Prison Ink. Day 366.

I had little word my first year in prison. I only saw wall. I am at the base of an insurmountable mountain. A free solo climber, too close to the sheer face of instruction to read its scope and grandeur properly. Too close to see the face of God in my Dome of the Rock. In the mirror I see divine dentistry in futility. I am trying to knock God’s teeth out. I knew that after my descent, there would be an ascent, if I survived. I’d feel like Arizona’s capital and I’d circle back to the numbing climb, with an objective feel to appreciate its tacky, dizzying heights to vertigo. To I-Spy without nausea, a spin dislodging something in the truth of my inner ear. Like Mandela staring at the South African seas for 27 landlocked years digging holes to justice from its shores. The ocean bearing a blistering witness of indifference to truths and injustices, both of the individual and the individual writ large, forgetting to check for seaweed in its ears, saltwater stinging the eyes like staring at the woman you love like the sun, just a tear too long in memory, she blurs. Like all my shades of red.

Prison Ink.  Day 398.

How to lose incarcerated parts in the hearts of cells, scored to the jingle of Christmas bells. 

In prison, I cut my nose, to spite my face. 

I stopped pronouncing vase like face, instead I snobbed to ‘Vas’ rhyming it with the pretentious “shnazz.” 

In this pretense, I knew the presence of God is felt by every innocent man, because innocence here can only have one reason, and one reason only: God wanted you to quiet your mind so you could listen to your mispronounced word. 

While doing time, I heard a 10 year run on sentence, that put me in an Akashic trance, that led me to fluency, in the Language of Stillness, the source of all verbal reveries. 

Seek to be a Vase, pronounced either ways, empty of self, full of oneness, maxim’d for my prison days, like the zen riddle of the original face, or the seamless monument.

A little out of place, either ways, a vase is a vase is not a ‘vas,’ it’s a space to clear your mind, in silent applause. A glorious time, to take our bows, thorny roses falling from staged air, as we speak in subtitles of fury and sound, mispronounced human square, in the round theater of the Gods. 

Wardrobe dressed us in the Emperor’s new clothes that we cannot wear. 

A prison green fashion paradox, we cannot pull off, like doing time with broken clocks. Molotov cocktails at happy hour. Christmas parties on fire. Mazel Tov. 

Power-tripped rapey scenes near lockup mistletoes, burns of electric flower in the darkest of holes, where each ‘Vas’ is filled with shivs of barbed wire. 

Smells of Yuletide gone, replaced with incarcerated copper, right on the money, right on the nose. 

A song as old as Christmas and long as Pinocchio’s. 

Mine, lost to pretense, shows the uncommon sense of a oneness that smells no more. Thank God, cuz this reality stinks of all I abhor, as I keep my severed nose in the plastic vase by my cell door. 

Smelly in one of the darker holes. 

Blood red mistletoe on the floor, bars tinseled festive, incarcerated holiday decor.

A ‘schadenfreude’ restive, losing all ‘freude’ to impatience, like innocence in war, like good to evil, in twisted folklore. 

Who knows how much longer I can face this musical score. 

As I dreidel spin a mix of Elvis’ Blue Christmas with Otis Redding ones of White. Cue the festival of lights. A pound of my flesh, served fresh, in the chow hall for 10 Hanukkah nights. My own version of The Merchant of Pinnochio’d-Venice, selling wooden dolls that come to life and dance, casting Shakespearean shadows in my Plato’s cave. Another dark hole where who knows grows. Where you know whose nose never grows, like an Elton Rose, in New York City. Gritty poetry. Smelling more shitty than my normal prison prose. I wonder how long it will take the guards to see that I’m missing something in this reality. Who? Nose? I’m masking up till parole, I suppose. Merry Christmas/Mele Kalikimaka.

#3. Trailer Swift, Fast and Loose. Sex, Drug Grifts and a Rockin’ Caboose. 

My Girl, Trailer Swift, my favorite prison pre-op grift-tranny with count Basie-manny and soprano bubble gum pop-peddy, to her rough and ready, manicured backdrop. 

Adam’s apple orchard, bobbing with pronounced throaty notes, tortured. A lot more lines cut on her, in her and for her, than on any editing floor. Clips finding a flat surface with whiffs of cocaine whore and combat. More tat than estrogen tit or skin. To speak in “Tit for Tat,” more scar tissue than tat. Tattoos of golden scarred, Kintsugi hard lines, worn proud, quid pro quo truths, of her loud land mines.

An Egyptian book of the dead feather pinned by a black pearl, on the top of her head, with better segue and care, this boy wannabe mean girl, wore a dead black fly in her long Chardonnay hair. A vintage-turned-oystered spell. A corked spit of vinegar added to the “Something About Mary” hair gel. A prison Ho, but a former So. Cal., broken Annabelle. A haunted rag doll, so slovenly risqué. 

A scream of a call! Girl! 

With more histrionic hidey ho’s, than Cab Calloway. 

More hits, hits, hits, than TayTay, tapped that ass, vein or nose. A sex for drug, pain in the ass, to pay-play. A trade, for those junkie-premade, by a rape, a long ago day away. Pray, praying still for the great escape from that ruined youth’s yesterday. A future big hit to keep for the inevitable big sleep up Swift’s sleeve. A palm reading, that shows six under as a one hit wonder goes, in this world of fucked-up make believe. Future blows of one, two. A KO punch from a line uncut, blood diamond blue. A violent crunch after the red-shift comedy of the Big Bang blew. A laughable punchline, sniffed up sex snuff of any kind, her universe imploding in a point, line or puff. Steer clear of those hidey-holes of dark matter stuff and dandelion fluff, hawking radiation in high doses of fear, as big and consuming as black hole energy in the center of our galaxy, but felt in our confined space, within the darkle. A becquerel I can see, after my eyes adjusted to be a Curie more than all the untrusted sickly glow of a prison Pierrot, clowning in toxic gore. To unmask the faux shine, behind the original koan facelift, past this tranny-filled holey place. This present, represented as a re-gift from someone that dislikes you with prejudice. I spy in my RV third eye, the spike bruising her heart orange, deathlike. Coming too soon in a black hole sun, keistered in the shitty, dark side of moon and fun. A fatal drug cocktail. A fairy tale, eclipsed. Run, Trailer Swift, run, from nightmare trips. Your heavy heart shines dark. A home-run-steal away from a lost Ma’at’s feather play on the Anubis scale, as Thoth records the drug-out-sex-in-weighs and denies entry into the afterlife days of Osiris and his graveyard shift, for the soon to be departed, for the woe-filled, heavy hearted, like Trailer Swift. 

The lighthearted gain entry into Duat, adrift on an underworld stream. The Egyptian Feather tickling the ass of time, to laugh up a hearty new dream; to pass the cycles of mind over matter, without the head case scene. Ad infinitum. Ad Nauseum. 

Her types have it hard. Lost souls, adding tizzy to the prison yard. Hard hearts for sex camp tykes with jizzy spikes of hairdo gone shivvy-wrong, pointing to heavens long gone, gone fishing like an ungroomed bard, masking scarred, boatful of mayhem and quiet dirge for song. A siren’s urge casting a Shakespearean line for young mullets, with a hook tine baited with pearled bullets, hooking the Swift with couplets that bind, to slow the mind, to bottom their midsummer time, in 4/4, the first two of the Rock and Roll chime. A perfect trinity, in this duality, for One line: Is this a druggie-nympho or druggie-satyriasis rhyme?

RIP soon for those keeping Trailer Swift time. Selling their soul for a bit of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. A Faust piece of housed prison ass, given up, whose borrowed time is long past, to bottoms up. The cheers of overdue with long pearly dewdrop years on the backside. A too short of a future ride, for a mullet haircut of a yolo life, living it up, drowning in tears, dry eyed, singing with the 27 Rockers club, spheres of haunted prison sex, drugs and rock and roll, in the mix with thugs, with black balloon hugs down every hidey hole. 

A toast with the pearly martini of Cleopatra that dissolves reality from now into the hereafter. 

Cue Trailer Swift’s big band ditty, of Cab Calloway’s, “Hi de Ho man,” sung off key and shitty.

Oh God, an epilogue. Hark the Hell’s Angels who sang her violent swan song. No death spike bought her trailer park or stole her last breath. Swift was beaten to death in front of the prison library. Her last words were cast like spells to the incarcerated Angels: Free at last! Free at last! Free at last! Gone, Trailer Swift, Gone. As I was checking out “The Prophet” by Gibran.

On her cell wall the prescient James Dean epithet: “Live Fast, Die Young, Leave a Beautiful Corpse.” 

Boris the hetero prison realtor added: “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and that’s the only thing she wasn’t holdin’ in her hidey holes.”

Prison Ink. Day Nutter Butter Smudged.

Innocence means nothing in trial. It’s a game of alpha dogs coursing for wild hare. One dog eats, one dog starves. My dog doesn’t even hunt. Omg, at the trial he reminded me of the first attorney in the movie: My Cousin Vinny. Faux confidence; real arrogance. When he got up before the jury his stutter of ignorance was so pronounced I heard a gasp of desperation punctuating every syllable. I died at the trial when I realized I no longer have a cousin Vinny. I should have never left mob work. I had 10 cousin-Vinnys when I worked for the capo di tutti capi of the Lucchese crime family. I would never be in this position if I stayed with them. Of course, I’d never have been innocent if I stayed with them. 

I’ve worked and walked away from US intelligence and the Lucchese crime family and now I’ll work for the prison industrial complex for 90 cents a day. 20 percent of my pay goes to the man that attacked me from behind then used his LEO family to frame me for his attempted murder. Life’s crossroads, so fun. Cue Robert Johnson in the mind in this music ghetto. I’m feeling the blues. Worst part of prison. No fucking music. So, games it is! 

 

#3.49 The “My Cellie, Celery Rick” Drinking Game.

The “My Cellie, Celery Rick” Drinking Game. Cell block does a shot of strawberry toilet hooch every time “My Cellie, Celery Rick” is said in happy hour pod poetry. The hooch is usually a dry rose, with offensive Biff Tannens that bully the bouquet to a weedy wilt, effectively killing time and brain cells that filter temporal integration, as the inmate becomes black out drunk, trying to relive a free past. 

My inner sommelier, with refined windows to the oenological soul, weeps Bordeaux as emotional Windex, openly, to try and see clearer, through such a ruddy rose. 

This hooch can also be used as an oven cleaner or surgical sterilant. See the entire description of this particular vintage in next month’s featured section of Hooch Aficionado, during Happy Hour on the prose side. And, back to the con-verse, Hapaverse side. Background. And, Action!

