PRISON SECRET SANTA/PP&C MUSICAL!

THE FIRST 100+ DAYS AND PRIMA NAECHTE ENDING IN RAPEY WAYS WITH SECRET SANTA.

PRISON PROSE & CONS in VERSE. THE MUSICAL.

Foreword: 

Forgive me for what I have become. I swore off violence a long time ago. Langston Hughes, one of my favorite writers, defines “Nigger” as a “weak and immoral person.” That is how I use the word in prison where they added the bars, so I made it my musical. To lighten the hue. To mellow the harsh shade. 
XOXO Lila Cepa Winyan Sapa.  

Act I - I, Prison Nigger. Culture Not Color. 

.49 Cue the CONS’ Side Soundtrack. (Skip if you wish to be tortured by white noise instead of red, behind the violence. Before the silence.)

An Acoustic Code of Hapa Tic Tac Toe. 

Music’s Fade to Black Face. 

With Blood in the X’s and Oh No’s. In “Hapa-Verse” flows: I had to bless this list of Oglala to Oz/violent faux pas/with lots of acoustic cues. 

Two reasons: prison was a music ghetto/lost to even the blues. 

Seasons of silent falsetto/left me confused.

My memory righted the song/from second hand clues/to the third eye behind the curtain of con. 

Just past the muted soundtrack/on this side of wrong. 

Adding red to the yellow brick tracks. 

A fork in the path/forced me to choose/lyrics to act/as my Proustian muse. 

To remember every beloved track/and hated refrain.

Played back/in the mind’s eye. 

(The fat guy/Buddhist Remembrance Trick/for the brain to sync/with the Akashic.) 

Then the trick to treat/to hack the sweet/vein of libretto’s codes/breaking the fourth wall. A master-class musical, scored with a cryptology-call sheet. Played sweet and fast/(allegro). 

Soprano/high notes in the clouds/look like flying monkeys/lost in free fall. Fifth Business teases/the moving aria/to understand Toto. 

All…is related (Mitakuye Oyasin) in the belated/eternal Oz past the infinite/in the quiet dance hall/of the spirit. 

Order in the cosmos/most disorderly/have a difficult time with. 

Count the cues Alani Kai/measure for measure/like Kubrick’s dark monolith/with tattoos of the sacred eight. A black ‘I’ in the sky/decrypted after fate/bevels the cinematic eye/90 degrees/from plumb to level. 

The second has 70 million reasons for my acoustic season's incarcerated cue. A stolen ‘Rosebud’ for you/from CIA rogue and file. A devil’s smile/for the camera/with you at a/third eye level. 

Ok, Man? Can you feel the island breeze, numbered in every clue between the literary palm trees? 

Just as ‘Honorificabilitudinitatibus’ frees Francis Bacon from Shakespearean devotees, the following is to groom future Rosebud Thieves with some “Prison Spook Expertise.” 

To find prophecy in the rotting tea leaves in the empty cup of the Heyoka. I-Spy leaves of grass to wipe the ass or worth a Cumaen coda? 

Fade to Black Face/with hugs from the darkest place.

Where thugs/like Lila Cepa steal the show. In cells with wet rugs/and blood in the Tic Tac Toe. XOXO. Lila, like Lebowski, can get you a toe. 

Prison Ink. Day 1.

Oh, how my Pegasus was wrongly chained to a plow. My inner royal dress to the court’s blue jester did bow and curtsy. Now is never. Never my every how. A bruised orange chromosphere around a black hole sun, trending with the weight of a corrupted atmosphere, subtle like a machine gun pressing upon hair trigger’s, locked-up and loaded, exploded by un-smart bombs, confetti coded in Psalms, but sincerely devoted to violent hymn and orange torched songs. So much stupid, nuclear qualms. 

Prison Ink. Day 1.5

Prison is a cock I am forced to swallow. It fills my holes, and leaves me hollow, when there’s a sock on my cell door. Non consensual, doesn’t matter, create…a #metoo for this inmate, sadder to view from straight bars, as I fill my hollow with stars. My mind is in my happy place, grateful for the extra space. The shine makes me weep; tears down my original face. My original face, jerk seasoned and scarred as a well trained, top secret chemical weapons expert, looking for an old hand at cards. A grandfathered hand on the prison yards.  

Prison Ink. Day 2.

For a while when I first lost her…I asked god every night before bed if I’ve done enough, to let life no longer separate what death can join together, and every morning I woke cursed with the schadenfreude of miraculous breath. God in its infinite wisdom saying: No. You have not done enough. I was never that lucky in love, except that once, then, I knew…it was a matter of time. I knew I couldn’t out run the past no matter how focused I was on the future. Every father knows you don’t endanger your fucking kid’s life and if you do god can’t help you and you keep them far away. As far as possible and you hide in extreme poverty where no one looks for you. Not even the mob. The problem with extreme poverty is that it is a crime in this country to be poor. This I can really feel on my second day in prison. I wake up with my breath mocking me like never before.

Prison Ink. Day 2.2

A magpie perched upon my heart caged by bone. I couldn’t let it out to fly safely home. So it broke apart the middle of my chest and then stayed to witness my death, until my mind went to rest, in peace, and I could feel the weight affect my breath, a release, then, a divine whisper, breathed into me through a feather in my soul’s calligraphy. A bristle weathered by swoop and swirl, that gave me this scoop: “This world…you cannot leave yet, not enough pain, not yet, to make up for what you did in your Green Beret brain. The actions of the warrior, while young and violent, surround the rusted sword stuck in the stone of time, silent, awaiting another youthful pull, as royal carnies paint the rock with gold and medal, blue bloods barking “Step right up.”  As I’m all out of tugs. Too busy pulling dead bird out of my hugs. But, hugs for thugs, I’ll make time for.

Prison Ink Anachronism. Day 1730.

Three magpies came to my cell window with sacred cries muted by a flurry of snow that shouted the sunrise to white-out. Streaks of tears dazzled my innocent eyes with fractaled peaks of clarity, through a kaleidoscope of dizzying years when birdsongs of divine hope and flight were lost to my human ears…sharpening second sight to my mind’s eye of reason to usher in a new but same prison season. A fern with bated breath see’d a splinter of light and unfurls out of the death-dark worlds to soak in the blue with a breathy sigh. An azure ocean of sky gains a drop of terra-firma like you. Drip drop, valuable like an upside-down Pollack, beauty is in the eye…razzled me with depth. Challenging me to comprehend: “Mitakuye Oyasin.” My deep and clear, final breath. In and out of this darkle, my soul shall flower in death and sparkle past the hour and into a new blue horizon with opened eyes. Cue the infinite power. Cue the sacred cries. Make them rhyme and razzle-dazzle me with the next out-of-timelines, hopefully with hymns full of magpies and whimsical brushes from the eye lash to the canvas of a new sunrise thrown out with the daily trash, recycled by my soul’s ability to rise in the night. Free at last. Freed at last. As I laugh at the grief that was my past. I hear the glorious magpies unfurling in the dark womb, sacred cries that birth my Black Icarus from my dirt tomb, to reach beyond the blue skies of human doom and gloom, to be reborn in my daughter’s eyes not a moment too late, not a moment too soon. A Lakota feather’s fate from a ghost dance of magpies caught by the moon. Mitakuye Oyasin: We Are All Related…as I waded beyond time and scripted the next horizon’s line and rocked a full jailhouse swoon. A full moon rose from my Cellie in the west wishing to turn my M.O. of Mitakuye Oyasin into a bit of incest. I wished my rapist Cellie could see the new sunrise, but all I could see was rage behind the white-out of his caged eyes. I felt at home knowing the next victim of my Thunder-dome and hugged a thug to sleep and broken bone and found beauty in a pee-scented cologne, then swept his muted naked cries deep, under the wet Lebowski rug. Magpies flown into the enema of white to black out like a sacred butt-plug that can’t be pulled out. Beautiful in the beholder’s one brown eye. A jailhouse razzle dazzle line that shouts loud and clear in the deep dark sky, where the sun don’t shine. Can you hear the divine through the pesky Magpies’ cry?

Prison Ink. Day 7.1

A curious jailbird euphemism for my incarcerated chrestomathy, I noticed today. To denote the year you joined the caged community or lost your flight of freedom, inmates say I “fell” in whatever year they came in, ie. I “fell” in 2015. Past tense of fall, ‘fell’ equals incarcerated, in my case, like putting a red breasted robin in a cage. Yes. Heaven in a rage and all that fanfare, but what of a caged bird of another feather. There is a special providence in the fall of a special ops black sparrow; like dew on a primae naechte flower. Insanity finally has a moment of clarity, in sobriety, to reflect on its pearl inlaid hand grips. To hand g/un-fist. To wash the strawberries from the hands of rotted time with mudras of madness, like Lady Macbeth. I wonder if she would’ve been cool with her King’s Prima Naechte duties. Royal-rapey-pearly-dew-drops falling on strawberry fields giving a prison “sex camp” dimension to the depths of every feudal morning meadow. Oh, so heavy is the crown. I see a lot of Emperor’s new clothes/crowns made of prison red and greens, undressing me with their versions of primae naechte. A public speaking trick to quell the nerves. Here it’s used for wishful-rapey-resonance. My recently unclenched, strawberry-gun-karate creating indelible imprints in the palmistry of my life and love lines, as I await sentencing between 10-32 years, here at Arapahoe County Jail. The other side shooting bulls-eyes for 32, my side so ineffective, we’re throwing nerf darts, along with ourselves, at the mercy of the court/firing range. I feel like the Nike’s ‘Just Do It’ guy in front of his firing squad. My guilty verdict, the “Ready! AIM! Fire!” part of mine, as my last words through a legal mouthpiece more suited for error and sport than trial, begging for 31.9 years, just so the counselor can at least pretend he’s counseling. Such a silly little boob, my barrister. Wadi Muhaisen esq. was truly incompetent. Never hire a friend of a friend. I was innocent, I thought…what could I lose? As I fall like Icarus, my truth lost to a black sun and a blue shaded sky, this former spy/skydiver has convinced himself he’s not free falling but slipping the surly bonds of earth in skydive with the palmistry of a golden parachute rip cord in hand. My 401K stripped to pay for the gold, like magic beans I thought could fly sky-high.

Cue Rose Rouge, by St. Germain. My paradise lost demanding revenge. John Milton calls for a red right hand to be wedded in divine vengeance rings. The Gaelic warrior-kings ride fearlessly into battle to defend their honor and homeland, their blood drip-drips from sword hilt to hand, lips in violent prayer to Father’s command. Red right hands are mere phantom limbs in the world of spirit and hymns. Where songs are a phase state of ethyl formate, leaving in its fruity wake, the residual hologram of strawberry karate in man, moving through the fingers, grasping the unfathomable. Smells of berry rotting in fields, de-flowered in fingernail beds with the bloody weeds. Grateful the world needs left hands to nurture and care for the holes in the ground dug by dagger and Lord’s Prayer. Hands stained strawberry, imagining “Strawberry Fields Forever" in Central Park was lost forever. So near the spot John Lennon was shot. Will there be dew on my Prima Naechte flower? Not without blood on the black sparrow’s cage.

