issuing us all spoons would solve the situation of lost spoons, they don’t. So once a week we get shook down because either someone miscounted spoons or someone accidentally/purposely threw a spoon away. Whatever getting shook down is microscopic in the problems that jails and prisons face and by that I mean the inmates who occupy them. Not to mention invisible to a world full of much more immediate and serious problems. Nothing comparable to what that kid in Dallas is going through. Nothing compared to billions of people living in poverty as a direct result of the U.S. tri-phecta of imperialism, consumerism, and sanctions.
Along with an increase in acne, a bloating of my belly, the (should be embarrassing) diarrhea problems, I’m starting to get boils, or at least what I assume to be boils. My body is saying fuck this food, fuck this lack of sunlight, nutrients, diverse physical activity. My brain is screaming for saturated fat to lubricate my receptors. Also, my body goes through periods of uncontrollable twitching and my eyes do this mini seizure thing when I try concentrating on a fixed object. Oh, and my feet and fingertips go numb numerous times throughout the day. But without trying to undermine the personal significance of my health, in outrospect, these problems are below minimal.
It’s a very real possibility that our children or their children will never see amphibians, bears, tuna, old growth, or non-civilized people. More for the history books or more to be overlooked/underplayed by the victors who write them.
Thought crime is alive and well! It is punishable by life in prison. Self-censorship equates to self-preservation and self-preservation comes at the expense of the great majority of the human and non human worldly inhabitants. I apologize to the rocks, soil, trees, birds, reptiles, mammals, and air for not speaking up enough. For not acting up enough. But of course, apologies are never good enough and they should never be.
“Believe the lies, before your eyes, credit cards and apple pie”
10126758 Jayson Tx
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
For the next two months, the pieces engaged in many hundreds of battles. Constructed from a material more fragile than glass or marble, some damage was incurred during these ferocious contests. One of the white rooks looked as if a corner of its towers had been blown to rubble by an enemy catapult. One espresso colored horse had lost an entire ear as if the other side’s knight had taken a lance to it. Where the opposing pawns stood in almost perfect uniformity, one brown pawn gained a slight bloatedness as if possibly showing signs that he was the regiments ordained cook. And finally, the white king stood tall but flawed, lacking a tooth on his grand crown as if a bolt from an enemy’s crossbow damaged it in a nearly successful assassination attempt. In a world of mass consumer, assembly-line, plastic chess pieces, these soldiers, royalty, and clergy had some unquestionably unique character to say the very least.
Many prizes were won as a result of some of those battles. Most likely, a side might lose a single pre-stamped envelope or a preservative-laddened, cheese-less, cheese Danish with a shelf-life that makes a package of twinkies seem rapidly biodegradable. But there were a few costly battles in which the victor might acquire an entire $4.15 bag of child-slave harvested instant Nestle coffee, or where the defeated side would forfeit three days worth of breakfast trays. Personally, I never won anything more than experience, but damn, do I have a vicious game now.
The pieces, when retired from fighting, would stay inconspicuously hidden inside a frosted white plastic cup with tight fitting lid. Even during many jailhouse blitzkrieg shakedowns, they never once attracted the attention of contraband fiending correctional officers. But that would all change on one fateful morning.
Incredibly fitting, that morning I was awoken from a dream in which I was a small child in a Jewish family during the Nazi Occupation of Poland. I went from dreaming about a Gestapo raid, to find two very real Gestapo like characters forcefully rendering my cell to an early morning surprise shakedown. Their faces were unfamiliar and the tone their words took to was one of extreme sarcasm. They found the cup and with it, the contents it dearingly held. They then interrogated me about the means to which I carved and dyed the pieces. They wanted me to confess to cutting and shaving the soap figurines with an illegal razor blade, but I continued to contest that my only means was a length of string and a plastic spoon. Before the interrogation tired, two to three pieces at a time, the chess set was taken from the safety of its homely cup and casually placed into the side pocket of one of the guard’s mock military, navy-blue, commando pants.