My Cellie, Celery Rick is bat shit crazy. I have Japanese Joe say: “My Cellie, Celery Rick is bat shit crazy,” every day, to make me laugh.

Inmates are so fun to play strawberry and Lulu Lemon games with! I hear my mother in my imagination tell me to stop playing with people. But Mom! He started it! And, you never know, he might have a get out of jail free card in his stalk of me. 

My Cellie, Celery Rick always has peanut butter in his ZZ Top beard. His long beard sometimes grazes my arm when he sidles by me in the narrow cell. It feels like a snail tracked in jelly leaving a trail of Gwyneth goop brushed on the tips of my arm hair. Goop I can’t understand or afford. When my arm hits this paper I’m writing on, it sticks to the paper and I lose some words as I unglue myself of my word, losing letters to arm hair, leaving my spells making less sense than it did before. 

My Cellie, Celery Rick is being shipped to San Carlos in a wake up. Bagged and boxed up in a non-refrigerated transport built for veggie comfort…following 8 words lost to nutter sticky…human discomfort for the Director of the 1998 film starring Katie Holmes called Disturbing Behavior: David Nutter. This ‘Nutter’ of a cellie, my Cellie, Celery Rick came greased in nutter-peanut-butter that slid his actions into disturbing ‘nutter’ behavior, like how my Pine Ridge Rez “Pops” acted when black-out drunk, but still miraculously conscious, peeing on the living room rug, mistaking it for the bathroom, while speaking in glossolalia to the fallen angel’s share of bottled spirits transformed into ghosts that smell of uric acid based ectoplasm, marking their territory to be resurrected for future drunken ritual and stink. 

My Cellie, Celery Rick’s black out is like the black hole at the center of the universe. One must call an astrophysicist in from the field to mansplain the dynamics of being centered in a dark and utterly confusing world where an impenetrable coffee stain in the prison rug becomes a portal that guides this inmate to time travel through an Einstein-Rosen bridge of consciousness, to a more primitive homo habilis time. 

I woke up yesterday to him licking my toes, scratching his head and then he started howling like a howler monkey. 

He was genuflecting on my dirty right foot like it was the black monolith from 2001, A Space Odyssey. Kubrick’s Location Manager got outer space wrong, because our cell was the Pawn Shop in Pulp Fiction. I, like hitman Jules in the coffee shop, waxing poetic and existential, looking to add a ‘W’ to the ‘Win’ column going from hitman to Whitman, to hit his Whitmanesque Open Road in multitudes, while I question my lot here in life, as slobber, sans sanity, slathers in between my mini and semi-mini La Bonnotte potatoes. 

My two smallest, little piggies on my right foot were being tongue sponged clean. 

It took me a moment to step from dreamland to materialize in the dark, into nightmare, to reach the dim light of conscious thought that this primate was sterilizing my toes for a Lebowski cut. Yes. He can get you a toe or two. (Sans Nail Polish.) 

Before the sting of the impending bite or him throwing his own feces at me, I barbaric-yawped a solid: “No! Bad Monkey!” 

Walt Whitman and Carl Hiassen would have been proud. 

He spooked and climbed up the cage and went back to the rooftops of his top bunk. My toes were still wet from dipping them into his pool of mouth-water-crazy. 

Were my toes the bells of Pavlov making him salivate as my inner Hemingway begs the question: for whom else do these bells toll? 

How many Quentin Tarantino foot fetish takes will I film in my time at this shoot location. If Kubrick demanded to shoot the moon landing only on actual location, then, I’d like to talk to the location manager and petition for a location change. The scenery here is too dismal and wet. My right foot feels nutter-sticky. And, perhaps with all this saliva-precipitation, I should build an ark? 

Or hire the dude-Lebowski to, you know, like any brother Seamus, to investigate this nocturnal aggression, that will not stand, Man! 

Will I not stand for this and sit for Heraclitus, who said the same man cannot dip his toe in the same river twice? Is this what the Greek philosopher meant about time in the form of experience changing a person after getting his toes wet.

My Cellie, Celery Rick will finally find a home in San Carlos. An institutional home for non compos mentis inmates that don’t just have a ‘few’ screws, nuts and bolts loose like the rest of us corrupted biological robots. No, the mental machinery that makes up their cognitive faculties have gone the way of Shelly’s Ozymandias, if Shelly’s word was sculpted by Lego blocks. A broken toy statue banjaxed in the sandbox of time, or more timely, he’s gone the way of Ozzy Osbourne swimming in childish, Black Sabbath circles down a celery-stick-straight river of peanut butter with a crooked lick. Mad love Zora Neale Hurston. Her genius is hidden in that last “ants on a log” metaphor. 

For my Cellie, Celery Rick, drug was a screwdriver that never turned right. (Always lefty loosey and always, more than a few screws, nuts and bolts.) 

My Cellie, Celery Rick, is a hulking stalk that goes vegetable with his nightly meds. He slipped out of his nightly coma one day last week and auditioned for Caliban in our Shakespeare Group. Luckily, auditions were in the AM, long before he sets like a sundowner, in the deconstructing shade of a sunrise-mushroom. A shine that dims into view, disappearing into a dark stillness. A fade to black necessary to change scenes in a horror flick. 

His acting acumen was a house made of dawn. Mercurial and surreal. Poetic as nature through a Dada-negate-art lens. 

His morning fire painted the dark prison stage in full Pleasantville color, tinged a hyper-real-blood-strawberry-red that smelled of arson and burnt doll hair, and felt like an Edward Hopper landscape. Quanta abstracted to fire swipes of paint spoiled green. A matrix quality, changing green vertical symbols dripping down our technicolor screens into a Jackson Pollock, apocalypse-style wallpaper of monochromatic pulses. 

Eyes, Hannibal the cannibal hooded, radiated an unnatural hunger for flesh, and was backlit by a focused criminal shine that pierced the hardened-diamond criminal set trying to understand the facets of their violent-sexual nature through English literature. 

As my Cellie, Celery Rick took the casting stage/church pulpit in prison multi use room 1, he transformed into a Caliban worthy of Ovid. 

Nay, Kafka. 

Buggy like fire ants to a sadistic entomologist with a magnifying glass and a well positioned sun. 

My Cellie, Celery Rick set himself on fire with words and casting witnessed that self immolation flash burn like a Christmas tree at the beach. Yule tidings seen from the moon, then die just as quickly to ash, and that ash formed an etheric dark-matter-particulate that pulsated into an amorphous silhouette. The anticipation of the monster that would take shape from the shifting, formless-aerosolized ink added a dimension of creepy pareidolia to the spectacle, forming of dirt, mud and sunrise into a vaguely anthropomorphic horror. Like Cezanne’s non-finito blood-red apple painted in rot and gore, by Eli Roth. 

Tell me more! Tell me more!

There was a visible aura of dazzling darkness that matched his dialogue with an inaudible rumble, until the rumble went nuts. A Peanuts-pig-pen-nuts when cracked open for tryouts. He exploded into a cloud of ash and dust that rained dirt in squiggles between the lines. Each squiggle had a sheen like lampshade made of light’s antipode and human skin after embalming fluid replaces the blood. 

I worked a surveillance job on James Caan for 6 months in Hollywood and have never witnessed such a complete transformation. 

He was pure Hollywood magic. The illusion was complete as he wobbled onstage like a dying candle blackened by coffin dirt. His monster was conjured with a wand of mascara that gave him a smoky lens of perception, then he plucked his eyes out and let casting see through them. 

His vision of monstrous materialized as the smoke cleared and a pure thespian flame licked at his moth-dusted, Caliban’d flight upstage. His winged performance held defiantly, the theatrical sun, indifferent to the stories of Icarus and Phaeton. His subtext commanded the stage like cat tongue on a frostbitten cock, suffering head from a perspective of phantom limb syndrome. 

His membrane of ominous mist had a chill to it, like cold thoughts held around the warm heart of the sun, then ice picked into sun spots that spill out the insides in a red so dark it congeals like blood to a slick black shine under the hotter spotlight of a casting bulb. Coronal mass ejection spectacular! 

Caliban, then, was asked to read for Prospero, the lead, by all casting mouths agape and smelling awe-bated. 

The slick darkle’d shine of Monster enlightened into Magician from Milan, conjuring a visual feast worthy of Da Vinci’s Last Supper painted from the scraps of something surreal, like Dali’s melting clocks, shredded like Rembrandt’s Nightwatch, by that Dutch teacher who was an overzealous art critic, and then rearranged to represent a love child of Merlin and Rasputin. And just as quickly as we marveled at his superhero acting acumen, we lost him to an Arkham named San Carlos. 

Oh, Shakespeare, an allonym of an enlightened coterie, looking to replace a dying Church of England and the Emperor’s New Clothes with a suit of eloquence worn to a new academic temple, what are we to do? 

Now, our lead is gone, but the show must go on. How? “It’s a mystery.” Have you not heard the catchphrase of “Shakespeare in Love,” produced by someone I’m hoping will be my next cellie: Bob Weinstein. This is a Sex Camp, after all. I am grateful to the magic of prison theater bringing pedos and killers together. 

My Cellie, Celery Rick is a classic abduction case. Nothing to see there, of course. 

Funny that the government narrative still promotes denial. I wonder what else they lie to us about. 

Cue Pink Floyd’s Mother: “Mother, should I trust the government?” No. Definitively. 

If the prison shrinks only understood President Eisenhower’s Greata Treaty, it would help in cases like my Cellie, Celery Rick. 

Alien Abduction fractures the mind causing MPD, multiple personality disorder. The less poetic Whitmanesque multitudes, in most. It is the fatal knockout of innocence that demands a Kübler-Ross standing 5 count. 

Because of its extreme nature, (like death) alien-kidnapped-people stay in the unhealthy first state of denial. They hate their governments, because they don’t know how they know, but they know the government is lying about alien agendas. And yet something keeps them in denial, frustrated by their own inertia to get to the second count of anger in the K.R. standing 5 in the squared ring of grief. 

Denial is a roundup ready vegetable crop far from the healthy blessings of count-5-acceptance and the grace that comes from that organic farm to table business model. In denial, fear envelopes the unconscious, and permeates the conscious mind because your safest spot on the planet, your bedroom under the covers, is a portal to a haunted castle, connecting a government sponsored “Children of the GMO Corn” program of off-planet genetic-engineering to the abductee’s unlucky numerology. Especially the green-eyed numbers in negative blood types like myself. You try relaxing after that experience splinters your mind. There is no anger or bargaining for most of those unlucky intergalactic lottery winners chosen to slip the surly bonds of hologram earth and dance the skies like an alien ventriloquist puppet with an elongated alien-gray Modigliani finger up the ass, puppeteering the prostate. An alien gray finger fuck goes deep. It is a depth well beyond depression. It is reverse-bathysphere terrifying. You pee your pants every time you ghost through the ceiling. 