Prison Ink. Day 7.49

I asked God on the seventh day in prison what this feeling was? Cuz every new feeling we marry with something old, like a bad wedding, by simply naming it, I’m told. In the stillness I heard: Sit, Lila, bless this horrendous feeling of innocence incarcerated and meditate with the late Marcus Aurelius and ask what is it, in itself? Let the answer overwhelm you to eradicate all doubt that this experience was necessary for your spiritual growth and to out your I-Spy karma and let it take you where you are supposed to be. On a journey of apocalypse which means “to reveal.” If you resist and are quick to mis-feel or  misinterpret you will be where you shouldn’t be, feeling lost to a misnamed path of synchronicity in your “framed” reality. As we sit and become mindful of every feeling that overwhelms, we can let it pass through us into the realms of understanding. Then, give the world and posterity a new name for the process of that feeling from latent and incipient factors to the actors of acceptance and release. To peace. It will be like renaming the generic moon. How long does it take to name the darkest moon in your sky? I am currently at 10-32 years. I-Spy after a week of dance and show, locked up tight, I’d like to call that satellite that mocks my cell window at night with a spurious tune: HOLLOW! Like spaceship MOON.

An addendum from the Heyoka clown/bufoon: This day I didn’t read or follow until Prison Ink. Day 888. Naming it too soon in the klink, “Hollow,” eventually filled with forgiveness after a divine think and a Godly bless. Thus renaming it: Pinky: The White Mess.

 

 

#1.  No Working Movie Title For Breaking Bad. Or Fixing My Gay Fix.  

Titles working: Family Man Turned Family Xmas Guy With Faux Fugazi Breaks and Gay Mafia Outtakes. Or Swarovski Scarface and the Glitter Jets. Or Freebird flying on Skynyrd's jet. Or Crazy on Patsy’s Cline’s upright down flying seat rest. Valens and the La Bamba of death.

Another Prison Movie Night. Life scripted in horror days playing daily matinees just as predicted. To be, or not to be, self-fulfilling prophecy. My “Family Man” glimpse of Xmas with a high school ex and her ex, ended in prison sex waiting for Don Cheadle to ring a bell to get me out of this holiday hell. Waking in rage, badder acting than the character in the Xmas flick played by thespian prick, Nick Cage, nepotism king.

A glimpse Kafka’ing to the “Family Guy” page. A caricature of my life’s plan. A cartoon of the “Family Man” working reality for a prison wage, after being left speechless at the airport, with the wrong supporting actress on a muted soundstage. A courtship animated beyond truth and beliefs well past sage. A post talkie silence. A period piece her ex made all the bloody rage. 

A glimpse of wire in the fence. A 10-32 year sentence long. Pimps, pushers and pederasts filling every paragraph morphing into hymn and song of love and innocence wronged, with everyone in on the con. 

I’m praying to be famous, so this joyless movie glimpse can morpheus assist into dreamy, into a Punk’d episode, starring me, with Ashton Kutcher busting out of the steamy prison commode like a Panzer tank, telling me: “es war nur ein witz.” A funny prank. With Jamie Kennedy in on the “Experiment.” Thanking me for the “Truman Show” RPG and cosplay entertainment.

Jokes on me, my life spent living a horror movie. That genre rarely wins an Oscar! Talk about a double feature with a trinity of TV comedy. Dreaming of my “thanks to the academy.” 

My acceptance speech about acting better in the cage than Cage, out. This may also help out with my future role, a couch to cast my lines from, in the after-prison-fishbowl, auditioning for parole. 

A change of genre, venue and matinee times. Casting insists I lack the range for this particular show, but said they’d possibly arrange another audition and would let me know. 

Fingers crossed, in the theater of my mind, lost in my prison Shakespeare group, acting better to the letter. My inner auteur’s film loop, undoing celluloid time. Thinking linear, as time has us all fooled, to a past near my fall, when I had my wisdom teeth pulled, to be true to all my colors, I’ve seen better film on my molars, than anything I’ve ever acted in. My ol’ acting coach, FX Vitolo, said I was too much in the noggin to have a hearty actor’s glow. 

Now locked in, my bad acting is all I know. 

One day, my reel will show how terrible my dailies were. Check the gate. Locked and loaded in the projector, to feel less cold-cocked and dead, hoping for numb, when my number is called, for my film’s release date, amidst all my sex campy horror, Wait! Why isn’t this red-dyed corn syrup? Who added ironic joyride and real blood to the script? 

California Dreaming on a red (premiering on a Lebowski) carpet. That’s a wrap for this convict, my new Tea-time-Leoni-trannie is calling me back. Fade to Black.  

INT. CELLHOUSE. NIGHT.

Cut to: love interest/new Tea Leoni friend with a tea party heart bigger than Boston. Tea, coffee-dark, camera ready, in my Hello Kitty night light. 

Cut! 

Damn it! Not for me, my lovely friend, Tea…I’m straight coffee with my prison movie, but I did try to change the scenery from horror to rom-com. No range mourns my inner actor. Cue the ominous Bom, Bom, Bom!

A role more suitable for hetero porn after parole. In prison mourning my soul, for praying the gay away, so successfully. I could’ve been a contender. Better, I dream: I could’ve been prison prom queen if religion hadn’t tarnished my silver screen. Joking, but to but, would’ve made a warm cinematic end scene, in this film scored by Melpomene. 

Possibly unwise, but I went with the Director, from the Home Alone franchise. More slapstick horror than comedy, but only for the bad guys, which is why I think I’m switching sides. Wait I’m confused in a way, am I choosing to break bad or fix my fixed gay. Or both? 

Sad note to self: file this un-optioned screenplay on the back shelf in the closet. The working title, faux fugazi breaks, gay mafia outtakes (too long I suspect). Can’t go wrong adding a mob-gay-love-song. 

New logline: Scarface and the Jets, a dance off between a hard place and a rock, with a homo roll in the hayyy, even I couldn’t keep away. But I own a naughty word because of such a prison cliche. (See Chapter: I Own The "N" Word.)

Worth it says my inner jail bird, especially when that peacock is released one day. Check the gate. Unlock the word. Print. Prison Punk straight from prison ink, thinking Freebird dubbed into the fate of my Citizen Kane. Praying my Rosebud isn’t the late, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane. Cue the only teapot I’ll drink from: The Cat's Tea for Tillerman. 

Prison Ink. Day 2000.

This long shadowed anachronism of the Prison Prose and Cons list is an ekphrasis of dizzy using the language of Marcel Duchamp’s upturned toilet, placed on top of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 black monolith-palimpsest-plinth, seen from the perspective of the Hanged Man of the Tarot, bloodied with effluvium and magic, pissing Jedi in Duchamp’s pissoir. The dude flying by, powered by a blackface bowling ball. Taped to Stanley’s black wall, below the upside down urinal, is Matisse’s Studio in Red and his upside down Le Bateau. Feel free to find your own spin and turn between pledge and prestige. To sit in the magic of my ugly truths tarted up in butt-play, rape and half-rhyme. To take in the smells of the Hapa-verse of CONS listed in my life, both inside and outside of my prison bars. Turturro-Johns, grinding in my sex camp, cooler than Fonzies, in purple Dinosaur onesies, chanting in unison: Don’t fu*k with the Jesus! You said it man, don’t fu*k with the Jesus. 

Prison Ink. Day 7. Man v Machine. Me vs the Prison Industrial Complex. Is this a dream? To be or not to be? Place your bets! To beat or not to beat? Dwight Shrute beat Dunder Mifflin Infinity. John Henry beat the power drill, to be or not to be in vain. An easy tech kill, as he gave his life to the pain of hubris, to not be. Neo beat the matrix. Bad dogs beat their wives. Kyle Reese threw a monkey wrench in the mix of terminator-stench-tinged-lives. Probably received hazardous duty pay for his military time, to say the very best pick up line: “I traveled across time for you. I love you Sarah, I always have.” My daughter Alani Kai, you are the why, to allow me to endure almost any how, to live. Nietzschean. To give back I have to survive, to beat this Time Machine, to emerge alive for me and you. A complex piece slowed with rusted complications super-glued by blood concealed in the gears. I’ll have to access my Green Beret training years. My current watch is broken and leaking red tears. Cue: The Rolling Stones. Time Is On My Side. Yes it is. It’s synched with this incarcerated ride.  

Prison Ink. Day 7.49

I think of ee cummings and his quote trust your heart if the seas catch fire. Live by love though the stars walk backward. 

My version locked down, grounded and landlocked: The present in prison was a gift. It was so painfully gift wrapped with focus it couldn’t be confused with the old gift wrappings of the loose and free past, and so you had to let the past go to fully unwrap the present, and you had to unwrap the present, because most likely there is a severed head in the box and it will stink up the cell, and my cellie covets all 7 of the deadly sins. Or, for some that slid the unopened box under the cell’s bunk, floor smudged claret jugular juice, (monsters on, not under beds here at cirque du Piranesi: return of the blood soleil!) because the moment was so painfully in focus it couldn’t be confused with the past, and that kind of focus can be scary and confusing for some, as the mind often mistakes the present for the past, so the perspective can walk backwards without cummings’ stars, and live there without the trust in cummings’ heart. Drama mama, I was bored and there were so many asshole stars walking backwards, as extreme terror brings childhood mannerisms back unannounced, your inner child eviscerated, entrails breaking the fourth wall. 

So…what’s in the box? 

Oh no, what’s in your box? Let it out. Any bloody sphere in here is four people short of yard volleyball. Did that hit the net? Why is the net strawberry red?  

Prison Ink. Day 8.

Day late and a dollar short. When you enlarge your heart with understanding, it can never regain its former shape of misunderstanding, unless the mind shrinks to a pecuniary form, tinged in non-photosynthetic green, from the pesticides that block the sun and the process for human growth. A spiritual Atrazine planted in the penumbra of one’s soul shine, past broken heart lights eclipsed by poisons of a darker time, that inflame the breast, with fiery convictions of the profit oriented mind, to overlook the part of feeling, even in the smoke and shadows, is a sign. Not a line you want inked on closed eye and mind, while doing a week of hard time.

Prison Ink. Day 9.01

My first prison dessert dream. A Miyamoto Masterpiece. Who said the county jail had terrible food? The first cookie was called a circle of fat and sugar. I can’t be the first truly innocent inmate in prison. What would they call that? A square of sugar and spice and all things dumb and nice. Oh, someone just called me a cracker. So, that’s what they call that kind of square. How special. I just talked trash with my Nigerian cellie, who looks more Sanford than Son. He told me everyone in here is square. Be cool, Daddy-O, keep your area pie-R-squared. It’s the shape of innocence. 

I reflect on my case thinking the frame is usually squared. My cellie informed me, matter of factly, that there are no other shapes, cracker! So I asked, what do I call you, brownie? Or are you more of a Girl Scout S’More? He replied: you can call me a hefty Nigerian square of brown sugar, fat and African pre-colonial-Vodoun-glitter. I said bet, you can call me a shapely circle of curdled milk, thinking of pi, angling for dream cookies wet with violence-sprinkles whose days are numbered well past expiration dates. Prison geometry dealing with platonic forms, like making shapes out of ‘handy’ on the shadowy walls in Plato’s cave, praying Nigerian forms are truly platonic, with chicken, more than human sacrificing, even if he is more Girl Scout S’More than Brownie. (Too hefty for thin mint.) Or whichever square is more girly. I have no idea, and believe it or not, there is no Google in prison.  

Fuck, there is no Google in prison. But, look, I can make shapes on the cell wall. That’s a bird in flight! More Brancusi flight than bird, as my shadow-wall-artistry will be categorized by the future prison art critic/unsuccessful rapey intruders as “painfully interesting.” My shadow box art and other well defined martial art forms, framed to life on my future cave wall. My frame does have an odd abstract shape shift to it. None of the five from Plato. My frame is forged from Miyamoto’s Five Rings. A brass knuckle-like handful of destruction looking for wedding cake. My first prison dessert. 