Throughout the rest of the morning, a number of dedicated chess players and myself vigilantly tracked and followed the bulge in his side pocket, hoping to witness the protusion against the pants’ fabric disappear. If his pockets did deflate, it meant that our pieces, my beloved creations, had made their way into the garbage can behind the guard station. We already began the plans for a real world, covertly militaristic operation to extract them back in an act of defiant reclamation. But the bulge remained an obvious apparel accessory for his entire eight hour shift. A couple chess-playing inmates distastefully and unfruitfully begged and pleaded for him to leave them in the garbage oh his way out of work. Yet each time, wordless, he only replied with a convincingly despicable grin.
After being un-racked from the afternoon shift change that acted as his dramatic exit to stage left, we asked the more familiar guard, officer Senger, about the officer he had just relieved. Officer Zeena was the superfluous name of the swindling swine responsible for stealing our hand-crafted soap chess pieces. Senger explained that Officer Zeena continually brags about auctioning off jail-house contraband on the internet for a plush in-between paycheck lining of his pockets. Knowing the artistic integrity of the pieces, being that he had caught us playing before, Senger in a futile attempt to comfort us, reassuringly stated that officer Zeena the fuck face would probably earn $300 or more off of our jail-house chess set. He continued to tell us how Officer Zeena that shit bag, in an attempt to increase his auctions values, would create harsh and false back-stories about riots in which the items he stole and auctioned off were supposedly confiscated during.
It breaks my heart. All of it. The whole ordeal. Even the knowledge that, as inmates, we are out of a chess set to play countless more games with is unbearably saddening. Even more depressing is the notion that some Obama-worshiping, rich liberal, chess fanatic will win, the now auctioning chess set and then place them as brut artifacts, incarcerated to a shelf in his den or office. Never to see another battle again, two contending groups of mercenaries will minimally act as a reminder to some mid-level, Prozac-popping accountant that his professional occupation offers him the ability to afford such luxuries, on top of his guaranteed full medical benefits and transferable 401K retirement plan. Perhaps the most disastrous and sickening thought of the whole jail house debacle is the knowledge that Officer Zeena the good-for-nothing scum face will most likely be purchasing in excess, some name brand, over-priced, cancer causing chewing tobacco, to accompany cases upon cases of some commercialized, over-rated, piss tasting brewskies and all at the expense of inmate jailhouse ingenuity.
But instead of wallowing in the civil injustices of abusive power structures, I think I’d much rather start subversively widdling away at those same abusive power structures. Because it’s only a matter of time before the alienated and disempowered exclaim to their faultering oppressors, “Check Mate!”
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
The Anti-Retirement Treatise: the transposed remains of a Jimmy Buffet and The Clash fatal head-on collision car crash
Don turned 46 today. Incarcerated, with no letter or hallmark card sent from the place he once called home; the only birthday gifts he received was a few congratulatory, homophobic-driven, replacement-for-hugs, masculine-reinforcing, pats on the back, along with a $1.35 bag of oatmeal-less, oatmeal and raisin cookies (1) from Curtis and two over-sized shots of unfairly traded, plantation grown and slave harvested coffee (2) from yours truly. To be fair, the cookies did have raisins, even if they were listed under all the carcinogenic preservatives as the last ingredient.
Don, not as in Don=the godfather, but as in Don=the early retiree from the harsh weathered reality of northeastern Washington, has become one of my jailhouse buddies. After running moonshine, dandelion wine, and other mischievous brews for twenty some-odd years, Donny left his 4th generation Washington rooted family for a warmer Autonomous future. And so, a dozen or so years ago he made his way to the south Texas coast.
A couple years after arriving, Don could no longer justify the necessity of paying for a home in such a fair-weathered climate, consequentially adding his name to the short list of people I have met who willingly decide to become and remain homeless (3). Once lessened from the burden of rent, Donald then realized that bosses as well as landlords were to become a thing of the past. Sure he takes upon an occasional pay-for-labor task to in return treat himself to the occasional luxury, like the addictive coronary-clogging, life’s too short, corner-store hot dogs or the megalithic, 64oz high fructose filled to the brim, thirst-quenching, years lessening, fountain soda. But for the most part, he refuses work and enjoys his anti-retirement, “semi-charmed kind of life.”
One of the few people you’ll ever find at a downtown library willingly wanting to read – as opposed to the mass majority of folks who populate such places in either an attempt to steer clear of the “Anti-poor so the rich can get more” police brutality reach, or the kids forced to write research papers while being unconsentingly stuck under the oppressive and suffocating hands of compulsory education’s dream-smashing brutality. Don will check out a couple of books and take them to a nearby park to read in between naps.