I wonder if I’d get the bends if I went scuba diving right after an alien abduction. Wouldn’t the UFO’s altitude cause depression sickness. Allowing me to skip denial, anger, bargaining and go straight to depression. A Caisson away from acceptance. 

What are those yellowing stains on my ceiling? My upside down Lebowski asks, mistaking the ceiling for the carpet, tying the room together. 

The sky, a dry ocean flipped in the mind, awaiting a version of the MOMA’s Le Bateau spin, that turned Matisse over in his grave, as his painting was upside down on the museum wall for over a month. Boat bottoms up to the ceiling. O’kole Mahuna/Bottoms Up! My Kahuna side chants! 

The ceiling is as important as the ceiling in the “Declaration of Principles” scene in Citizen Kane. It looms in the background until it becomes the star and you ask: Did Orson Welles just invent the ceiling as a role in the high art of cinema? As the alien abductee goes through it, like a bloodied glass one for the menstruate in the corporate box looking for more manly pay dirt, the chosen is in a “Look Mom! No hands!” state of awareness, from the perspective of postpartum depression. Mom sees only broken ceiling glass and blood. 

In ancient astronaut abduction flight, despite being amazed that you are reverse skydiving, you soil yourself with the micturate, making it smelly when the Grays are riding dirty with scopes that view the prostate, while recruiting semen for travel upon oceans of space, to find alien ports and portals for master cosmic geneticists like Enki and his galactic womb of Ninhursanga, in Sumerian creation myth, playing with human brown peasants like ants. 

Like Mendel did peas. 

While the shadow government gets tech trinkets to usher in FTL (faster than light) speeds. This was recently confirmed by Israeli Space Force Commander, General Eshed. FTL is the cosmic Metro card needed to join the Galactic Federation, and ride the light wave bus with entities like the Sumerian Annunaki (meaning those that came from above). The older version of Adam and the ceiling in his garden represented as the forbidden climb up the tree of knowledge. Don’t get above your raisin’ hillbilly. But, I’ll beam you up with a blossom of the resonant ‘flower of life” dynamics of higher frequency harmonics in Chladni figure of the mental body slowed, then, shot forward in space-time with an angled rotation of Gluon-Quark color spin, to levitate, then dematerialize a human, banished from the garden of dream, through a ‘drywall wet with pee’ ceiling and a UFO wall made of Titanium/Tellurium/Germanium. An alloy worthy of Promethean fire and the crucible of Hephaestus, and the tech cackle of the federation gods with tech indistinguishable from magic. Magic of the gods, like their chariots. UFO bulkheads have always fascinated my inner metallurgist. Hattori Hanzo had his Kill Bill sword. I’ve got my alien shiv made of the same layered bismuth, magnesium and zinc, 2 microns thick, found holding the Montauk cockpit chair, riveted to the extra-terrestrial bulkhead. Cool space metals. 

In our abduction scenario, my Cellie, Celery Rick, is our “Citizen Kane” pushing through the ceiling. It is not a trick of cinematography, it is called Cascade Holomorph Physics, or Keylontic in the world of reverse engineered cymatics. That’s wicked cool dark matter/hologram physics. A dazzling flower of singularity that darkles the Higgs field to sparkle beyond the GZK cut offs, past the speed of light to exploit quantum entanglement, unifying field theory. The Grays use a higher number on the Kardashev scale of efficient energy production. Classified, of course. Nothing to see there. Ben Rich, CEO of the top secret Skunkworks quipped: “We now have the tech to bring ET home, because all points in space-time are connected.” If you really knew what he meant, the average American would weep. Your eyes go flying saucer and your American mind goes Roswell that never ends well. Or, stealth eyes stoned Dropa shut in the Chinese mind records. Or, your comrade’s vision goes loopy in circles, through a multidimensional Perestroika (restructuring) and the Russian collective consciousness goes Glasnost (openness) to Kasputin Yar, Russia's Area 51. 

What? Did you think UFO was only an American classified dynamic? 

The Italian accented Sovashena Secreta BLUE files with a Mt. Musinee blue mind shines like Nazi Gold and rings with die Glöcke/The Bell Program. Did you read the ‘die’ in ‘die Glocke’ like the American verb or the German feminine-case definite article? 

Pavlov had his bell to make mutts’ mouth water. I’ve got toes for my Cellie, Celery Rick. 

Hans Kammler’s Nazi bell rang so loud, Nazi time stopped abruptly to take notice. Kammler’s bell ‘Paper Clipped’ to the ‘Waste Bin’ of American Intelligence. Penn Space/Time bent a dog ear to listen to such power in vibration, raining electric fire. According to stolen SETKA files from Pavel Popovich and the KGB’s 7th Directorate, (Russian Rosebud stolen on July 7th 1991. 1321 zulu time.) Russia was called in to cement the Nazi rain-bowed bluff of fire to Soviet smoke and mirrors. 

You know it was important if both sides, cold warring, colluded on something. Pawel was a former Cosmonaut and the Kommisar of the Aerial Phenomenon Investigations Division of the KGB. The Russian version of our CIA’s NICAP, or Luis Elizondo’s Pentagon-AATIP, or Fox Mulder’s X-Files. 

A hidden red right hand up the Nixon-Brezhnev puppets. Kammler knew America was Nazi safe, politically, (Kennedy removal) for the Nazi tech. 

The globalists seized power in the shadows through NSC-40. The successful coup of Johnson, Kissinger et. al. The dog eared Kecksburg is a wooded area 4 1/2 hours from Wright Patterson (Tech Hardware). 2 1/2 hours from Fort Detrick (Software/personnel). 

Publicly, there were 4 official recounts of Nazi Kammler’s death after WW2. The bell that rang for the special projects director for the SS (current day DARPA CEO Equivalent) was silenced by effective German temporal engineering. Deutsche trains run with precision. How sharp would their time travel instruments be? The “Bell” disappeared from a Silesian coal mine in Poland and found a Deutsche simpatico in the German Johann Keck of Kecksburg family through the Knights of Pythias. CIA’s Donald Richardson brought the Nazi Kammler over, knowing where to find the secret bell tech in Kecksberg, PA, or more importantly, when. 

Dec 9, 1965. Dec 9, is the birthdate of John Milton, author of Paradise Lost. An ode to the lost Third Reich that went covert/underground. John Milton was the favorite author of Hans Kammler. 

Dates are important to time travelers, or so I can imagine. 

An SS man used the bell as a faux sarcophagus. Buried in future time. Not “Paper Clipped” but “Wastebin’d” into our pre-DARPA Pegasus program.  (Mülleimer Klassifiziert, the MK in ULTRA/NAOMI). 

As secret as North Shore, Kauai’s old Mana airport, or the Temple at Baalbek, to those partial to interstellar surf. Eyes closed everywhere, global government chanting in unison: Nothing to see there! 

The world is locked in a state of consciousness that merely contemplates the alien existence so an awareness that spawns questions of agenda and motive cannot be created. Our ‘Viral Agenda’ has also been a weather balloon hoax. 

Lila Cepa details this in the Rosebud Thief. The Hegelian dialectic of thesis, antithesis and synthesis is compartmentalized by National Security. Synthesis thwarted to conspiracy, thesis to confusion. Antithesis to subterfuge. A shift to uncertainty. Uncertain eyes stay closed in fear, feeling the flying saucers relegated to the minds of sci-fi and my thespian, Nutter-ET-contact Cellie, Celery Rick, as the classified sandbox is a DUMB (Deep Underground Military Base) full of UFO sport models, vibrational meds and stable element 115, reverse engineered by people like Bob Lazar. 

One 15 minutes of concealed fame for those that own time in secret and ridicule the whistleblow, as an old conspiracy of elegant tinnitus ringing wrong, like a broken grandfather clock, right, twice a day in the ears, just like the real flying saucers in your two eyes have a faulty spotlight to blame for the rest of the unreal time. 

A blue beam focused on the mote/moat. Nothing to see there, but swamp gas, logs floating around the castle, and aliens playing an RPG frogger from spaceship moon. 

Is that raisins or people on that brown log down there? 

Their joystick controls the tides and the weather (Up-down). Left-Right controls time, but has been short circuited by free will, but they have soul engineers from the Draco star system working the probability problem with a frequency fence, like an old school military intelligence TLQ-17 jammer, but with a stronger Saturnalia range. 

A stifling situation for my Cellie, Celery Rick turning his human side off, his nightly celery side on, like metempsychosis in reverse, just like other humans who are on to them, but lose the mind to their on/off button while retreating to their Brave New World’s vegetable kingdom. 

If the aliens visit him while I’m in the cell, I’m jumping through the exfil portal in the ceiling. 

Aliens are everywhere and nowhere, silly, like God. 

Like God, if you look, you will find, because you will see God in the look in your eyes. 

No faith needed with that kind of knowing and seeing. Like the melody of the divine played by the human instrument, when we are indifferent to our inquiries. Ask and you shall receive, always has a scary dynamic that’s miraculous, if you can push through the fear, the Pulp Fiction Coffee Shop “Klatches,” and sometimes, the ceiling to find the reality of understanding co-creation beyond our caged thoughts in this human zoo. To find peace in content while floating in crazy context, down a lazy circle of haves and have motes/moats. 

Life should be seen as a lazy river adventure, not a Halloween spin cycle of the occult of haves and have motes/moats, spinning you vertigo, while you dream of princely, shapeshifting frogs haunting castles with open mouth kisses too tongue and cheek with archon slither to be sensual, as the unsuspecting public is blinded by moneyed, Soylent and Reptile greens. Concealed shades of green behind blue bloods. 

My Cellie, Celery Rick, dreaming in celery, asked if they had a smell to the blue, behind their royal greens. Finally, a human asking the right questions, going vegetarian behind synesthete flying saucer eyes. Thinking of copper content in the smells of spilled blue blood. 

Perhaps I’ll follow the stalk to San Carlos. It wouldn’t be hard. I have the same look in my high beam eyes, half hooded by my mote of indifference, magnified to a beam of acceptance. 

Yes Rilke, no human feeling is final.

 A statue of Ozymandias-celery cannot fight time without a blue cheese crumble. 

I’ll miss his lost kind. His lost, salad-tossed mind. His stalk of cosmic crumble. 