The flavor doesn’t matter, only the shape. It’s all the same, really, squares unfit for public consumption perfect for religion, like the body of Christ caged in cross and circles of wafer-thin-biscuit. Ecce captivus homo. Behold, the incarcerated man with eggy cake on his face smiling at the I do’s to a bridal mile that could last 32 years in a church called a multi-use room one. Wow prison math. 32 years per Denver mile, that’s 280,512 hours per 5280 feet. About 53 hours per foot. A tortoise outpacing the whore hares and quick fuck bunnies looking at me with ‘red light district’ flashing behind their eyes, as I’m living out the Achilles role in Zeno’s paradox. I pray for celibacy on my loggerhead-slow-death-march down the aisle to my new veil’d Bride-zilla in this mile-high institution. I am acutely aware of what’s expected of one’s prison bridal night duties. 

I find it ironic that the Honu turtle of Hawaii is my ‘Akua.’ My Hawaiian side/spirit animal. A dry ocean away from a wet one. 

However, if Achilles does catch up to Zeno’s paradox, you will not find pearled dew on the veil of my prima naechte flower. If my veil is ever lifted, you’ll find a Braveheart bouquet in the highlands, almost un-pluckable. 

I am too well equipped with rosy thorns that make me untouchable, one on one. 

Now, I’m even more dangerous with the anger that comes from a forced shotgun wedding, marrying my innocence to slutty guilt upon the altar of judicial sacrifice. My something ‘Blue’ was dirty-blue-cop shaded. My African roommate calls that hue “Blue Ni**er.” My something ‘Borrowed’: the candle of killer-war-karma, providing ominous light to the whitewashed ceremony like Georges de la Tour. My something ‘New': uninhibited ring’d fingers, Olympian in reaching for the unfathomable, with the muscle memory of Miyamoto braille. Rings that sparkle like antimatter bling in the darkle, knowing red congeals to black, when fresh squeezed orange is the ‘New’ everything. My something ‘Old’: death. What is older? If I get the full 32 years of caged sunshine and revenant fruit seance’d (sans efficiency against scurvy) to prison vitamin C, I will invoke the wisdom of the reaper. If the judge finishes what my cowardly attacker was unsuccessful at the first time and actually takes my life with a sentence of 32 years, I’ll give it to him at the speed of light. A light year is 299,792,458 meters per second. The speed limit of love, light and life. I can do this green mile in a femtosecond! I got a seed-shaped faster-than-light “racecar” (Who doesn’t love a seedy palindrome?) on my vision board looking for a speeding ticket in my pocket, realizing the last shirt has none. I know I promised to never join the 22 a day suicide combat vet club again, what can I say, this is not my beautiful life. Gone is my beautiful wife, Ewa. That stat was "17 a day" when I did the deed. America you should be so proud of your suicide prophets forged from the crucible of the combat veteran. I also remember promising to be a Satyagrahi/non violent warrior of spirit with my oath of poverty, twenty years ago. Now, framed for something I could never do, my oaths should die with this new me. I cannot draw first blood. I spilled a lot of blood for this country as a Green Beret (98G, 18E cross trained as a Delta, Group NBC NCO). I vowed never again to spill blood. An impossible vow in here, I can sense already. So what’s another vow broken? 32 years of this, I will not do. And I got true love on the other side, where I once visited for a minute and fifty two seconds of eternity. When my suicide was successful outside of ‘when.’ Life separating me from her. An easy prison-death could reunite us, to renew our vows. I guess I’ll know in a month at sentencing. 

I started collecting eaten apple cores. I get 32 per day. An apple per inmate per breakfast per cell block. A lethal dose of cyanide for my weight would be about 260 milligrams. My calculations from the crushed amygdalin in the seeds, (6-9 per core at last average) I would need approximately 120 cores to produce my 260 mg of cyanide. A noble death?Who fucking cares. I’m going out like fucking Adam reaching out to rib my Ewa in the Edenic ether. A breath past this wilderness of snake churches and deceptive slither in the trees, having made nuclear apple pie from fruits of the tree of knowledge. I currently hide the apple seeds in my bag of sunflower seeds I bought off of a dude who shot his wife. He said he was square, but whispered she had her “raspberry circles coming!” when he handed me the seeds in exchange for my kosher dinner of meatballs and spaghetti. Jews get the best meals in county jail. If you know you’re joining this gated community, find a rabbi and convert immediately. If you are any kind of epicure, consider it a must. The gourmand within will demand it. In juxtaposition to the prison non-food, you’d understand why even the neo-Nazis in here convert and praise Elohim with us Jews. I’ve seen 3 swastika tattoos in Temple. At first it was like cockroaches baked into a wedding cake, then their trinity grew on me. They were true penitentiary penitents. Lifers with nothing more to prove so they chose Elohim, they chose God’s love. Honorable Dorian Grays, whose decaying portraits were not hidden in a basement, but prison inked on their necks with a “Sieg Heil” changed to a “Surf Hell.”

My food will come with wedding cake, any day now. I just know it! My first prison dessert. Mazel tov! How do you like them apples? I’m praying for less than a bushel, as my innocence inside struggles to pray for the minimum of 10 years, I ask God: What would Johnny Appleseed do? I know Magritte wrote “au revoir” on his green apple. Seed planted, I smile at the orchard blossoming just outside of my incarcerated mind. I choose, not them, to take my life. I’ll sleep just fine and healthy here. Beyond an apple a day. A less fruity option would be alcohol. Alcohol is easily attainable as toilet hooch. 5mg/ml can induce a coma and alcohol poisoning can be fatal. Aspirin is also attainable in prison quite easily. 500mg per Kg causes Salicylate toxicity. Damn, that’s a lot of pills. We called that the “Televangelist High” when I was in a Top Secret bio-chemical weapons school. If you sing or worship loud enough your blood gets too much oxygen causing respiratory alkalosis which can present with hallucinations and death. The blood has to remain acidic.
Johnny Appleseed has been flipped back to a Suicide Prophet by twisting a vow. Seeds, pills and alcohol will be my last meal if I get 32 years. I guarantee it. I’m planting my own green mile. A Green Beret/NBC NCO one. It’s the only thing one can do when one’s life is turned into a ridiculous Duchampian Readymade. A spook flipped to prison nigger, like a toilet flipped on its head, losing true function to spectacle. Useless but with the pejorative of art to slow the spin to a vertigo, too difficult to understand because of the dizzy. That kind of dizzy can only be slowed in poetic rhythms: Appleseed Jack was a Johnny Appleseed wanna-be hack, who stole Johnny’s orchard, until Johnny stole it back. Who lived on the wrong side of the train track, who sold his seeds to buy more crack, who cut his only apple tree down with a whack! Whack! Whack! A cheap knockoff, a one-off, before his heart attack, ack, ack. Cue: Billy Joel!

Pumpkin Patch Paul was a generic Jack-O-Lantern, leaning on a wall with a body of straw that can burn. A lit candle seemed to be his only flaw. I’m sure there’s something here we can learn. Johnny Appleseed asked this generic Jack for a light to smoke some weed, as he coughed with a hack that was a fright! Jack should’ve paid heed, as a backdraft torched Jack bright. “Well, how do you like them apples?” Said Johnny Appleseed, planting high into the scorched night. 

Prison Ink. Day 11.

Crooked Lifelines drawn in Psalm-istry. Hidden up faux palmistry/sleeves with pressed on priestly heart lines/lost in be-leaves/fallen from the Edenic tree. Knowing/tangled in vineyards of time/showing roots/the mycelium kind. A wine of untruths/in the bouquet/spoiled like the Dorian Grey/ekphrasis. A dirty dish/water color corked in Word/bedeviled in verse/and leveled/with the same precision at the universe/inferring intelligent design. The stupid kind. Just like my cellie’s line. A verse that happens to rhyme: “When I get out of this prison nation, I’m selling salvation! Life’s all about God and Money Green; to glean profit from psalms and prophet, in this nation without spirit. A soulless country, with the soul of a company, numbered 666. Trickster Gods now immaterial to the economy. Unemployed frauds, leaving open, sacred-holey positions for me to fill. I have a trixie role to play, does it matter if it’s a faux prophet today, if I promise to fake it till I make it, like dirty water in my toilet wine press, described as an earthy bouquet in the pages of hooch aficionado they say, is simply the best.” 

Let us pray. In vino veritas/unless it’s toilet-wine/drunken faux pas/vintage past its prime. Mine is a Dada/perfect brine/to salt the ‘Lot’ of mess. Bless you/pink eyed child of original sin/and God. This vin du table/was made/in a flipped/commode to still/like a Duchampian Ready-Made/by artists/that rape and kill. Like my cellmate/an artist of deception great/for bad acting/and religion. He’s mindful of bits. Odd ends/from holy writs/stolen from lips/that kiss the soul. Prophets/of eloquence/helped prepare/for my cellie’s next role/where he is the second coming. Tithe your cash/he’s coming for your soul/as fast as he starts his Broken Hearts/church when he gets past/parole. Religion hurts. The worst/is Non-prophets/in a non-profit/role. Hands in the air/concealing tortuous leylines/from heart to soul/in prayer. My role/is newsworthy fare/more heart than headlines: love my crooked cellmate’s soul/with all my crooked heartache lines. As I fondle my crystal balls/palming a shorter lifeline. I’m caught contemplating the falls/from Lucifer to my cellie’s behind/swirling brown particles. Sediment in the toilet wine. Cue: Brown Eyed Girl eyeing/the legs of the innocent/doing time.

Prison Ink. Day 11.01

I got nothing but hurt. I’ve always been the sharing kind. I was arrested on Xmas day. A full moon. A bright eastern star in the night showing me a dark future where my Faustian gifts can truly shine. I am in a perfect place for my generosity to shine a prison Punk tinged magnanimity. Can I buy mistletoe on canteen year round? 

I hope so, because I finally figured out how I’m gonna pass the time. 

Don’t pass or kill time, work it to death. 

Above my prison bakery work, a sign: “Arbeit Macht Frei.” (But, in English, “Work Sets You Free” fittingly, the same language as Auschwitz.) That explains the presence of all the Nazi gangs and the echoes of Mein Kampf ‘ventril-oquies’ (Lila Cepa’s made up word mixing ventriloquist and soliloquies that echo in hate that become generational). Unfortunately, I speak of the prison guards but my neighbor is in a gang called the White Boyz. Their philosophies seem aligned with the eugenics/concentration camp set. Their final solution seems to be colored more drug powder white than race white, but let’s give them time. He asked me what gang I was clicked up with. When I answered, I recognized his reaction. It was the same one I had seen a lifetime before, when I had a modest bit of wealth, (My next door neighbor in Highland Beach was race-car driver Jeff Gordon.) with my healthy bit of oblivious, and asked my business partner’s housekeeper where she wintered? Before she replied with the killing fields of El Salvador, I noted the look of incomprehension and filed it away, presciently, in the hippocampal fluff for this particular moment of recognition that would shake my memory like a cracked snow globe. I know, I too, just gave the same look to this White Boy. I said that I used to be in the biggest, most sadistic gang in the world. "Bloods?” He inquired. "No,” I replied, “U.S. Intelligence.” Hey, there’s that look again!  Hole time. 

Prison Ink. Day 30.