Don, Donny, Donald, will be locked up for a total of 256 days as an institutionalized form of pentenance for the offense of creating his own anti-retirement, against the establishment, unplanned paradise (4). Of course now locked-up in the serious hazard to your health, Nueces County Jail, it is Don’s love for literature and high fructose sweetened, artificially flavored, fruit punch beverage that keep him mostly sane. In his already one hundred and some odd forty days of time served, Donny has read close to a grand total of a hundred and some odd books (5). His unrelenting requests for new literature out of the jailhouse “library” (more honestly read as the hallway closet full of books to which no inmate has direct access to) is without a doubt the only reason unit 4-P ever sees a change in our book selection.
Donald, although by profession – or lack thereof – a hobo, cannot for the drunken life of himself, grow the respectable and stereotypical homeless, sun bleached beer-scented beard. Instead, he compromisingly rocks a mustache that looks as if it had been imported from Denmark and a decade old beard, that through its own self-determination and resistance against all authority, remains seemingly well trimmed and kept, making neither the use of scissor nor razors an immediate or far-fetched threat (6).
All of this time being forcibly kept locked away in a large concrete, compartmentalized box has not waivered his anti-retirement, future investment plans one single bit. If anything it has done just the exact opposite. It has been megabyte of memory added onto an already overfilled and practically crashed hard drive that he calls his past life. A soon to be outdated file, inventoried in the folder marked hard times then effortlessly dumped in the trademarked desktop icon reserved as the place for memories trashed. The only thing that can rival his love for a fresh salted breeze and coastal bend fishing, is his undying hatred for recycled stale air, that has long since been bludgeoned to death by the miracle of central air-conditioning.
Within staying true to his anti-retirement, consistent as the scales of a chameleon philosophy, the first investment he plans on making, after being released during next year’s February, is the easily acquisitioned blanket and jacket. His first stop is the thrift store, where he says he plans to say “thank you” before defiantly fleeing out the glass and steel framed door (7). His second destination will be the local Salvation Army or Good Samaritan, where after asking for a bed and blanket, and once in possession of then acquired blanket, he plans on exclaiming, “fuck your scabies filled bed!” as he quickly proceeds to the nearest fire exit (8).
It seems that sleeping under mesquite and oak trees while fishing his days away in the Gulf of Mexico’s increasingly absent marine biodiversity, is exactly how Donald, age 46, plans on spending the rest of his south Texas anti-retirement (9).
#10126758 AKA Jailbird-J
(1) As much as it may seem I’m joking; the honey-less honeybuns and oatmeal-less oatmeal and raisin cookies are very much real. But to give the producers of such fine gourmet toxics the benefit of a marketing scheme doubt, they do actually state on the package of cookies “oatmeal and raisin flavored (in small print) iced cookies” and the term honey bun is only the common term we inmates and the guards use to refer to the cleverly titled “ICED MONSTER BUNGEZ.” I shit you not.
(2) Nestle brand Nescafe Instant Coffee. Research it if you don’t believe me. Nestle is fucking baby killing swine.
(3) That is, in as much as someone can make choices, locked in chains and under the reign of industrial capitalism.
(4) His actual offense was violating probation by being homeless and publicly intoxicated.
(5) This is an estimation being he reads through at least 5 books a week.
(6) Poetic clarity – for 10 years, his beard without ever trimming has stayed under 2 inches.
(7) Having said this one day jokingly conversing, I suspect just like other lifelong thieves he will walk out the doors more inconspicuously.
(8) This is an event he claims to have already happened on a number of occasions and stating plans to do again.
(9)He actually referred to his homelessness as “retirement” and the “anti-retirement” label was super imposed by me; not only as a poetic scheme but also in an authoritative and illustrative attempt to inspiringly set apart his fuck work – fuck rent mentality from the all too typical and depressing American “me!me!me!” retiree.
(10)So there is no ten and these footnotes had no real intended purpose, except maybe an after the fact notion and explanation of I try to be ridiculous yet maintain an honesty. By “an honesty,” I do not mean objectivity, because fuck all that noise!
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)