Prospero’s magic staff broken and beamed up like Scotty from the mote/moat. Aliens wanting a snack, confusing the earth Magician and his hare filled black hats for ants on a log. 

A valiant speck of fecal dust, spinning dirty yarn, frayed at the edges, in a shitstorm reality. 

Asylums are the new magic/comic cons, full of ticking Trekkie nerds, with science indistinguishable from magic and superhero, behind their Tourette chants, hidden up their straight-jacketed sleeves. 

Buggy stalks of celery in GMO fields that reach past the globe's horizon like plague. People recoil from such blatant displays of dark magic, blight with the greens of nature looking more gangrene with locusts than grasshoppers. A matter of population density, prison systems should take a cue from the transition of grasshopper to locust, like a prisoner confined to the density of prison-Punk population. 

Prospero’s magic blighted, his Raison d’être lost to another world, most can never visit, not even in their nightmares. 

Pickle Rick is funny comic con material. My Cellie, Celery Rick with ants in the eyes? Too soon? 

Farewell my Cellie, Celery Rick. A shape shift away from Actor extraordinaire! A vegetable-still animated to photogenic stardom with every morning glory take. Tomorrow, my Cellie, Celery Rick…Gone. Actors are crazy. The crazier the better. Gone to Goner. That explains a little better, my work with Hollywood talent for a year. Gone. Goner. Gone-est. 

Tomorrow, a new cellie. Just, God please, No walk-on play actors! (Producers are Ok. They are blatantly devious. I honor that kind of transparency.) Although, we are short a leading man in the Tempest. A lead into the only sharp point of this tale. I’ve never had someone lick my toes nutter-sticky. If a lover did it, I think I'd go nuts for it. No, the real point. Stay away from actors, they are the worst in bed. Especially the method ones. They act there as well. I dated the lead in the movie Blackwater, Amy Simon, for a few years after my Caan surveillance job. She acted just as badly horizontal as she did vertical. If you don’t believe me, the movie was on Prime before I fell. Judge the vertical for yourself and then tilt your head to the side, and act like you are about to give a public speech and picture everyone naked in the picture. You’ll side-see what I saw on our relationship’s amusement ride. She had all the Gary Busey crazy of my Cellie, Celery Rick, but none of the talent. She would have made a terrible cellie, just like my Cellie, Celery Rick, getting packaged and shipped tomorrow. Discounted as overripe. A bargain in the loony bin. 

New Fruits and Vegetables being delivered to the cell tomorrow. The only food group necessary for the unhealthy and the otherwise unfit for public consumption like me and my Shakespeare group. 

Cue: Mercury. The Great Pretender!

Guard! My Cellie, Celery Rick, just ate his last dinner here at Fremont Correctional. It’s time for his monkey meds from the primate pharmacy. 

Cut! Check the gate! Move to the next scene. Fade to Black. 

Save The Catty Offscreen Purrs: I hear we have a new co-star. He better be off-book and know his ‘in between’ the lines. If he’s with a “Pulp Fiction” Pawn Shop fluffer thinking porn, I’ll have 8 dirty little piggies getting cleaned or two dirtied. Cellie roulette keeping me on my toes, sharpening my acting chops, monkey on monkey, like steel sharpening steel in this primate jungle. 

I make my monkey play the grinder. 

My Cellie, Celery Rick’s monkey was a bat I mistook for a jailbird. I found out later when I got the black holes in my prison Lebowski rug tested and found guano with all the pee. Oh what fruit and veggies grow from such fertilizer watered with slobber shaped rain in my Paradise Lost. I’ll miss his magic, Caliban’d. 

My Cellie, Celery Rick, space-time traveler like the Nazi Kammler, only with a broken liberty bell ringing in the mind. Sound waves crushing sanity to a dissonant pulp, creating fiction worthy of Tarantino, plays worthy of the allonym; England’s ‘Terence,’ my prison group’s Will Shakespeare. 

Live long and Prospero. Sincerely, The Fallen. Actor/Convict. Drunk. Game Over. Outer Space Black Fall Out. 

To the alchies with half/hapa/iyeska hooded hooch eyes looking for the after party…

(PS) Post Soiree: I got a letter from my former Cellie, Celery Rick, while at San Carlos Insane Prison Asylum. My former Cellie, Celery Rick, wanted me to describe what it felt like acting around all the bluebloods with a higher copper content hidden in their bloodstream. Bluebirds singing in the language of heavy metal and vegetable, in the human cave forming Plato's shadow, shapeshifting in chains and dirge on the cell walls. My Cellie, Celery Rick’s Quote on the wall: “Hell is other people and the aliens that sodomize my sleep.” Sartre, with Giordano Bruno, staking a fiery claim. 

 

Prison Ink. Day Off.

A DOC/prison relief. They called my name over the whole soundsystem of prison loudspeakers. The one flipped on by Andy Dufresne and Mozart in Shawshank. I thought my dream came true. I literally have a recurring dream that the cop family that framed me recanted their testimony and told the truth that I was a victim of an attempted murder that my Green Beret skill set miraculously stopped! Or the ONI Sat/SIGINT intel feeds, or Musk in the private satellite sector released the video exonerating me, showing I was attacked from behind in a Denver open-air parking lot. Or, Darpa’s SPIDER webbed a video feed exonerating me from its spy satellites proving that I was attacked from behind in an open air parking lot! (SPIDER is the ultra-classified Segmented Plain Imaging Detector for Electro-Optical Recon program.) No, not that big of a relief, but, I did find out from a pedo-con-Vicky that I won’t have to do my whole 10 year sentence.  

In this prison industrial complex they use “relative risk numbers” like Big Pharma’s industrial complex; the public reservoir fed by the private, classified bio-chemical-weapons tributaries, that was my life for 12 years. My violent offense of 10 years is cut by good time, to 7 1/2 years! Con-Vicky told me that (don’t believe anything a Con says) and I confirmed it at the law library. 10 days a month of good time awarded for every 30 days served in compliance. Kind of important, you think my attorney would have mentioned it, when they offered me the 5 year plea deal. Knowing I’d lose and get ten years, I still wouldn’t have taken the deal. I cannot admit to something I didn’t do. My attorney simply didn’t know. Boob. So, I’ll be 55 not 58 when I get out. A smaller amount of bad news. Like Cantor's proof of smaller infinities, still gives me the same queasy feel, like the next 7.5 years of state inspired cuisine, seasoned with pepper spray and marinated in mace, with everyone looking at me like a new ‘old school’ revenue source for their nicked lunch money coffers. I wonder if I get a senior citizens’ discount when I’m 55? This too shall pass…into my golden parachute. Can we make a zero-porosity top skin canopy out of gold fibers that can soar? I didn’t think so. 

I overheard a pederast that owned a kiddie school with his wife mention he used to jump in the military. I asked him what kind of parachute he jumped with, and he replied the same ones that jeeps used. Inmates are so full of shit. I felt sorry for this stolen-valor-archetype’s wife until I found out she was in on it. What people do for love is mind boggling. Stop fucking hurting children. The adult world hurts them enough! Being around pederasts in the intelligence community has aged me prematurely. Intel years are like dog years. You have to multiply by 7. Prison is even factored lower. 

The call over the loudspeaker? 

I went to the outside bars and a cop threw divorce papers through the striped sunlight at my feet and said: “You’ve been served.” I left the papers on the ground and walked away to him yelling something in the blue Punk language that I am still searching for a nonviolent Rosetta Stone to translate. 

They put me in the hole for five days for littering. 

I guess the divorce papers had my name on it…there goes my good time for the month. All Hole time loses the 10-days of good time for the month. Relative risk numbers skewing time. In my mind…I’m back to doing the whole 10 years. On my terms. 

My heart smiles. An old-school molasses-dripped, mouthful of kettle corn teeth, kind of grin. Thinking, single life suits me just fine. 

4. Checkmate. Dead Inmate in Two Moves.  

PSS. This one was too close to my blind side to write about inside. Exorcized by the bad cross of poetry after haunting my outside. Despite this, I still lost this bit of me, on the inside, like Marcel Duchamp and his ‘Readymade’ Chess piece, after he died. On Duchamp’s tombstone the epithet lied: “Besides, it’s always the others who died.” Duchamp Readymade. Reincarnated. Here’s to my own death of my incarcerated mind. My epithet: “The haunted house scream of unseen lightning. Loud, gaudy and gone under. My proud thunder-ghost, gone quiet, made of a new dawn, where Morse is a hushed riot in the rain. A yawn, as illuminating as barbaric yawps, cried under prison rooftops, in pains, under this dirt, dirt, dirty…the moon still waxes and wanes.” 

A scream in the bewitching hour is rare. It is extremely rare, anytime. Guaranteed: the smell of chunky copper. Spoiled square and klumpy, permeating the prison air, like milk doing too much time, lumpy inside, congealing to cold-hard; “in-refrigerated.” 

The creepiest scare, chills ice cold, like frozen carbonation in the air, but too incendiary to hold, as it fizzes reality, frayed by bubbles on fire, at the edges we cannot see in the wire, is the incarcerated scream. Like ozone and thunder, before lightning unseen. 

People fight in silence in cells like ninjas. Ninjas in every “dream lesson” for me. Who wants to go to the hole after a life and death scene. Battling, battling, battling…no bell in cells painted redrum, dog eat dog, dry mouthed. You fight ‘til you don’t, dead or knocked the fuck out. 

No Carson Daly, asking politely to declare the winner of the bout. Only a silent Ten-Count, voiced in the serenity of the knock-knock-out. Who’s There? 

I won’t bang a war drum to enlarge the target on my greens. I’m about 6 chess games, scenes running concurrently. Bobby Fischer dreams. 

I can move rook to king four, if he opens that pawn’s door, and done, checkmate on that one. And, oh, go chess master Duchamp resurrected live on the other 5! Which puts a bigger target on my back. The kings on the boards, in duplicitous modes of attack. I’ve NOT seen (my story to the blue, which I’m sticking to) an 86 year old white man beat to death in cell house 8, by a 20 year old black kid for putting the kid in check mate with a queen to bishop 3, with the added flourish, (I also did NOT see) like unseen lightning, of a “Maybe next time. I told you so!” 

The response in a flash: a different Check ordered mate/inmate. Fast. The meal of life was over and it tasted slutty and cheap and mace’d with bad service at a restaurant that smelled of regret. The last check was summoned with a few squiggles of the wrist. Written in the air so fast, it was easily missed, until the bill came bloodied after the pepper-spray-saturated broccoli, never green, but burnt orange and blue, was found to be way overpriced, too. I quit playing for good after that. True. 