Sweet talks. Tooth fairy walks/in prison leaves farts/instead of money. Hearts tickled pink eye/in rosy colored hues/tears from the brown eye/shit sediment/in the ferment/of brig-boxed booze. To go with the piss/on the Lebowski carpet/and my Cellie’s toothless/and unrefined palate/with nothing more to lose.

Prison Ink. Day 31.

Sentencing. My Fall. Omg, the judge believes I am skydiving! He thought I was innocent, and berated the cops for manipulating this case and gave me the mandatory minimum of 10 years, instead of the 32 years my frame demanded. Omg, I have to do 10 years. Bummer. Could you imagine the years if I were really guilty? I think of my magic beans paid with sunflower gold. Do I keep the apple seeds? Cue: Don Mclean. American Pie. 

Prison Ink. Day 49.

We don’t talk about Bruno or the Prison Fight Club Cherry. Triple cherry! Fuck it. I’m gonna love prison. I feel like a Prom Queen. I’m choreographing a musical! Cue: Billie Eilish’s “Happier Than Ever.” My single lane bowling alley...where Lebowski rolls a perfect game. 

#1.49  My Prison Fight Club Cherry with an Insane Clown Posse Gang Sundae. 3 Scoops! 

Blood carbonating to Strawberry Fanta. Half a six-pack, shaken Juggalo style, before popped open with CQB, (Close-Quarter-Battle) bubbling to a slow fizz on my Lebowski rug. 

By Sandy (Lila Cepa) Dee, lousy with prison ‘Fight Club’ virginity (no longer). 

Picture wolves powdered in lamb, dressed in ‘clown car’ clothes. 

White Punks in prison “Don’t Talk about Bruno” and they don’t fuck with Bruno anymore, but they are always ready to discuss the 3 acts in film, especially when the cameras aren’t rolling. 

I walked into my cell after my 49th prison chow hall dinner and felt very popular, like a Prom Queen, or a Prom “King” named Carrie. Three big-white-niggaz from their adorable clown-gang were making themselves at home in my house, the size and feel of a 1972 yellow Volkswagen bug. There were obvious signs something was amiss, as I walked into the pod. No eye contact, more than usual from those in the know, holding on to their cheap seats, awaiting the impending fireworks that come from this kind of circus show. Technically, if you don’t live in a pod, the guards don’t buzz you in. In this prison, the guards always buzz indifferently. More wasp than bee behind their half-hooded eyes. 

Everyone in the pod immediately knows when a different pod member is in the pod. When three of them walk in, every pod member keeps an eye out for which cell this trinity of Shiva, single files its inevitable destruction into. 

Everyone usually prays, hoping it won’t be their entourage that gets a clown car fitting. 

In my cell, their Harlequin horror show makeup gave them a bigger physical presence. It made them easier to see, without the usual prerequisite of bad nutrition. There was no bad nutrition to their taboo tattoos and seriously hard fit. They looked like they could crush my yellow VW bug into a blood red one like Kubrick did to King’s VW in the Shining. 

Like a squeeze of lemon, not orange, is the new black. 

My cell narrowed like the trash compactor on the Death Star as I walked into the prison tableau. When I stepped into the ‘tunnel-focus,’ they looked up at me like they had just stopped my cell walls from closing in on them and decided to live and make themselves comfortable in the filth and trash they created. They stood shoulder to shoulder with the cell walls as narrow as their clown-car rearview-mirror, filled with their wacky beliefs. They looked at each other a bit bewildered, almost zany, in hyper-frenetic slack-jawed-moronocy. (Moronocy is a merging of 3 muscular morons with white-killer-clown-paint-intimidating-idiocy.) Crazy eyes, ha-ha-empty, like pails full of exploding confetti were thrown at my ticker tape parade. 

They were called ‘Juggalos.’ Violent gang aficionados known for their slavish affinity to the punk band: ‘Insane Clown Posse.’ (I couldn’t possibly make this shit up!) The biggest of the three, befuddled, granite clowns had a breath of caliche and a face on Rushmore. He was fondling my book: “Giordano Bruno and the Kabbalah,” with his big stone hands as he broke through the bedrock of silence and said unequivocally: “That’s not the guy.” 

As the jacked-Juggalo with knuckles like the Colorado Rockies laid my book gently back on my bunk, I felt a relief, then a rush of adrenaline in my prison greens that singed at the fray to red. The rush of blush faded into an awkward stillness, where embarrassment goes to die, because these prison Punks had to walk past me, single file, to get out. I’d either have to moonwalk out of the cell or shimmy 90 degrees and put my back to the wall so they could sidle out. Cells are claustrophobic-inducingly small. I have been wrongfully imprisoned in one for 49 days, and everyday it gets smaller. The paradox of a markedly-big, smaller. Small spaces fitting for small minds not big enough to count. My count jumped from 3 to a cinematic 300, honoring the narrow bowling lane of Leonides and Sparta comparable to the Lebowski one. This roll of thought bowled me over to a paradox of a Thermopylae countdown, counting up: 9 years, 10 months, 11 days to go for me. No good time, may as well add the double “O,” for a perfect game of 300 in the brain’s bowling alley. A mindful soldier’s laugh as they each trip like Xerxes over his legion of fallen. Pins popping in my gutters, then quelling behind my eyes. Sometimes, it’s nice to not get picked on in such tight quarters, because even the Spartan 300 dwindled back to a double zero. But, this would not be one of those times as I imagined bonding with MI5’s Ian Fleming after thinking of my favorite lucky number seven added to this double zero. A lightning flashed epiphany sparked my 3 to a 300. A choreographed ballet of Grease meets Lebowski bowling, more than debonair spycraft hidden under Spartan, moonless “Summer Nights,” 

Tell me more/tell me more/tell me more/did you get very far? Tell me more/like does he have a car? (A “car” in prison is a euphemism for a ride or die gang.)

Summer lovin’/had me a blast. Summer lovin’/happened so fast. Summer days/drifting away/but, uh, oh those summer nights. 

A violent score that sang out in the haunted house of my mind, in unison, climaxing in astonishing crescendo. 

The chorus: This was definitely not one of those times, because I’m singing: 

Look at me/I’m Sandra Dee/lousy with prison-pillow-fight-club-virginity. 

Today was a good day to pop that cherry with red. 

My mistaken prison identity was too anti-Hollywood for this former Hollywood star. Too anti-climactic for this I-Spy lover of adventure. Too peaceful for this former Green Beret, who needed an outlet for his innocence-wronged. So, just for fun, in a “When in incarcerated Rome” kind of soirée way, and to ensure no one else thought this violation of privacy, particularly, this finger fucking through Bruno’s thoughts would be an ok mudra, I decided to direct my own Hitchcockian “North by Northwest bonds with Psycho,” still in the shower, wet behind the ears. 

I cued my own Grease soundtrack. 

Tell me more/was it love at first sight? Tell me more/tell me more/did she put up a fight? 

Yes she did. Lila Cepa chose a third direction to the moonwalk or sidle paths. And…Action! 

Sandra ‘Lila Cepa’ Dee’s inaction takes center stage. 

She didn’t move. She didn’t get out of their way. They’d have to go through her. 

But first, I thought they would appreciate a valuable lesson on the artistry of film and the inspirational power of cinema in general. Who doesn’t love the movies? 

Specifically, the smooth transition from book to silver screen of Thomas Harris’s villain, Hannibal Lecter, in the hands of Anthony Hopkins. Three shocked Mason Verger types, pre-Hannibal-Lecter-face-lifts, looking to me for a crazy popper, before this particular block of instruction. 

The Non-camera adding 10 pounds of roll, spinning from steampunk smooth gears to Prison-Steam-Punk, whistling like a flat bowling ball. 

The hissy looks on their frozen pre-op faces, with me sprouting rocks that come in handy instead of slither in my Medusa coiffure, was simply priceless, as I stood there un-moving for that split second when they realized they did not control this situation. 

I did. 

In their eyes, I could see the look of incomprehension before the realization that they were proper fucked. They brought 3 BB guns to a zombie fight. 

The three were bit hard and ‘Ali bit by a Vampire’ fast in single file. Three pinheads bowled over, once more into the violent breach, never worrying about a split in my narrow lane. While undead, I tied them up in knots. Post-op faces rearranged to a beauty only circus Mums could appreciate, hidden behind their prison ink. Mums like Sandra Dee. 

Hurt teaches. I am its doctorate, not just its master class. I’ll bet they don’t learn like this at UCLA Film School. This film’s extra is a doctor who is off book, cued with lines off screen. Allow me to remove the “P” from my Lebowski Pharmacy. The doctor is also an expert in close quarter battle/combat, making change out of heavy paperweights, mixing martial arts and metaphor in the bloodlust of this dark sliver of operating theater, I now call my Thunder ‘Bird’ Dome/Harmacy-empty of pee. 

The Juggalo’s got a good three piece in with tailored tags needing future alterations with hidden stitching, sartorially speaking. The first ink on my prison jacket. A cherry on my three scoops of vanilla ice cream sundae. Pinky formaldehyde preserving cherry and Juggalo, alike. A random, first-year personally-tailored-tattoo-session, like Matisse’s studio; my tattoo studio getting swallowed in volumes of splattered scarlet. Prison ink is mostly Dexter-hued red. The same color my favorite poet, Tayi Tibble, adorns to both life and death. The color of King’s crushed VW bug directed by Kubrick. 

Imagine if they would have touched my Tayi Tibble Poetry book. The clowns would have found themselves as the rock band, KISS, during their unsuccessful years, when they went without their stage makeup. Other painted-by-number-clowns thinking they could have hacked it in the game of music on the strength of their song alone. Too funny. Like these Juggalo clowns, thinking prison ink adds tough when I know there is no such thing as tough. Only trained and untrained. 

My training is sincerely terrifying. 

Seriously, they should not have fucked with my hero, Giordano Bruno, who was burnt at the stake in 1600. One of millions of victims who fell under the spell of the Witches “Malleus Maleficarum” Hammer,  because he was firm on his conviction that aliens existed in the 16th century. He didn’t give a fuck what the church thought. He refused to recant his prison Punk truth. Of course, it’s dangerous to be right, when authority is wrong. The church is always wrong, which makes the few times it is right, even more insidious and diabolical. Prison is usually the same way, unless I’m at the pulpit preaching cinema. Bruno’s sci-fi kind of courage should be honored in Encanto, not finger raped by clown gloves worn by freaky jezebel’d idiots walking out of colorful cracker/clown cars wearing over-sized clown shoes. An Encanto fight song everyone should learn.  

(PS) First year prison had its perks. White Juggalos never again fucked with former alien abductees, G. Bruno and Green Beret/PrisonPunk 007. 

I was once called a “bad ass mother fucker” in a National Golden Gloves final, with “nerf sticks, but Roberto Duran rocks.” Sticks and stones, love. Sticks and stones. 

My sticks and stones swelled with time, training and precision. Three little piggies got a lesson in concrete. They went ‘weeee’ all the way home as I went ‘weeee’ on their hair rugs. The pee out of my Lebowski “pharmacy.” The lesson for trying to play wolf in a clown car, blowing my house down with a drive-by. Talk about a wake and smelly-wet walk of shame. 

So yeah, when people ask me what I do in prison, I tell them, I teach film and write my own screenplays, from the dark theater of the mind, as Matisse’s studio strobed into crimson effects with Hitchcock shower sounds of black and white screech. 

Red being the star of my reality. 

A Brecht alienation of my audience in the lightning script, illuminating the blood red to a martian shine that cannot congeal. The color of my white niggaz after the precision of surgery and the color of my Anton Siguhr, state-issue booties, after removing my Sandra Dee hymen in this No Country For Old Men. 