But, before the snarky inmate murder inmate after check mate move, I had chess moves that could not be beat at least five moves ahead. Three years running. You may think that is nothing to brag about considering my gated community. You’d be wrong. Lots of deep thinkers in prison. Lots of time for it. They go into wells so deep, the windows of their soul become smudged, clogging lacrimal ducts. Their thoughts echo in the mind’s micro tubules, lacking the emotional Windex to wipe the smudge to see clearly from the well. A tunnel vision to solipsism. A telescope away from humanity echoing into further separation. The echo is tangible to the synesthete. You can think deeply and still be bat shit crazy. Clarity of thought is the pas de dieux with depth, to be sane and dance genius. Michelangelo believes patience is the marbled, squeak free step in the haunting dance of genius. 

Otherwise, depth with no clarity, you get insane and genius, which is a lab accident away from super villainy. A break dance away from haunted human Halloween. Tricks and treats of belief and thought; the kinds that evil bought, that we never speak of, above a weak whisper, afraid of finding resonance, worst, in prison there is entrainment. 

There’s always these shadows gathering in the hush, awaiting the signal in whisper’s semaphore, in agitations of Chladni formed vibration, courtesy of the darkest parts of the human psyche. Such is the concept of thought, let alone speech, in prison, so if you hear a scream…someone’s cellie is proper fucked. Like on fire and getting pissed on, so he can live with the pain of 3rd degree burns. 

Bukowski said, life is about how well we walk through the flame. Is this what he meant? We prison niggers roll ninja style through it. 

In prison, the scream is more hauntingly beautiful than the madman Munch’s. A punishing crescendo to the violent symphony of a felon’s life usually in the same burnt orange and blue. Like hearing Stravinsky’s “Rites of Spring” live for the first time, before Disney’s Fantasia appropriated the tune. Like intel asset Kubrick shining darker to royalty on the moon. “Rites” caused a riot in the tuxedoed audience the first time it was heard. A scream can cause a riot in prison when that jailbird is clan’d up. Gangs are vicious. Their bloody greens like surgeon’s scrubs with patches sewn on with adorable prison politic slogans, like “Clan up or Man up!” 

Thoreau seance’d from the hush, his pointed finger at us telling posterity, I told you so! Indeed you must know, prisoners, like most men, lead lives of quiet desperation. Loud in any manner enlarges the target patched on the back of their prison greens. A bullseye size depending on the jacket. An ekphrasis worn silently, and always inside out. 

Screams are the last gasp. The death rattle of Koresh and prey, alerting not the predator, for the predator is long gone, looking back fondly on the thrill of the kill. An evanescence his black-heart is trying to envelop, in futility, as the mind sees the shadow of that light trail and follows it to the next thrill, as the scream is heard by the jackal eyed scavenger. The cowardly, with a taste of raw flesh, but with claws that are vulture manicured, and a gag reflex spinal tapped to 11 for any smells of courage mixed in with their hair and beauty products. Yes, he-she, Trailer Swift, I speak of you and your ilk. Their contraband rings, cheap gold calves grazing on green bling, that sparkle darkle like souls in mud instead of blood, worshiping faux shine, loyal to any trinket or bauble, they stole off the dead, to augment the lack of shine within their empty bobble headed minds, as even gods recoil, when the smell of blood soaking the prison tide and air, spell to the victor, the spoils. Yeats’ Second Coming, being read by a monotone guard over the loudspeaker. 

Trailer Swift, thin lips parted, eu de parfum-tailored prison greens, licking her Swarovski bedazzled incisors with every scream, like a bell for a wet Pavlovian Woof. Salivate, woof. I tense up knowing my cellie is ganged up, waiting for a future collision, constantly, constantly, around the cell’s tight corner. The 86 year old with snarky unseen lightning for breath, when it should have smelled bated and ozone only, obviating the swim with his Baby Ruth in a pool of Caddyshack red, (scents that would have staved off his smelly death) was a sex offender like all the rest here. He liked little girls. Came at their fear. Hi, little girl, do you play chess here? Can I play with your chest, thundering in his ears. His mind, full of unseen lightning. My shrink wrapped world locked in his crackle, him on the bunk palimpsest therapist couch below me, dreaming of the Double Dutch licking ice cream set, tied up in ropes in his basement. I can’t tell you how many little girls went from ice cream to him in the same meal, but neither could he. He can now. Flat lines draw our memories in full technicolor on the soul. Our actions not only echo, echo into eternity, but death, death being a ship, ship of consciousness, setting off to new shores. The cargo of experience goes with you on the journey. All baggage gets checked by the spirit's internal TSA. The pain you cause, you feel in your soul's DNA, from the victim’s perspective. Brings out the little girl in you, I’ll bet. Hard not to count, like chopping off fingers with a cigar cutter, even losing fingers, it's impossible to lose count. “Maybe next time. I told you so!” Unseen lightning striking the same place twice, but who’s counting, with no fingers. 

My new prison Motto: Don’t put me on scream, don’t put me on shout. Share with me your wildest dream, and I will quietly remove all doubt. I was still too fucking loud. But, I am…The Undefeated Chess Champion of Fremont Correctional Prison. Most impressively, I’m still alive and undefeated in my Thunderdome/Harmacy-that broke the seal, to piss away the P. The Doctor is in, but out job hunting. 

 

#4.49 Snubs, Snips and Cuts. (Formerly Prison Ink. Day Mayfly.)

My Mayfly Meditation Gig amongst the Mullets as Hapa-Cuts and Snubs. Barbers on Fremont’s Fleet Street. 

Preamble: I said I could cut hair to get out of working in the kitchen. The 3:30 AM breakfast shift. I lied. How hard could cutting hair be? I learned Rochambeau early. I knew scissors cut paper. I see the cut-out demons of this Fleet Street, paper town. Pedo silhouettes in a chain gang busting rock. The decoupage hardens to shadows. My snips, dangerously unsteady, as I close my eyes to adjust to the darkness in the chair. 

Amble to the Prison Barber Shop NO-Talk. 

Amiable Snubs, a taciturn trumpet away from an already silenced Mariachi band member, all faux smiles, little-to-no-talk, is the other barber. I told him he could call me “Cuts.” I nicknamed myself by taking the ‘I’ out of Curtis. Quite enlightened, says the existential superego and Sartre. 

I took the ‘R’ out too. My inner pirate cried more than fluids as I thought of the “R” in Kubrick’s Strangelove-plan. The same “R” in the “R” Force at Shepperton studios, home of BSC. British Security Coordinators created false flags in the US during pre WW2 to entice the US into the war and helped the Japanese with Pearl Harbor. They would target our barber shops to gather HUMINT. Best place for intel drops and honeypots. 

Prison barber shops have the same sleazy intel feel. Snubs has gotten two guards pregnant in the 20 plus years since he fell as a juvenile, tried as an adult for murders. Plural. 

Barbers are good listeners. Women love to talk. Female guards, usually the dumber dregs of society, have very few people who listen without saying something even stupider. Especially those of us with that annoying “Y” chromosome, always interrupting with inane ideas in Mr. Fix-It-fixing, when they should just be listening, to the incessant list of female problems (those that listen more to Wendy Williams than Oprah) that most prison guards seem to have. Read the room, bitches. Get out of the fucking barber shop. I know, bleeding is hard. I bleed every day here, quit your monthly cunty whining. For Snubs, it was a match made twice in heaven.
Snubs, the reticent barber, let his fingers do the walking and talking, once, when he capped some peeps with 2 snub nosed .38 handguns and got life at 15 years old. The juvenile in him said, in an emphatic outdoor voice, “they had it coming!” I waited for him to mature. His words to ripen within him to elaborate with an indoor voice. That season came and went without fruit. Only crops of silent snips of short-banged hair heard falling with a gun-metal cackle, from the chair in front of him. The salon, so quiet, I could hear the carbonation from his cherry Coke can bubbling up to protest his annoying stillness. Within the stillness, the sour smell of expired comb disinfectants infect glass jars, adding prison barber shop blues to keep with the color scheme of the pedo-prisoner blues being sung as jailbird tunes in the chair. Snubs trading in his handguns for a black comb and scissors standing behind his pedo-cut-client, firm like sculptured marble and stolid with an elongated face, like an Olmec stone head carved by Giacometti lacquered in Old Spice. A silent, competent barber. I would quickly discover the reason for his stoic nature. No religious oath of silence. No Mariachi-snapped vocal cord. No, some things are simply better not knowing. For some reason, everyone talks to a barber in the harsh light of sobriety, like a bartender without alcohol, serving sodium pentathol (truth serum) with every shot at the hair. His silence tried to discourage it. It hardly worked. It often had the reverse effect. It made the pedo-catamite in the chair so nervous that he would start confessing just to cut the tension, figuring impact would be better than the silent rush of free fall. The impact never came. The impending floor looming at our feet, winding them up to a vertigo vomit-comet of keeping up with the pedo’s, spinning horror tales louder with nerve, like the quiet was Oscar-stage-exit-music to Cuba Gooding Jr. 

I once did a job where I had to put Bill O’Reilly’s corner office under surveillance in the Fox News Room which took a lot of NYC prep time. While I was there in the spring of 2010, playing a screenwriter, I looked into the Vader black eyes of Marina Abramovich at the MOMA. I felt the same creepy disconnect when I looked into Snub’s barber shop client’s eyes. Their dirty windows showed an empty Death Star haunted by ghosts rattling crazy chains in the Darth helmeted attic and kiddie-sex-room chains clinking in the cellar. Short Snubs, always looking up, could put a shine on any helmet. His light inadvertently shining upon the darkest of dungeons.
Silent Snubs started cutting hair with a pair of toenail clippers, 20 plus years ago. The toe nail clippers were perfect for his OCD. 

The darker pedos are racist and let no Snubs or white cracker plant GMO corn rows in their militant-pure, midnight-black fields. If we are splitting haircuts, the white-pedo-client is short sighted and long winded. The mullet of the barber shop talk. A slack-jawed, myopic muk muk, with backward, hillbilly-long stares between haircuts, cut off from the reasoning mind. Front hair falling like violent convicts in the yard when crop dusted by prisoner strength mace. The snips, like the yard jailbirds, crackle when they hit the floor, after Snubs cuts them down. 

“Something about Mary” taught them that ejaculate from their kiddie porn saves them on hair gel. 

The front end of the business haircut lying on the shop’s linoleum in varied hues of dead squirrel without tail, (depending on hair color, insert gray or white teacup poodle, for squirrel) still chattering to themselves under presumed Barber Shop immunity, like a prison’s Las Vegas: what happens, and is said in the prison barber shop, stays in the prison barber shop. The hot syphilitic wind, like a Vegas haboob, twirls the barber pole with a diseased gusto that feels highly infectious. All good barbers like Snubs, (not me) count every red and white and blue striped spin till the hairpiece is silenced by broom and dustpan. Spin and Reload. The vertigo of unbalanced karmic symmetry spins to me from the bad haircuts of the young lambs our pedo-cut clients fleeced of their wool, who stopped screaming. Why yes, Agent Starling, there was a silence of the spring lamb. Chianti and fava beans scented the prison air. Going from pedo to necrophilia. That’s right, number one in the front and number 6 in the back, barber. The standard dead mullet numerology. Get in a new line at this prison/sex-camp-cupcake Barber Shop.  

So, yeah, I met an inmate I liked today. His haircut was a little odd sided. Made even more uneven due to my incompetence. Something, I just heard, I could get killed for doing! Goodness, I could see the obituary now: “Inmate Lila Cepa died of blunt force trauma to the head from a bad haircut.” Sadly, not an original franchise. My likable inmate-client had a shit-show-shady-business in the front and a 1970’s key party in the back, where you couldn’t be taller than 6 years old to ride. Then, my new mullet friend showed me his real mullet. A one inch erect penis in the front. The apron cape pushed to the side, missing the popcorn and the movie, in the “dick in the popcorn at the movie” gag. Flash Barber! Wtf! 

Flashback: Six year old dead children violated in the back. Small business in his front and their Oingo Boingo, “Dead Man’s Party,” in the rear. A dead shot. The caught mullet sex position. A ride to kiddie snuff and taxidermy stuff. “You see that kiddo stuffed on my wall? I caught him at a local park, baited with a cupcake, bagged him with the net of my Rolls Royce. I did, I tell ya! I hooked this little Nemo, when the Mom sneezed. Hard to sneeze without closing the eyes.” His scent senses gone Proustian that day with Ragweed head notes and pollen sparkled heart notes added to his Acqua Velva cologne. Soul notes soured holy roller. Holy shit clinging to the cross. An angled Calvary on a pronounced Adam’s Apple. Christ choking from the smells and from the chain tightened by my client’s holy roller rink of a neck that I’m supposed to: “Clean under the party, please.” Is that a barber term or a Pedo-recruiting-roller-skating-party term? Is there a Zamboni-like-razor I can use? I really have to start screening my clients in the chair a little bit better. Perhaps I could add electricity in these cases. I know, Colorado, like me, promised never to kill again, but one should never say never, and always spearfish the torpedo shaped mullet, while shooting the breeze at the prison barbershop, making 90 cents a day. I have to find a new job. Less talk around sharp objects. I lasted a Mayfly day fishing for mullets. Back to the over loud bakery tomorrow, longing for silent Snubs. It was nice to hear the still cut of Snub’s jib. A sharper cut above the rest here. I could picture him like El Mariachi, his handgun case a palimpsest of a ukulele case, cutting down ol’ New Mexico way. A directional dyslexic, getting lost in Colorado, thinking he was south of the border, losing his blood red mariachi outfit to prison barber green. His toenail clippers cut to the Buddha barber of Fremont’s Fleet Street. He’s losing another sidekick today. He won’t mind. I’m hanging up my Snubs and shears in my mental Mayfly. Finally, says the Green Beret Sniper in me, who used to pack a Bowie knife to church. Prison is rehabilitative for the perennial learner. Especially when you learn too much. Cue The Kinks…no, Cue The Raincoats…Lola. 

Sometimes it’s nice to be a silent witness to a cold winter rain storm. I understand the Snubs and his raindance of silence; his enlightened ignorance, especially when wearing the right rain gear. It rains a lot of hair gel in this Barber Shop. Always good to be prepared. I don’t want to get any on me. It feels so immature. A childish toxicity, that might be contagious. Just in case, I’m sheltering elsewhere. Bad weather, the best time to be indoors. The best time for Barber shop no-talk. End scene.

Thank God. I once played a plumber/bartender in a movie with the ass crack of an actor named David Boreanaz in Mr Fixit. He was so coked out he accused me of stealing his sunglasses. I pulled out an actor’s blush compact mirror and showed him his sunglasses sitting on the top of his head. Alana de Garza told me not to listen to him. She said he’s always like that. I wouldn’t be surprised to see David in this prison Barber Shop with more of his Hollywood-pedo set. One can dream. 

 

Plumb House Preamble: I once played a plumber in a movie, so I thought, how hard could it be? I told my case manager I used to be a plumber before I cut hair to get out of the prison Barber Shop while staying out of the kitchen.

Amble to first, flooded cell-house bathroom at midnight. I’m the only plumber on call. Oh shit, the Prison Guard is looking at me for advice. I’m used to the smell, because I worked around Bryan Singer’s Hollywood, but I had to say something when he asked me what to do. So, I said call me Mr Fix-It, he’s not here yet…but he will be.

The Quote on Snub’s Barber Mirror: “Silence is golden. Silent farts cut through the shit. Silent cuts…cut the best.”

Epilogue: I helped a fellow prison Punk/gang-member pass the math portion of the GED. He knew the real story behind Snubs and his indoor voice. Snubs’ younger sister was gang raped by the men he ‘snubbed.’ (Snubs was 15. His sister, Dulce, was 12. He was tried as an adult and got life.) 

His parents' “old school Catholic” mentality did not want that kind of horrendous stigmata attached to his sister’s palmistry. They presumed her future life and love lines would be crossed out like Christ. They told nobody but their priest. 

Snub’s tongue of human gluttony was bit by silence, then chosen to fast amongst the gluttons. The anti-heroic of the famished stoic, shifting from Mariachi to prison Punk meditation. Fasting on the anti-silence all around him. 

You hear his silent trumpet pierce the stillness now don’t you. It sounds like Mahler's Fifth Symphony. His first movement after his resurrection from the NDE land of ‘no sound.’ The arpeggio darkens with the illuminating notes of a young suicide played in edgy staccato of sisterly guilt after a brother’s life-long guilty verdict. A pair of scissors was used as the Fifth Business cutting up the truth of her palmistry in her locked bathroom. Open wrists in ribbons of red, like Rothko. A rotten strawberry artist whose final canvas dripped like a Jackson Pollock on chicklet squares of the bathroom floor. Her parents were right, her life and love lines were crossed off in the artistry of their crucifix. 

A Hello Kitty nitelite splattered in rotten strawberry confetti. The confetti being turned into the libretto for Snub’s first year incarcerated. 

Lifer-Snubs with sharp edges on the Barber Shop daily. A rock-mariachi opera with paper quiet to his scissor sharp. A quixotic errant knight lost another Sancho Panza in Cuts today. 

RIP Don Snub’s Dulcinea. 

Prison Ink. Day 1009.

The Teddy Bear Revenant Curse. My new Cellie got a fresh forty. (Years.) Lordy, that nigga is a tot. He will be 58, the next time he micturates in a free pot. This inmate was just potty trained. Kids mature slowly these days, the expert at his trial explained, when we are raised with the lovely mollycoddle. With his innocence maintained, I’m interested to see how he will be coddled and bloodstained, incarcerated. A supermodel, hobbled in misery. A state-issued teddy bear, sent to hang under a circus tent, hearing pot shots that clink against shiny new targets, sliding back and forth and back, on the greased sidewalk track to and from chow. Marks marking time using daisy gunned pearly bullets, now, added teddy bear stuffing. Carnies barking tickets, winner’s step up, and claim your prize. My Cellie, stuck with the fresh forty, button eyes, cracked red and wide. Fur, furry, backside, furrier and crunchier by the hour, hibernating in a field of snow, daisy chains that flower teddy bear tear and pains, weathered in a carnie atmosphere, wilting in the funfair rains. The bloom fucked off the black rose, struck in prose and verse. A teddy bear pose, a shitty smell of curled toes in the wacky gardens of my Pedo-universe. My new Cellie, smelly and taxidermy stuffed, the Teddy Bear Revenant curse, nonplussed and resurrected each day, for more bottoms up, or worse, roughed up play, leading to the vegetative way of the stuffed animal, carnies give away. Plushies, flushed with fresh forties, snuffed by their own cuddly Teddys/lingerie. Prison ink stains the teddy bear stuffing. My new cellie prays his deplorable ‘gay’ away, looking nothing but adorable. Let us pray. 

 

#5. Psycho Killer on Psych Meds with the Psycho High 5.

Dedicated to Sam Denson, a true psychopath, a terrible cellmate. A real prison nigga, who happens to be black. Trust me niggaz, even you don’t wanna claim him in Dave Chappelle’s draft. 

On his wall: 47 pictures of scantily clad women and a quote by Genghis Khan: “The greatest happiness is to vanquish your enemies, to chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth, to see those dear to them bathed in tears, to clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters.” I wrote on a yellow piece of paper in purple crayon, and taped the following to the wall: Don’t give me quotes, tell me what you know! Henry David Thoreau. 

There are times at night; during one of Season’s Grimm, when the winter outside is the inside second blanket, thicker, to the point of further oppression than the less inspired state issued scratch of threadbare, in tissue-one-ply-green. Prison shivers keep me lying awake on my bottom bunk to carve some scraggly script from the plumes of my crystallized breath, sculpting words out of my mind’s cold marble like Michelangelo. Casting spells that bewitch the cold ceilings of the mind with heart warm pastels that enchant like the creation of Adam…all right, enough with the bullshit poetry, the prison censors, and my crazy cell-mate, would have stopped reading at: “There are times…” but just to be sure…you’re welcome. 

I’ve met a lot of unsuccessful psychopaths in prison. A study recently showed that 5% of the world’s population is made up of psychopaths. 5% of 8 billion people is 400,000,000 people. Trust me, you know a few. That number is considerably higher within the prison population. All of them seem to end up here. As inmates or guards. 

In my two man cell, it is 50% psycho and I am cool as genuine innocence. Which I also happen to be. We are the authors of our own suffering, and I’ve always had a flair for writing the impossible to believe, like an innocent man in prison. Yes, sure, Mr. Andy Dufresne, I’m proud of that kind of Shawshank writing, but it does indeed hurt like hell. I’ve noticed outside of prison, psychopaths have the perfect tools to climb the corporate ladder. Their solipsism kills empathy, allowing them to operate under a delusion of disconnectivity. An imagined separation focused on chasing cash and exalting money to a hushed reverence whispered in worship, allowing their gods to manifest in banking ledgers. On the cross, crucified, is a global abundance mentality; resurrecting with scarcity consciousness, 3 days later, that mucks up the soul. (Well, then, buy our soul cleansing ointment, at a discount. If you call now you get free shipping!) 