Cash had a boy named Sue. The Coen’s had Llewellyn. 

Look at me…the slutty Dr. Sandy Dee/in the back seat of a Heyoka clown car/all those sticky/tedious fumblings/as I long to get out/get anywhere/get all the way to the (insert dream). 

Tell me more? 

Fav Movie Idea: Silence of the Lambs meets Grease the Prison Clown Wheels. The Musical. Green light? No. Red. Indeed. The color of truth of this Lakota Heyoka. The sacred clown looking at a carnival-chataqua of false prophets who plagiarize spiritual ink. Thinking of his carnie fire tattoos. In tents red. Prison intense red, burning summer tinsel on the fringes of my three ring circus. 

I’m sorry Gandhi, I vowed an oath of Satyagrahi after I left US Intelligence, but to quote Rambo, they drew first blood on this former Green Beret turned prison Punk. Don’t worry, I’ll turn this into a musical! It took 49 days to spin me to dance. 49. 

Prison Ink. Day 52.

No one thinks I’m an inmate here at the jail. I guess there is a show called 60 days in. They think I’m part of that. I better be here longer than 60 days. I’d hate to fight the whole ocean. White Juggalo Punks leave me alone after day 49.  

Prison Ink. Day 61.

Of course. I have been moved from Arapahoe County Jail to a kill fence Prison full of sex offenders? WTF?!? As I left County Jail, the whole Pod was yelling: “We knew you were 60 days in.” How fun. I hope my reputation precedes me to the DOC. If not, I will have to buy a megaphone on canteen and use Matisse as my interior decorator.  

Prison Ink. Day Smudged.

Bully targeted take-downs. Bullies in here look for targets. Like a Fremont correctional firing range. Make holy and then take down. New target. We all have targets on our backs here. Don’t let anyone lie to you, the only difference and most important matter is size.

I see the humble ones have the smallest targets. Heads down, targets angled towards the future in gratitude, making the bullseye harder to see by those myopic, backward thinkers, that are bullies in physical stature but pygmies of the spirit, that can’t see the anagrams and angles of angels. Angels do get caught up in the electric nets with the Aecherontius Styx moth. A fenced in flame awaits the curious butterfly and moth alike. Mayfly to glass sponge, age plays no role in target size. (See Checkmate. Dead Inmate in Two Moves. Dead Inmate was 86.) My only concern is how do I paint the target on my back as big as a Rothko piece or the Louvre’s “Wedding Feast” by Veronese. If I had a mother she would tell me to stop playing around in museums of fear. No running with scissors and shivs, in my childish gallery. But, Mom, I’m bored and I’m around violent kiddie lovers who have not put away their childish mannerisms and are salivating over my fine ass! And I have rocks for hands. Hands that fly, like ‘tempus fugit,’ hitting not just the targets I can see, but like the Gibran genius, I’m working on take-downs of the targets unseen. Doesn’t sound very humble…oooh, it’s already working! At Wally World during my RIP (Rosebud Intelligence Program) training we had 24 hour underground firing ranges where we could shoot anything.  Anything. Prison feels like that kind of underground. I thought that was a bit of explosive heaven below. This prison thing might be great therapy for this combat veteran with PTSD who loves a good take-down. On the inside, I may have found an authentic hobby: Bully bait, aka prison rope-a-dope, ala Ali at the Olympics. Not the 1996 Atlanta games, where he shook like a butterfly with a mothy Parkinson shudder into an Olympic flame. No, the Olympics in 1960, in a “when in Rome do as the Romans do” and Veni-Vidi-Vici-kicked-ass, where Ali took gold, then threw the medal in the Ohio River, in protest of America being too American to the brother. Before he took his version of the Kaepernick knee, Ali stung like a bee and floated like a monarch that looked like French New Wave Cinema; all attitude and angles. Painfully cut and disjointed scenes in black and white flash that could tame fire with a rip roaring yarn that strobes of rope-a-dopes. On the outside, I’m tarted up with a holy prison jacket bespangled with a burnt American flag, amidst patriotism designed to bring faith into the already blinded. Red thinking, white actions to blue. Flag Punks.  

Fade to Black: Rothko’s Chapel.  

Peace be with you. And also with you. Unless, you’re waving your target in my face. Direct line of sight.  

So many targets, so little, scratch that, so much time, aiming for catharsis in my search for invisible targets. Bullies I can see through. The genius is in the rope-a-dope. Something the Bulls can’t see through.  

Prison Ink. Day 100.

My new cellie is an American Buddhist named Bob. Bob put up a Free Tibet picture in the cell. I said hell, I got my own Free Tibet sticker, American made with indigenous glue. My kama’aina tattoo, drawn in blood. A vision of the ‘aina, with dreams of freedom and sovereignty come true. 

Are there any real native warriors left? Or did they fall with Crazy Horse? Die with Kamehameha? 

Resurrected by bottled spirits, Red Clouds and Kalakaua’s. Cowards of our history creating reservations of destitution and drunken merrie-monarchs willing to sell the soul of our people and our land, for 30 pieces of silver and a shot of white lightning, to illuminate with flash only, the great heritage lost to the storms of colonial time, nasty brutish and short, trying like the annoying drunk uncle to overstay their welcome, to the hospitable Hawaiian. Native suffering in silent chants of “Well, we’d all be speaking German,” chronically affected by atrazine and afflicted with Stockholm syndrome. 

Hawaii dreams, nightmare home. Rise up Hawaiians. I helped liberate 2 countries, let’s make it a Hawaiian hat trick. 

The picture in my American cell: Fuck Tibet. Free Hawaii! Sorry, but don’t forget, Mr. Holy Dalai lama, we were invaded by another country first. First come, first serve. Hawaii was liberated from their own sovereignty on Aug 12, 1898. China invaded Tibet on Oct, 7, 1950. The ineffective United Nations “U.N.” in between China and Tibet makes the perfect C.U.N.T.  I smile knowing H.U.N.A. means ‘secret/shaman’ to the Hawaiian-Kahuna as the indifferent Hawaiians allowed rich white Americans to steal and rape their land and aloha, replacing it with their version of A.L.O.H.A. “America Looted Our Hawaiian ’Aina!” (Land.) Now, the A.L.O.H.A. stands for “Americans Left Out Hawaiian Americans.” My Native American side chants in empathy, “AHO!” My Hawaiian side/prison nigger seethes in red, white and blue. 

(PS) A Book Report/Possible Movie Option for my next musical: The Golden Happy Hour. A triple of Tayi Tibble ripple. 

The three fingered shot for those that tipple. A hot unholy trinity; rapey in finger-fuck speak, like a third middle, seeing double, flipping birds with bloody stones. 

A menstruating three in the hand is better than two in the bush.

You don’t read Tayi Tibble. She is a phenomena of weather that only comes after blood sacrifice and sacred rain dance protocols. 

She pours herself over you with her sacrifice, like passions’ water over sauna rock, changing you to sacred steam, honoring the ethereal behind the viscera. 

A phase state transition with a thermodynamic temperature change, from chains-of-gold-cold to xunty island warmth. A warmth that puts a haunting shiver of delight in the crimson soaked vagina of the soul, knowing, now, unequivocally, that the next generation isn’t completely full of bleeding idiots. 

The birth of genius changes shit. 

It moves you through the rifle cock dark of heavy baroque, to poodle cock pink rococo in the tunnels of poetry, connecting reality’s heavy stink with light wordplay. Never losing shine from the tacky plastic tiara, headdress for the material girl staring at the sunshine like a blood moon, licking her lipstick to smear and blood mush. Vagina mode set to crush. I swoon when this Poly-princess colors the book universe, like gluon quark charges in cosmic frame, unifying field theory with verse. 

Marrying the ugly to lose pretty’s name, for better and worse. 

Bridal white with a fatherless stain. An old saw, I see, behind a veil, the feel of wedding cake in the rain as she is searching for something borrowed, followed by something blue; turned nose red, from an Operation game buzz in the head, when my heart is taken with word that has over 8 inches of girth and is velveted like a birth canal to a renaissance of eloquence mixed in with the afterbirth of medical waste. 

Tibble trixied her heart in delicious baddy taste down the wedding aisle, to marry words of dazzling poignancy to numbers swept into a dirty pile, in dark corners of hope,where only the brave know by rote, her original voice is spoken-in-verse, first, in hopes of finding resonance. 

A signal for future generations from the original face, few dare speak or even dream of, outside of a zen koan space and true love. 

The love of word, I recognized as a numerology, my old soul had not seen in a while. Now I’m pointing, mistaking my fingers for the moon, Hawaiian style. The tacky stripper glitter sparkle of the Tibble Blood moon. 

Steaming with her sweltering swagger and my wobbly steam of swoon, in dream, I fly a paper airplane past her, to gather a sense of home, written on the wings: Rangikura. Blind astronaut at the stick with gilding on the tail, plane like a sacred cross, a trick of the eye, airing profane dross, in an eloquent Martian sky. 

Tibble, skywriting on paper, two ply, a lyrical Earnhardt, her words fly, a sacred flight from a heart around the world-wide, from an organ sitting in a jar, fermenting in whiskey, skux-scar and formaldehyde. 

In the sour mash, bubbles of bone crash with pops versed in braille. Popping pimple’d prose through blood and skin, marrow’s visceral word in the winds, sebaceous white lightning darkens. 

Something wicked from Wellington, this way comes. 

Let it change you, like switching mother tongues, and breathing through sacred-feminine-smoke-filled-maori-ancestral-lungs. 

Cocktails? 

Come, come, come, by the pricking of hearty bimbo thumbs, like the sacred clown of the Lakota, a Heyoka that hitchhiked to close to her own internal suns, exploding like butterflies, the antipode of how Icarus dies, waxed words melting, her black flies worn like Maori pearls, morphing into swirls of the amorphous calligraphy that unfurls, from word that ascends, not descends from a fiery red sky. 

A trick of the eye? 

No, a bit of air to be sleight of handled from a red right hand firmly in Magician’s care. The illusion of fingers pledged faux wedding band green, turned in prestige, reaching for the unfathomable. A brilliant uninhibited sheen. Cost effective. A shade higher on the color wheel. An alchemy piercing into gold. A golden happy hour. An hour that knows the cheap colors that come from shiny trinkets that corrupted youth stole. 

A new treasure worthy of king Tutenkamen’s. Gold word patina’d with ancestral wisdom as old as time, tarnished to break by mindful mishandling. 

Then Gold Kintsugi Lined. 

A holy perfection in the flawed that caused this sacred striving. Religions cry God Forbid! Why is a woman handling the ‘big man’ words of the sun? Bristling in shine with big dick power. It burns in the reader's mind, like an encore of happy hour. 

Then, you’ll need a cleanse, a real drink and a shower. 

Maybe dry cleaned, cuz, yes, her ‘hot’ evaporates all water. 

My Friend, Dr Masuru Emoto, before he passed, put a picture of Tibble under water in a glass, and put the water crystals under an electron microscope, to see the shape of her ass in quanta. A sincere hope, and noted the sacred geometry between the gas, that was shaped by her sang froid, so cool as the shape of water, and hot and slutty like foie gras. The T. Eliot kind. Then backward to the toilet to find wisdom in the upchuck, but smells like a Bukowski rhyme. WTF is this ride? A book report? Put it on the CONS side with the Coffee Shop Cool People. Extras in the musical (limited runs) of Lila Cepa Winyan Sapa’s Prison Prose and Cons!