With that kind of corporate crazy, all kinds of evils can ensue. And I give you the world controlled by corporations that control the government, that control prisons, that control my cell. Those corporations that control science, control medicine, an industry that usually holds profits in higher esteem than people, which has, of course, crowned allopathy as the monarch of medicine, to keep people subjugated in sickness long enough to make an unreasonable profit off of their illness and serfdom, but short enough, after medical bills bleed them dry; to offer up a quick kill, to not be too big of a drain on the Royal economy. This is modern medicine. Doctors are paid spokespeople for the drug companies that pay them most. Effectiveness is incidental, and if the drug can produce side effects that we can make a pill for and sell, then that becomes the ultimate business model; the unholy grail, where the mythic El Dorado of the business world manifests through the dense jungle of dog eat dog. A corporate clearing, a commercial utopia of 3 dimensional space, where vertical integration goes horizontal. Here take this pill for your something, but you’ll have to take all these other pills for the something’s those pills cause. Then you die. Pill bottle clutter arranged in an order only the deceased would know and understand, on top of reality’s nightstand. The regulators of the FDA have been bought by big pharma through a slick piece of legislation called the “User Fee Act” where Big Pharma (Pfizer, Monsanto, Johnson and Johnson et al.) pays 40% of every FDA employee’s paycheck. And that was twenty years ago. And so began the decline of health care. The real healers are mystified, in their confusion they’ve become pill pushing Docs. Shills for big pharma. Psychopaths smile, as they gaze at their earnings, this, and every fiscal year. Covert Fauci-High-Fives within the secret society of the 5%ers.
Follow the money when inefficiencies reign supreme, there is usually a despotic monarch pulling the strings, benefiting from those inefficiencies. Monarchies have given way, like the nation of Hawaii, to the inefficiencies of statehood, why would a greed fueled medical industry be immune. 

In my cell, I sleep with one eye open, my cellie, a sex offender/murderer/lifer, has the same aura of the corporate soul locked in a Pulp Fiction briefcase. He knows the secret 5%er handshake. I spied him one night, when he thought I was sleeping, conspiring with the guards, the good ones, climbing that DOC corporate ladder. Back slaps, drug blue grifts and secret handshakes. Smiling, something vacant behind their eyes, something sinister in front of them, while I was counting percentages of getting out of prison alive, instead of sheep. A lot less counting. A lot less sleep these days. Sleep is my achilles heel. I get why I tortured people in Iraq with sleep deprivation worse than Abu Ghraib. Damn 97E blocks of instruction. Waterboarding can be an art. My higher self is a time traveler. He knew I’d have to balance the karma of a future with all these psycho cellies, them staring at me like I did my Remote Viewing goats and my Iraqi Tarakawa prisoners. My karma smiles remembering I fucked a few of them goats. 

(PSS) Fellow Prison Punks, I pray for you. Sometimes, tho…I wish Claymore, Glock or Heckler and Koch would make selfie sticks. Incendiary tricks to get the devilish red eye out of the cell. No doubt, like a hell-photoshop blow out. So many selfies full of substance so little. Shadow targets, cast from behind the seamless monument of my zen riddle. Steady the aim, my sticks dead end in hand rocks finding effigy in macrame. Piñata stick precision, candy filled, cell floor spilled, paper mache…bull opened in Guernica wars and Picasso bars in frames full of arts, consensual. (That last sentence should have rhymed better.) Cut and cubed in candy letters, Piñatas have game, depth, and pretty confetti. But bully piñatas are tastier for petty cannibals like me, with sweet tooths that go from raspberry to strawberry redrum, like my cellie Sammie and all his crazy circus fun. He’s looking at me, like a fruity psychopath with a shiv like a machete, and I’m the piñata, full of strawberry hooch and authenticity. It’s the same rum smell and berry flavor of ethyl formate at the center of our galaxy, my inner galactic hitchhiker is reminded of, from a past life. Funny love. As an ancient astronaut packing chemical heat. As above, so below. The killer in me can't help but show, with serrated teeth, a thousand watt smile, a glow shining like photonic entrainment, while bypassing the resonance of sound, like amplifying lightning, by silencing thunder with ground. A camera obscura with a blinding magnesium T-strip: Flash. Say cheese. Boom. Fat lip. 

A clash of confetti, tastes like berry and cartilage from the hip. My Duchampian-Readymade-Smells of redrum. My backward ass drunken world. A world that intoxicates me and leaves me numb. A world of straight murder on the horizon, that’s not at all plumb. A world I left behind when I pissed on my green beret, here’s a blind scoop, a CIA play, sheep dipped cocaine runners from 20th SF Group, I know all of you from Barry Seal, Chip Tatum to Bill Booth. Karma, now, having its say. I may as well center myself for the best view. Take the picture already, Cellie! Oooh, a prison party bag full. Drugs from Captain Robinson, to my cellie, Sammie Denson, his prison mule. I taste rotten strawberries in the violence to come. Bully Piñata, oh my, hanging from my cell bunk, like it was a tree trunk, leaking confetti in my upturned eye, as I cry strawberry tears, looking back fondly on my prison years, gone in the blink of a black and blue eye, as I stick a bull in the bullseye. And watch the Ptah piñatas viscera fly. Unlike Phaeton and humpty, my piñatas don’t die. I put them back together the best I can, to clean up the mess, the best they can. So my selfie stick doesn’t reach the blue man. Sammie snitched to the Captain, talked of my nerf sticks and my candy filled sculptures, as they chalked them up to simple dirty tricks, learned from different prison cultures. The myopic Captain threw me in the hole for 21 days after I found out he was the mole/kingpin, then kicked me out of the Vet’s pod I founded, and sent me to another prison, after I found out about their dirty deals. Sammie Denson, snitch for a bitch that’s a blue Punk, oh what treachery, protected conceals. The Buddha smiles, teaching in zen and song, that there are the holy three, “The Trinity,” that cannot remain hidden for long…The Sun. The Moon. The Truth.

A new day, I am the house made of dawn, upon my invisible walls in blood splatter and spray, the graffiti of transparency, in a fuck the man with truth kind of way. Did I mention, I left a paper trail in that paper town along the way. If you can’t find it…you’re in on it. And, this Law Abiding Citizen and former prison Punk, has just begun to play. 

My first targets, in my new “T.H.E. Pen” is mightier than swordplay. For this former intelligence asset/Green Beret. The children of the corn now have ears, I grow them, non GMO, that way. No fears, if you’re not in on my harvested horseplay, in my fields of hard time during my incarcerated stay. If you’re true, with the right shade of blue, have a lovely day, Santa’s nice list is for you. The naughty list and word is on the way with a sincere "F" you. 

BIGFOOTNOTE: Moneyed Science is purr-fect for those that have become scaredy cats to innovation because then those scientific cats lose their status quo of expertise. And they are terrified of such a loss of identities. They just don’t know it. Boxed in, like an egoic structure, never thinking outside of it…like Schrödinger’s cat in spirit, meowing Hamlet’s to be or not to be, they are and they are not, cats of science, simultaneously. Cats of science scratching on chalkboards with nails painted in ancient hieroglyphics that have little room to reach for re-interpretation. I simply have no time for the screech of their sound satiation and as time is money in a moneyed science, I have nothing for their corrupted science. Alive or dead. Just like the cat in the box. Purr-fectly said like a hello kitty-cat version of Ted Talks. Science walks forward one cat funeral at a time toward a more precise, less-dogmatic feline procession.

 

#5.1 I Own the ‘N’aughty Word.

(And Four Prison Clowns making Lila Cepa a Clown-Face-Slaver.)  An Auction Price in the Prison Economy I was Forced to Pay. My First NFT. 

I own the word “Nigger.” Along with 4 prison niggers that played Back Door Santa to my continual Christmas of a clear conscience framed in innocence. Prison has not let go of slavery. I’m merely playing Christoph Waltz’s “Dr. King Schultz” role in Django, to get the bounties from fugitives of my bully justice. All prisons in America live in a pre-1865 America. I am thee prison nigger proudly wearing black face. I bought and paid for the real word only once, but that once was enough. I now get the black shoe polish for free. I will not give you the names of the 4 niggers that I bought it from, cuz I own them now. They are my prison nigger slaves. They no longer have names, only numbers, and they know if I choose, their numbers are up. 

Also, I can’t have people knowing that I’m a black-face slaver. I am actually a better one in prison than Django could ever dream. Especially with my Bob Dylan White Face antipode painted on black, to fit in with all the fucking effluvium; faces stained dirty with corruption all around me. But I will tell you how they became my slaves. 

Let me set the scene. 

INT. CELL. NIGHT.

Sleeping to prepare for my 3:30 am bakery shift. Worst shift in prison. Did I mention I was framed by blue Punks and the blue Punks in prison know it. So, of course, I’m going to get the worst of everything. I’d normally fall asleep early working the am bakery shift, but on this particular night, 4 Secret Santa’s came to visit me without the prelude of Snickers or sleigh bells. I was offended they broke Secret Santa Protocols. Prison Punks have no sense of decorum. It took four prison Punks to hold me down. Before each one of them stuck their black cock in my ass, I spun my neck around exorcist style and said: “Fuck You Nigger!” As loud as I could. 

I wouldn’t recommend this course of defiance, but I guarantee you, it can be done. Now, they had me that night. It happens in prison. I don’t need Morgan Freeman narrating prison nigger to this former Green Beret/Sniper/Intel Asset, to know it intimately. I’ll adapt and overcome. Just like training. I am the new prison nigger. A surprise attack and 4 Herculean Prison Punks had me shackled before I could even wipe the sleep out of my eyes, but what I had was the next day. And the next. And the next. 

And the fucking next. 

I fucked them all up the ass with T.H.E. Pen. The Heyoka Effect Pen. All four of them needed a visit to Medical to remove my Penema. The length in time for each extraction makes for another interesting epidemiological study in humiliation. I learned this from my study on Hawaiian Secret Santas. 

If I do a third study, perhaps I can publish in a peer reviewed journal. Ahhh, to dream. The dream of every Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Weapons NCO shackled by classifications knowing irrefutably where to find the cures for everything. Everything, just ask. That’s how this Haole/Wasi’chu owned the ‘N’aughty word. And four prison Punks, too! If the KKK knew this they’d probably want my playbook. I’d have to paraphrase the Marx quote. Groucho, the grump, not Karl the Commie: “I’m not into any club that would have someone like this prison Punk as a member.” No thanks. Prison changes you into a prison nigger. I use the word the same way one of my favorite writers, Langston Hughes, uses it…a weak and immoral person, regardless of color. It’s all I see, except when I’m looking in the mirror. Smiling at owning the word. Smiling even wider thinking of selling it. I wonder what I could get for my Prison Nigger. Note to self: set up an auction block for my first Prison NFT. (‘N’ For Trade.) 