(PS) Hot coffee, cool people or Hot Java, jive turkeys writ large to flock.

Ahhh, I will call this coffee shop cool people rule the world.

A chill, upon cold rocks. 

An iced Joe. 

A wrong prescription fill. 

As Hey Jude talks in song and caffeinated matrix pill. 

The Beatles school of colder free will and the original fool piped in surround sound. Vibrations of chill.

How’d you get to be so-so cool, coffee shop cool people? 

Is it your weathered riffs of youthful tempest and misadventure that skips the best of life with blithe and stubs a toe. And so is the extent of your light rubs and earthly woe. 

Fixed with creamy clouds of frothy frolic by the cup-full with dreamy crowds that flock to the troughs below (insert coffee shop cool pun name’s) stool.

How’d you get to be so-so cool, coffee shop cool people?

Are there hot tricks to your coffee shop cool? 

A soulless choir that sets cold fire to the ether with drool when you air-guitar in the mirror your Hendrix flame licks. 

A cruel form of musical Tourette’s with quiet second hand ticks lost to the hourly norm, too cool to contemplate eternity’s form. 

A pretense to not see the infinite, chained to the human fence of the finite that bites like dogma with the infinite teeth of our ignorance. 

Ears brittle and bent, bristling in offense. 

Hears only belittle in defense. 

Listen lost, like all value to cost, hearing a tree fall in an empty forest, feeling sight was double crossed. 

A zen Koan to help the blind man listening to pretense.

A blinding sense for the tricks of the trade, with no real mastery displayed. A shortcut learned, short sighted and long winded, burned into the hippocampal mullet. 

A sample set of tricks for kids and cool people who lost their lids in coffee shop school. 

Graduation caps steamed in blithe bubbles that collapse into a cup of hot java air and jive turkey troubles.

How’d you get to be so-so cool, coffee shop cool people?

Sipping ennui, minds empty from chill’s lobotomy. 

Stills never mistaken for enlightenment of the Buddha’s satori. 

Tap, tap, tapping frenetic on keys free of zen, spoken in hyperbole of Holy extremes that lack authenticity.

Genuine curiosity is lost with the loose change made in the shades of faux tender, dropped between firm sofa king and queen cushions. 

The hidden fees paid to the new jester boxed with a coxcomb to please the royal friends of TV. 

A shift from the divine right of kings, to the right to be entertained by silly things and shifty coffee shop cool people, cooling on puppet strings, until the fat lady, playing syphilitic queen, sings the finale off key, as the American dream. 

How’d you get to be so-so cool, coffee shop cool people? Changing to a lower chakra theme:

Is it your pissy warm tricks thinking with your pissing sticks and V-stone fruits? 

Sex sans love sells, as it loots the higher mind, where the lower soul resides, of any real warmth, as the cool divides the higher mind from the lower soul, issues of abandonment go spiritual. 

Ashamed, our coffee shop cool renamed our angelic role, as we Kafka’d into humans lost in a mind with no soul. 

A perfect business model to replace prophets with profits and governments with a corporate goal. 

You and your coffee shop cool, as the individual writ large, are the new cool nation in charge. 

A debt of quiet desperation that embodies our new constitution, wept in tattoo and written in hip, but is sincerely, kept far from it.

Look up from your latte scenes and moneyed dreams to see past your screens to a reality where America withers in the somber inertia of our cool themes and hopelessly unfulfilled potential. 

Ripe for despotic clowns and royal sartorial crowns stitched to sheepish heads but smell wolfish under their wooly threads. 

A world where your cool fades like a mercury retrograde and becomes the new clothes, the so-so cool Emperor chose. 

Textures lost in the folds and spin of the loom that claims to read the room, between the crooked lines that are not there. 

There, there, my child, baby crocodile tears that salt your compassion and pepper your repast with eyes like broken glass, unwilling to fix your gaze, the enlightened cast through the haze, upon the co-creative star-scapes. 

Grounded in fates, far from the Gods, in coffee quads that perk up with down drips in a cup that cools as you get the ‘I A.M.’ fix. 

Fix your cool, try the golden rule of kind for epicurean kicks before you find it’s Chuck Bukowski too late. Nothing worse sticks to the irony of destiny in dire straits than solipsism walks, while projecting fears upon the face of your clocks. 

Coffee shop cool hand Luke put down that breakfast egg, break open yourself to some so-so not cool sage: Try literary Foie gras and kindness by the T. Eliot spoonful.

Beware Foie Gras with a cupful of kindness has a side effect that can bless hot sticks and starts to warm the cold stone hearts of a nation of coffee shop cool people. 

Cue: Standing Ovation. 

Cue: The Beatles Hey Jude. 

It would be rude not to stand. 

A wrap command to end the scene: save the ‘Clap’ for tetracycline.

The primary goal of this nonsense was to smuggle these 3 words into the code of CONS in the Hapa-verse: “there. There, there,” in that order. I can’t stress enough how tough that order was to fill.

Prison Ink. Day 288.

The empty pot calling the empty kettle black, like the empty cup calling the pot empty. “The P.O.T.M.T.!” 

Subtitled: “Empty cup filled from bigger, emptier Rothko Pot with cracks over hard time, mortared with gold, mixed with wet eye lint and the kintsugi/golden journey begins with Carl Weathers/Ed O’Neill cracks of star shine. Scars of Aurum.”

The P.O.T.M.T. explains my ménage a trois, reverse Oreo dream to prison-cookie-Nirvana with my old friends, Ed O’Neil and Apollo Creed/Carl Weathers. 

I woke up from the dream, prison-wet with dry sweat and went to the chow hall. At prison breakfast, (I’ve only eaten it twice) where God always disappears before the dishes need to be washed, I look at my empty plastic coffee cup, thinking of my former brunch talks in Santa Monica when I lived next to the Peet’s Coffee Shop. 

Peet’s was inconspicuously placed a few blocks from sandy beach volleyballs, conspicuously sculptured, young-ingenue breast and the standing-erect pier, where the pier’s ferris wheel was the all seeing eye, peeping in my kitchen window. (Everything sounds so sexual in Hollywood, exactly like my Sex Offender Prison Camp.) 

I was working a surveillance job on the show “Las Vegas” on actor James Caan and before work I used to sit next to Apollo (Carl Weathers) Creed at Peet’s, longing for a Rocky resurrection, (before Arrested Development gave him a job) perpetually unemployed, sitting all morning at this cosmic coffee shop waiting to be recognized by tourists who never came. 

Carl would always be talking to Ed O’Neil. Ed would always be complaining that he hadn’t had any real work since Married With Children. This was in 2004, before Hollywood lightning would strike twice for him 5 years later, with Modern Family. 

This Peet’s was a hidden, Santa Monica micro-galaxy with more stars than the current Harvey Weinstein cell-spank-regret-wall. Harvey should be in my sex camp/gated community. Go Harvey!

Then, after Peet’s, I’d rush off a few exits east on the 10, to Culver City, to the set of the TV show, “Las Vegas,” for brunch with Caan, or the “West Wing,” or “2 and a Half Men” sets for brunch chats with Martin or Charlie Sheen (same lot in Burbank). 

As an extra, they never knew I was talking or listening. 

Now, I’m scrubbing bakery pans at 3am listening to the electric buzz in the prison air, reminding me of that Santa Monica Peet’s. The buzz at Peet’s had an electric feel to it, like at any moment, a Hollywood legend like Redford or Newman would walk in and get a coffee, look around and notice that no one cared, because everybody else was famous. Or were locals not really into Hollywood. It was hard to be into something so saturated in sleaze that worked under the prostitution model of agent and artist, especially when seen under a microscope. 

The electric buzz in this violent sex-camp-prison-bakery has the same sleazy-hooker feel, but with one difference: the buzz is sparked by electric eel infamy, not fame, in one criminal way or another. I’m too close to the prison sleaze and slither to care. My locals tag, sticking out from my prison green’s collar, (mistakenly given to me by wardrobe) is making me a noticeably bigger target than I want to be, in this morning of Hollywood reminisce. 

The tangible electricity is always felt in the prison air. It’s exactly like looking up at the sky right before Independence Day fireworks. 

In prison, every day is the Fourth of July. 

It keeps you on your toes looking up, head on a swivel looking for the bigger firework and kinks. Until the kinks in the neck come with real pain.

I had the same “P.O.T.M.T.” moment looking into my empty coffee cup, thinking a bit bigger. Not Rothko-sized, the paradox of a giant-intimacy made bigger, which was the suicide-fatal type of bigger he demanded in his painting. No, I was simply wishing I was bigger. Empty of myself and full of a bigger ‘Oneness.’ 

Then, there it was again, just like that early morning at Peet’s where I could scarcely contain my happiness, in general. Specifically, a pleasure ringed pain. A full body tingle. Then, an audible caffeinated buzz within the bone that bubbles to colors that vibrate in the ether for this synesthete, carbonating the blood like Juggalo Fanta. The colors pop to pained, white-powdered fluff in my eye lint, running with the pink dust bunnies in the quietest corner of the heart, coursing into a consciousness that bypasses the black, doggy-style mind to a dark, dazzling oneness that is as inviting to coffee and me, as my empty coffee cup; like the time at Peet’s when Ed thought I was having an orgasm after slamming a double Cappuccino. I was vibrating like a cell phone cased in sofa cushion. Looking into the empty. It was the empty cup. Like the empty pot, the P.O.T.M.T. is the “Pain Of Too Much Tenderness.” In prison there is very little tenderness. When I feel it here, I do my best to source it, the same way my Sifu, Dr Kam Yuen, 35th degree Shaolin master, taught me to source any pain through the point-of-correction method. 

The schadenfreude that comes from the good kind of emptiness within me. The kind of empty I use to source my oneness, exactly like yours, no matter where I am. No matter where you are. Hi Carl, hi Ed.  

I was thinking of you and had a moment of light, love and tenderness honoring your golden journeys within your cracked cups and pots of poise. Your Kintsugi in juxtaposition to the unempty-heavy-dark of my new coffee shop/bakery hang out where tender touches are more yeasty with caged rape than golden star shine. 

My ménage with you both is more of a trinity of soul feeling than it is sexual. I am in a prison sex camp. The same but different kind as in Hollywood. 

We have more cameras. Less comedy. (I know, let us give that time.)

Hollywood and Big Brother have a lot in common, do they not? 

Same equipment. Same backstory. 

A hidden hand behind the camera blinged in secrecy, with secret society membership rings and more sex and drugs than rock and roll. That can’t be true, Cassandra! 

I gotta watch the vibes I’m giving off. 

Other prison Punks in this bakery with Bundy Eyes and Gacy crazy, love coursing like wild dog for pink rabbit meat. 

The excitement is in the crackle of lightning strikes, like the cackle of trickster demi-gods molding our fates of outrageous fortune. 

Same but different, as Ed’s and Carl’s. 

Most people count their strikes by cups of coffee. T. Eliot (toilet spelled backwards) uses Foie Gras as a measure. I think of the toilet when I eat Foie Gras. 

Some use spoonfuls of sugar to measure their days. A poison so powerful, its only competition in the chemistry of the brain is cocaine. Who knew cocaine was illegal because of a powerful sugar PAC (Political Action Committee)! 

I honor my life by my empty, as well as, my full cups of coffee. 

Especially the ones full of oneness and completely empty of me. 