Post Script: There is a prison program called PREA trying to eliminate prison rape. I could’ve gone that route. My way was way more fun. I had a black friend and former Cellie named Bill Brooks who went the PREA route. He was a really good kid. Bisexual. A decade in prison made him kind. 

It’s very, very rare, but it happens. 

He asked if he could be my Cellie, cuz his new Cellie just knocked him out and raped him and he wanted a safe space to figure out a course of action. I recognized the dazed look from my 31-1 Golden Gloves Boxing Career stats and knew he was telling the truth. I said most definitely, Punk. He wanted to kill. I, believe it or not, talked him out of it. He had done enough time and I wanted to see him as a free man. So, the other route was reporting it to the prison through PREA. Worst advice I ever gave to a prisoner. After he called it in, he was immediately called in to the officer in charge’s office, in Cell House 8 and was ridiculed and harassed. They chose not to believe him, then kicked him out of the incentive pod and soon after sent him to a maximum prison. I am so sorry Bill Brooks. 

Brooks was here. His name is carved fondly on the wall in my Shawshank. A hero. A student of Kaizen: The art of continual self improvement. No #metoo? 

I saw this young American, Bill Brooks as the 21st century version of the Artemesia Gentileschi archetype reliving a Tassi rape experience, who, then, re-experienced the same, but different rape in the court of man. Best boys lighting the Italian gaslight. This former gang banger put a quote on our cell wall by Marianne Williamson, repeated by this man’s hero, another prison nigger named Nelson Mandela, before Brooks was violently removed for speaking the truth. The quote: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond all measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous. Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we consciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our fears, our presence automatically liberates others.” 

You learn a lot about a prison Punk by the graffiti they ink their walls with. Here’s an idea for the parole board…take a pic of the cell and read the writing on the wall. 

Cue Michael Jackson. Off The Wall. Fifth Studio Album. Scoring the Pledge of Dark Magic’s un-Holy Trinity.  

 

#5.49 (PSS) My Prison Safe Word Used to be The Number 666.

Prison Punks, tell me, do safe words transfer? 

I saw a blue Punk named Captain Robinson bring in drugs for a prison Punk named Sammy Denson in the Fremont Prison Vet’s Pod. I can be more specific with the truth, but that should suffice. 

At the time, I wrote up a statement detailing 6 occasions where Sammie Denson intimidated other prison Punks in the Veteran’s Pod with extreme violence and I gave that written statement to the Captain’s inferior, a cracker lieutenant, in the prison chain of command. I knew my actions would hurt, like sacrificing my Queen, hoping to lure in two, a bishop to King 2, for a checkmate with my knight, that I probably would never see, but whose vision I held firmly. 

Does it really matter if my knight or their king was black or white? 

I had to occupy my prison time with a little delayed justice. I had a ‘Lot’ of it, like his wife. The wounds of time, salted, with my innocence. 

Each of the 6 offenses I listed and signed by the victims were offenses that carried a minimum penalty of a COPD (prison offense) with Hole time, which makes anyone ineligible for the Vet’s Pod. (I gave my word to the 6 victims that I’d protect them.) 

When the cracker lieutenant read the statement in front of me in his office, he remarked the offenses were a “bit extreme even for prison standards,” and he said he would remove Sam Denson immediately from the Vet’s pod after checking with the Captain. 

The Captain came in and buried the statements and kicked me out of the Veteran’s pod, (which I helped found) and sent me to another prison after putting me in the hole for an illegal 21 days (talk to demoted officer Barnes about that X-Mas Hole time experience) and the blue Punk ‘lost’ my mail for the entire month of December and half of January. The only piece of mail that got through to me was a Birthday card from the prison chapel/Multi-Use Room 1 on December 7th. 

Nothing happened to Denson, of course. He’s still in the Fremont Veteran’s pod. Sam Denson is still a prison Punk doing prison Punk shit cuz he’s protected by a prison blue Punk doing prison blue Punk shit. 

Denson and Captain Robinson happen to be black, but that’s not what makes them prison niggers. Denson is a snitch, snitching on the competition in the prison fentanyl trade (blues) to the Captain in Punk blue. If the other inmates knew he was playing the Samuel L Jackson character in Django, a true cell house Punk, felching Captain Candy’s ass to brown nose and black ledgers of drug prison-slave profits, that prison Punk would lose his safe word. Yes Sammy, “who dat nigga up on that neigh?” 

Knight moves to mate, prison nigga, that’s who. 

When Denson was my cellie, he bragged about being a sparring partner for one of my personal heroes, the boxing champ, Marvelous Marvin Hagler. Denson was a bully boxer, trying to intimidate me by shadow boxing on my ‘more than boxing’ wall with his lifetime of sad yard weights, sad prison lingo and his unsweetened science of sad murders. I hate bullies. All bullies, regardless of skin color, is my definition of nigger. This nigga's sadness is but a wall between two gardens, Rumi spins in my contrarian happy mind. A big gorilla that cast a shadow of a man, shadow boxing on my prison wall, but I noticed, silhouetted deep down, he wasn’t a coward. No, there was little fear within him, except the fear of being caught for his actions. He was like a human-decoupage with all the good cut out. No, he was a little boy who chose psychopathy around the age of 6 after killing (insert small animal) with a glee he could scarcely contain, and went with it, cuz it worked for him back then, because the glee was mistaken for cute. Then, by the age of 8, the summer cute turned savage, he learned how to mask the savage with cute. He even shocked himself as a youth when he realized his savagery always came with an erection. I’m only sorry it took him another 40 years for our meet-cute-savage. I am a better trained savage. 666 prison inked on my forehead, the number of the fucking beast is on this native bully-nigga with black face concealed. The glee I saw in the mirror for most of my life was this biblical numerology. This wedding to Iron Maiden. 

Cue the song, you know the numbered track. It’s the same number used to out a subhuman in prison while out on parole. 

As for the Captain, I was heartbroken to find out that he was ex army. Definitely not a Green Beret like me, but a lot like the sheep-dipped ones, I eye-spied with my very own wire. Drug runners for the CIA on the end of the lines with empty Warhol soup cans for receivers between the string theories of spycraft, sitting on EZ listening chairs, reclining from plumb to level. 

I’m sure someone will be coming for you, blue Punk. Oh Captain, my Captain, do you remember me telling you the Prince of Darkness was a gentleman, if you've read the Bard, but you told me you didn’t read Shakespeare. Silly man, you thought I was talking about Sammie Denson. There’s Indian Red mixed with my white Punk here mixing my pink with your stink. You should have read more you illiterate myopic fuck, dressed in your brief bit of red white and blue Punk authority, yielding to patriotic jingoisms, hiding behind the flag, giving good veterans a bad name. Do you still clothe your naked villainy with odd old ends stolen from holy writ, seemingly a saint, but most you play the devil? Tell me Captain, will your prison safe word transfer? 

Btw, a copy of my best selling poetry book will be in the prison library. Honoring the Captain’s myopic tendencies and the paper trail leading to my long game. Hi, Jared Polis, (or insert current USA Colorado Gov) sorry about the N word, but trust me, I, an innocent Andy Dufresne, framed by a local LEO family from your state, earned the use of it in my Shawshank. 

There is some useful info in chapter 5.49/PSS/666, is there not? I’ll bet there’s a mousey white lieutenant in your Mouseketeers with little backbone out there gunning for Captain, who would be happy to throw another Captain under the bus for a promotion. He has very little courage, but just enough, if you get involved, Governor. Will the black wheels roll out the race card or be thrown on a tire fire? I’ll stay tuned! The cracker lieutenant could look like a hero by telling the truth, and corroborate this story with the 6 other inmates. That may give him the courage needed, to fill the hole in him of courage, deeply lacking. This hole in his character is usually covered by apathy, but a chance to play hero with little risk, might change that. And the 6 victims? Voiceless prison Punks, so who listens to them, right? Like former Weinstein victims pre #metoo. All six are probably lying. Probably not. #prisonPunkmetoo007. 

One of Sammy’s daily victims was an 85 year old navy veteran, named Pops, (Inmate Watson on the signed affidavit) who had a hard time walking, let alone, fighting that prison Punk off of him. This PSS chapter in my ‘prison prose and cons list’ is dedicated to the octogenarian who can still take a punch and that old timer’s victims, back in the 50’s, whose safe word was ‘karma’ with their Dr Seuss and tough anal pedo-love. 

My only real question left, besides…is “best selling poetry book” a modern day literary paradox…is…did Denson rape the He-She-Fizzy that looked exactly like a post op Ben Franklin because he was protesting the Hellfire club or do you think he had something against electricity, like nightmares in ‘Color by Number’ electric chair scenes, when Colorado goes all Tesla with the XXX chair for the terminally fucked. The Captain covered this rape up by throwing the Rapee, Ben Franklin out of the Vet’s pod. Priceless!

Can we put Francis Bacon’s “Death of Pope Innocent the Tenth” in the mind’s eye. Just a thought, (insert Co. Gov) just a thought. 

I sent Elon Musk the new patriotic designs, inspired by the chair at Montauk in a psychic tweet. Hand over heart for the new, electric-red-white and blue Punk chair. Coming soon to a death row theater near you, oh Captain, my Captain. I feel all fizzy with patriotic carbonation, like my blood went all electric Fanta, strawberry, vanilla dream and blueberry flavor. Going dark like a “Suge” night wishing death row on all flavors of prison Punk bully. Blood red, white or blue. It takes nothing these days to fry a man with patriotic jingoisms. I’m close to the Django nigga-word count of 110, aren’t I? Fin. 

Lila Cepa Tarantino, giving them my best, most patriotic black-slaver. 

Oh yes…I’m gonna love dancing in the moonlight, in my next life with you Punk, Sam Denson, and your 3 gang bang-bitches it took to hold me down. I got the last laugh, with you tasting halogen with a side of radioactivity and those post-penned insertions in the other end, did I not? Proving the double edged pen, even in entendre, is mightier at inflicting pain than your swords. High five for the lower inserted 4 nails in your coffins? I promise, this will be the last nail I’ll pin on you. Now, we’re both Prisonniggerseven. Karma finding an even level.