The ones that go to pot, as the scars in my cracked pot shine like Kintsugi. The same golden journey of my plastic prison coffee cup, sipped dry, slipped from memories Carl/Ed through my curly hair to the omnipresent hair in my prison coffee that I use to floss my teeth in search of lost time, doing hard. Learning ‘amor fati’ to honor the fates, in the quiet-electric of my Hollywoods, on both sides of my gates.

#2. Prison Secret Santa. Mele Kalikimaka! A Christmas Cabaret.

(5 encores after opening night.)

When an unwrapped Snickers (almond) candy bar appears like magic on your bunk in your cell, you’ve been chosen for Prison Secret Santa. Prestige on a random Tuesday, as I swore I heard an “abracadabra” on the breeze. When the “Ta-Da!” rings off in the ear like prestidigitation tinnitus fingering sleigh bells nowhere near winter. Or when the invincible summer within chills in turn…You’ve been chosen to receive Secret Santa. 

It means ho ho ho! You are about to pay for that naked candy bar with your naked ass. 

A prison Punk visual: In county jail, the murderers wear red jumpsuits. Fittingly, they have a pocket above the heart that fits a trinity of Snickers. The prison razors are made of jello with sharp edges that rip more than cut out your beard stubble, leaving you with a face full of bloody spots covered in blots of toilet paper of white. (You blot the blood out of your clothes, too, the quicker the better, with hydrogen peroxide and a prison soap that falls apart when wet, like white cardboard.) 

If you squint, (or in my case, the cops took my glasses to fuck with me so I cannot read and must write in this large print) the illusion of Santa shimmers like a cold mirage that shivers in the North Pole. The red jumpsuit and facial one ply manifest from a puff of prison fart and horned holiday pretense. Secret Santa looking to cash in, or its anagram, Secret Satan appears. I get those two confused with other invisible men. 

The secret is who is playing secret Santa, not what the gift is. The gift is always the same. The gift is always prison Punk rape. 

The melting snickers on my plastic prison pillow means I was selected for Secret Santa. Currently, Christmas in the swelter of a Canon City Summer! 

Sept. 11, my first year in! Omg! Somebody wants to “love” me, with X’s and O’s in the Cell’s game of holiday Tic Tac Toe.

Is Tic Tac Toe the cure for my loneliness? I felt like Sally Fields at the old school Oscar’s. They love me! They really love me! Omg, I hope it’s the new, cute guy in cell block 7. Wait a minute, I’m not gay. Then, I thought, sweet, two desserts today. Thinking of Miyamoto rings on my wedding cake. 

CUE: A SINGLE SPOTLIGHT ON AN EMPTY CHAIR, CENTER STAGE. 

A SOLILOQUY of SOUL.

OFF SCREEN.

There is an emotional paradox in the unwrapping of a gift that doesn’t have the courtesy of being wrapped, and really getting to enjoy it. Awww, and my Secret Santa was a red-suited Hawaiian, who was offended that I ran against his Uncle Bernie in the 2014 mayoral election, and made him look like an idiot at the mayoral debates. Unfuckingreal. You can never escape your past. 

There are a lot of Hawaiians in Denver. This prison Punk must give up the light to the Green Beret to illuminate the teleology of my prison Secret Santa. 

President Bush Sr. used to call Saddam Hussein, Sad damn. That pronunciation was the difference in meaning, between “Great One,” and the guy “who cobbles shoes,” according to the Rosebud Intelligence Program/Peresmeshnik Protocols/Shadow Comms. 

Mayor Bernard of Kauai used to get so pissed I kept calling him “Bernie,” and he kept correcting me during the live debates, but I never heard him. He got so angry he sent two swat teams, locked and loaded, to my house in between the second and third mayoral debates. (Island politics are a lot like prison politics.) So, at the third debate, I interrupted him while we were on the dais and asked him point blank, if he had sent the two swat teams to my house. His face was an open cookie jar and red was his right hand, lost in it. He backpedaled into a Shakespeare: “Methinks thou dost protest too much.” Everyone there knew that Hawaiian Punk sent Swat to my house. Not one, but two swat teams. Full riot gear baking their noodles under a hot Hawaiian sun, with men foaming at the mouth with a mind full of bubble activated triggers. 

Why were these debates removed from YouTube? I espoused Hawaiian sovereignty for the cowardly Hawaiian. Hawaiians are generally brown people with no heart, weaker than the average Kuwaiti or DDR German, lacking the strength to take back their own land. I personally helped liberate two countries that were ‘annexed.’ I thought my mayoral campaign could make Kauai a hat trick. It is not yet a dream for my Hawaiian side. The Hawaiian remains cowardly. The vision of sovereignty was askew, so I wore my hat askew, in sadness. 

In my Oz, I see their lions crying out for hearts. Wishes for me, unbeknownst to them, in the tears. The wet-works that created my ‘non-prophet’ foundation. The Green Beret finds the prison Punk behind the curtains of Oz pulling the following lever: 

Kona, my first Prison Secret Santa, was just as dumb as his royal, mayoral-ass of an uncle, Bernie Carvalho. Most prisoners are, actually. Small world. 

I fucked that Hawaiian Ho Ho Ho rapist up when he attempted to plug my “exit-only” end. 

It reminded me of a better version of my childhood. So I went with it and came up with a plan for a continual Mele Kalikimaka, called: “Fuck peace on earth, a continual Xmas I’m making out of my first DOC holidays.” 

It started with the cultivation of hate over tranquility. Revenge over serenity. And a Christmas Hawaiian Musical that will run for 5 days this winter! A Week Of Secret Santa starring yours truly, the Half-Iyeska-Sioux/Hapa Hawaiian: Lila Cepa/Hapa Hendrix.

I smile as the Hawaiian Kahuna in me meets the Lakota side in Heyoka-Clown paint stuck in Warrior Pose longing for Child’s Pose. 

Beware: Hate consumed me last night, it came inside from the winter outside. A cold dark so black it was tinged blue Punk. The unethical cop, the worst shade of corruption. So I gave into it. Brimstone sparked my forest green eyes forest fire green, to match the eschatology of my surroundings. An apocalyptic end-times-bonfire emerged, like Philly hobos around a 50 gallon drum fire waiting for a Rocky serenade, trading up to a Bruce Willis franchise film, where the drum circle becomes the pacific shelf’s ring of fire. 

Cue the Johnny Cash tune. 

The Pacific Ocean was the Petite Madeleine for this Proustian aroma therapy. I was getting in touch with my feelings in aloha, sulfur and brimstone. 

I knew what my feelings wanted. They wanted to be resurrected by fire, with my youth that I buried, thinking them moribund. 

I know an exact red-right handful of Hawaiians in prison, five big bully types eyeing me with no brains, and that damn utilitarian Burke splintering my cerebellum with “the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for enough good men to do nothing.” 

Kona, the Hawaiian that Secret Santa’d me with my first prison potential rape on my Xmas 9-11 gave me the 411. Is 411 still a thing? I better just say info/idea. 

I’m simply trying to rationalize my future violence, because my gift will hurt more than rape. My gift breaks you inside. It’s really the thought that counts in gift giving, is it not? 

Kona was soured that Hapa Hendrix ran for Mayor of Kauai against his Uncle Bernie Carvahlo, thinking his fat could save him in rape and close quarter battle/combat. 

Front Kick to stomach, left uppercut with a step in, and a right hook to exposed chin’s off button. Kona crumpled, quickly, after bristling in my Thunderdome/Harmacy with the pee after (not before), on my Lebowski rug. 

I will perfect this move. The Doctor is in, feeling at home, rationalizing his future work. I can make this work. I’d have to equate the bully with evil, while simultaneously overlooking my own evil. 

Ooh, hypocritical delusions, how fun. Will there be plant alkaloids involved? No? I can do this with meth? 

Oh, math! 

Prison math? Ok. I make 90 cents for a 10 hour prison work day in the bakery. A Snickers (almond) bar is one dollar on canteen. Order on Thursday, receive on Sunday. Which happens to be the cost of a Prison Secret Santa. 

Now, kids, stay in school and learn real math, otherwise you may learn it takes 6 days for a prison Punk to finance a Secret Santa operation, 5 times. Is there a remainder? A forty? Ho Ho Hawaiian rapist Ho. 

I felt glorious, reliving my youth. This whole week in January, Monday through Friday. 

Cue the Cure: (by) Friday, I’m in Love! 

January felt like Xmas: the continual sequel. It feels so good to give! 

Deeper? 

What do you expect, all philosophers are artists in the realm of idea, writing upside down in zero gravity with inner astronaut pens. My mother rolled over in her grave when she found out my first BA in philosophy was an art degree. 

Artistry? No.

The emptiness in me is clashing with a darker purpose. Am I finally, as a 47 year old innocent prisoner, joining the dark-side arts? Light to dark, sparks a friction in the black, tinged electric blue. Like bad breaking to let some dark in from the cracks, so that the eyes can adjust. My cracks went the golden glove’d journey of Kintsugi. The golden scars of cracked Japanese pots. My pot, the color of outer space black, is so black it’s blue. The blue shades I added to island black. A Cherenkov spark in the tropical cellhouse breeze. Zephyrs of a warm glow. Hawaiian sun on my face and hands. The rocks at the end of my nerf sticks, skipping effortlessly upon dull shallow waters. Sticks and stones, creating ripples in my well-greased nerf-world. A close quarter combat trick, dealing with the sumo set. Hawaiian prison Punks are always the sumo set. 

Big men in prison CQB always try to grab you with a ‘rape-hug,’ so I perfected a tailor made two-piece that goes with the grabby hands dance on the inside that works every time. Left uppercut, to a tight right cross on the chin’s side button. With the precision of a Green Beret Sniper. You're welcome.

The starting position has to be a perfectly timed wedding proposal. Your fists a veil for your lower face. Elbows tight on your obliques. Two feet from the big brown bear charge and the hugs encircled in prison Tic Tac Toe, an orthodox boxing stance. You bend deep at the knees, like you are proposing marriage and the whole body comes up as one unit, punching through the chin while rising, which pops the chin up. 

Now at Dwight Shrute’s Gym for Muscles they teach you the eyes are the groins of the face. That may be true, but in the sweet science of bare knuckle boxing, the side of the chin is the off button for the human robot. A trigeminal nerve hit disrupting the ascending reticular activating system in medicine-shaman speak. It is just hard to get that chin up in a real fight. Unless you got one of the sumo set that comes at you in a tic-tac-toe box of a cell, with their only move: the Oh’s in the Hapa Tic Tac Toe. Xoxoxoxoxo. 

All five of my cuddly X-mas aloha bears happened to like to hug the jump rope set, also. 

I am in a violent sex camp, that should not be surprising. 

Hawaiian Manny-Pedoes at my feet, enjoying the rest of a free spa day. 

Their ‘Double Dutcher’s’ were in the 12 and under category. All but one, did not discriminate based on sex. Noting employers can’t do it, why should pederasts.

I added my shade of black and blue to their Hawaiian, especially in places unseen, but acutely felt. 

Adductor tears have long lasting effects, if the groin is hit hard enough, repeatedly. 

Infiltration from the back side in stealth after the wars were over, with oddly shaped, ‘smaller-than-a-bread-box’ gifts, that need assists in unwrapping, (exfiltration) were customary free amenities in my new pop-up Mele Kalikimaka Spa with an anti Geneva Convention mission statement. 

You’re welcome little boys and girls in helping to balance your karma. 

I tanned indoors with big Hawaiian suns all week and fondled private parts, finger fucking starfish with loose fake rings, (remember the Grease, the not musical?) remembering fondly, my blood-wet dreams of growing up in Hawaii, as a “white haole-nigger.”

And then in junior and high schools in South Dakota, at the Pine Ridge Indian reservation as a “white Wasi’chu-nigger.” 

I was the language of hate and nigger in my first two mother tongues. Orphaned by both, adopted by a family of prison Punk.  

Now I’m greased up and tanning my haole/wasi’chu side, housed inside my gated community, under lazy Hawaiian suns, looking up at a Colorado sky. A prison paradox that keeps my smile bright and my youthful soul happy for a shot at a second childhood, rewritten by Hannibal Lecter, scripted in the calligraphy of bombast, blood and renaissance. 

My bic pens traded in for T.H.E. Pen. “The Halo/Heyoka Effect Pen” scripts down two feet, drawing a tie for the perfect gentleman. As Shakespeare correctly noted: “The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.” Indeed. 

HOLIDAY MUSICAL FADES TO PUNK. 

OFFSCREEN/NO CAMERAS IN THE CELL: 

Knock, Knock Uncle Kimo/Kalaea/Blue Solo/Boots/Keika.  

Who’s there? 

Lila Cepa X 5 Oh’s?

A gentleman bearing gifts of Tic Tac Toe.

Did you get my candy bar appetizer, unwrapped for your easy enjoyment? 

My inner child is happy at passing the prison math portion of the GED, and a namaste of continual Christmas, what Ben Franklin called a clean conscience that is my genuine innocence. Not thee Ben Franklin, but the pre-op tranny making late night house calls to his lavender patients in the Vet’s Pod that looks, unfortunately, exactly like our founding father. A forehead slicked all the way back to the 1800’s with incarcerated cum. A spotty bald moon shining dirty-water-light on long, horseshoe-head-framed hair, more headland than bay, with black raging to white near the follicles, graying at the ends. The gray ghosts haunting the white frothy shorelines on a moonless night, running a half length down the bare backside. Reins for his equestrian compatriots navigating obstacles haunted with wet and dirty. If you think Ben Franklin is one of the uglier of our human males, aesthetically, you should’ve seen him as a prison Punk on estrogen. Ben, unfortunately, couldn’t look good dressed in hundred dollar bills. Still I honor him/her. Someone that looked like him/her discovered electricity. We should honor him/her with those looks in the right vicarious light. 

Some theorize doggy-style was invented to avoid them. 

(PSST) As the dark takes back my youth, my red right hand I wash, nightly. My mahalo mudras of Secret Santa mayhem, subconsciously honoring Lady Macbeth. 

This is gonna be a good first year! Hau’oli Makahiki Hou! 

I’m really doing the work to overcome my crippling childhood issues. Is there any other race I feel sorry for more than the cowardly Hawaiian? Cuz this gentleman thing is working for me. 

Five Xmas parties in one week. Cover charge: A nutty snicker of hate. 

Say what you want about connecting with your inner child in prison, I personally thought it was like giving candy to babies, not taking candy away from the keiki. 

I took something else. 

I took the American flag out of their asses and inserted something they would remember me by, until removed surgically. 

Here is the real math, kids/keiki. There are things that can go in an anus from an ass that just knocked you out (x5) that you cannot poop out like a ping pong ball. 

Although I put a lot of thought into the items inserted, the items penetrated and lodged in these Community-Greendale Flag starfish logos are not that important. It’s the time of extraction from a point of epidemiology that fascinated me. 

It might be a societal humiliation factor that demands the sharper lens of the scientific method. The times ranged from 1-4 days. More specifically, three on the first day of my five days of Xmas. One on the third and one held out to 4 days. Within those 5 is an average that can be added to next year’s holidays. The anticipation is making me giddy. Extra credit for staying with me through all this gift giving. 

Mele Kalikimaka, from your prison Secret Santa, Hapa Hendrix/Lila Cepa.

Cue: Van Halen’s Panama.

My favorite insertion was the “Penema.” A clicked-on pen with a piece of dental floss tied under the pen's pocket clip. Now, it is important to insert the pen with the clipside first. All the way up the anus and then, using the dental floss, you want to angle the pen a few degrees in the dark, and leave a bit of the dental floss hanging out near the perineum with a tag taped to the floss that says: “Taint nothing but a PULL.” The first thing the Secret Santa participant does upon regaining consciousness is to play Theseus to my Ariadne and tries to pull my present from the maze of its anal wrapping paper. 

In this scenario, Theseus never leaves. Ariadne’s lonely suicide is thwarted. Lila Cepa promotes “Girl Power!”

Theseus is stuck with rosy fingers on a compass that points to sunrise and sunset, only. The scorned-sacred-feminine with abandonment issues finds justice in such painful play in the masculine labyrinthine rough. 

Could you imagine waking in your cell after being knocked out and you find you are naked from the waist down. A knot tied inside you with a long string hanging out the pooper. Would you pull your gift from your Secret Santa bag? True North poll? 

Hapa-Verse: Secret Santa Cheese Party Poetry. (A poetic recap of my First.) 

An invitation Snicker only, please. 

This cheese party is used to catch a rapey-rat. What did I use to serve the cheese? A hearty Kentucky bat. A slugger, stolen from the diamond in the rough. Considering my anus size, the nick was tough. As the long pull came in short tugs, the greased wood unplugs, clearing itself a shitty path, not well trodden by thugs. 

Now, it’s cool, I have an interrogation tool, to find out who my new Secret Santa/rapist could be, in a bat-shit crazy interview. A pretty Snickers almond bar came into view, on my bed, some rat, walking dead, thinking I’m a young prison ingenue. Not knowing I’m hammertime looking for bully nailheads like you. Cue: MC Hammer pants.

Easier moves for the baseball bat dance, saving my ass, awaiting my chance to teach my master class, at my own home plate. My new Secret Santa’s Fate. Planned, backward-assed, but well enough in advance, to never be late, for this Secret Santa date. 

To catch a white rat in greens, just for fun, I’ll add the strawberry red to the scenes; a holiday home run. Festive color schemes, under the harsh glare of my innocent prison sun, smelling my own shit, dreams of my Secret Santa to come…back. 

This is it, cheese platter for a rat trap, this rapist’s life does not matter, under my mistletoe. A kiss of a whack, not a death blow, as his nimble fingers crack, fantasizing about my brown camel toe, blacker thoughts, caressing the Asiago. 

Then, I broke his thumbs, and one big toe. Again, just for funs, if you must know. And if you really must know, this prison Punk can get you a toe from this Secret Santa show. The cut to Lebowski gold at the end of my Christmas rainbow. 

Cruising gutters, eating Nutter Butters from canteen. My cell is a mini bowling alley scene, knocking nimble nihilistic pins in my 300 dream. Leonides with a spartan bowling ball in one hand and a bat wrapped in uninhibited fingers’ thrall for satan or his secret anagram marked by the Ho, Ho, Ho call. 

Over the line, I hope so. So-so. Score: Hero-1. SS Zero-0. Blood clean up time. Dexter hype. Blot the blood spots, don’t wipe, while keeping your shoes, “No Country for Old Men” white. 

I still have to smuggle the bat back to the yard, that, my friend, is prison Punk hard. Surely for anyone but my inner Anton Siguhr!

My eyes locked on the faults in my star. I pray for another waltz with Santa and his Snicker’s Almond Bar. Next time, you’ll find, I’ll do the Hamlet cheese party with a bit more class. I'm buying Havarti, as soon as I pull the stick out, that’s parked up my ass, to teach the rotten about my Danemark, with some cheesy class. 

X-mas at the prison ballpark. Hitting balls of Yorick with my stick. Shagging fly balls with big dick energy. I’m bringing a Claudius-worthy crudite. An appetizing line from a Shakespearean problem play, of crass and American pastime, around my perennial prison holiday.  

Afterthoughts: “This too shall pass” helps no one in the present. ‘This’ should be worked out, before it passes, is the gift of reason often unwrapped by feeling left gaping at a toy it doesn’t know how to put together that comes with no set of instructions. 

I look at my hands, my knuckles look like Mauna Kea. The peaks painted with morning fire from the face of a Hawaiian sun that fizzled in less than supernova after an impact induced coronal mass ejection. My ancient astronaut was an amateur Golden Gloves fighter with a record of 31-1, at the age of 17. In this barbed wire ring, my new Thunder “Bird” Dome/Harmacy (that leaves behind my pee) I’m tethered to a sense of home for the first time in my life. 

I’ve been training, Miagi-like, for this prison experience all my “Karate Kid” life and I’m currently undefeated. 9-0 prison pillow-fight club record. To be precise. This too shall pass, but not today. Not fucking today. 

A prison Punk does not mellow with age when reliving a shitty childhood. A prison Punk rages against it, like the dying of the light. The fading to black of the red prison ink, congealed in basements with no sunlight, once removed. Mystery lost with the blood moon. Truthful revelations in the rage. All the rage. Swoon. Baby swoon. 

(PS) Cons verse/in the Hapaverse/shredded to pissy origami stains. I agree with Shakes/here’s much to do with hate/but more with love/folded into wet carpet cranes. Coded/in dry tears. Full of eyesore/quiet rains. Lachrymal petrichor/tied the cells and smells together in invisible knots/with instructive pains. Concealed behind quilted Kahuna thoughts. The dude abides by the Lebowski rug. No thug/left unwrapped or untied. Dried Hugs and Wet Kisses. Whizzes from the CONS Side. XOXO. Lila Cepa.

Prison Ink. Day 252.

Overheard today on the yard: We are Prison Punks. We are like one of them Guke-ys. 

You mean Gucci? 

No, I mean Guke-y. 

Like a fake Gucci bag. All superficial and shiny-loud on the outside. Stitching seems good from far, but far from good to any fine tailor. Even the blind ones can feel a Guke-y bag and know from the context, with accurate prognostication skills, the contents of such a bag. 

Let’s start with the context of crooked seams and slave-shop-children-fingernails sewn in for texture and added weight to the cheapest fibers and flimsiest fabrics that a third world sweatshop can buy. 

Savings added to the energy bill saves bottom lines that never spring for air conditioning in a heat so oppressive, the children’s lachrymal lakes are indistinguishable from the rivers of sweat that have washed away the third eye leaving behind a salted riverbed of evaporated kiddie tears. 

The inner silk lining sourced from a pawn shop in Guatemala City that cashed in on a grave robber’s booty is stained with tears. Brown and black tears. Never white. The coffin blue taffeta shroud turned faux ‘Chanell’ and fake ‘Guke-y’ has been successfully repurposed from boneyard booty to body bag accessory for the moribund spirit awaiting burial, as those trapped in the physical will tell you the cost of the funeral, knowing not, the lack of value in the knock off. 

The outer polyester blend is “haole” fabric that never breathes and clutches armpit stench like any other fabric wicking products. The difference is the consumer can wash the human stench from the unreal fabrics with a Nike logo. One washing of a faux Prada (P-NADA) and you pull out the viscera of piñata left out with Summer cake. (Donna Summer Cake at MacArthur’s Park.) 

So the grave booty renaissance to body bag accessory resurrects once again into a gym bag with the same smell of Lord Jesus Christ after he was resurrected from the dead (non-zombie scriptures) and emerged, after being stuck for three days in Fat Cat Joe of Arimathea's tomb, which prompted the first biblical quip: “Whew, who died in here?” 

I smell that sentence every time a faux Louis Friend-Vuitton bag (The Hannibal Lecter Damier Pattern) is opened. The iron-sulfide smell causes a single dead cat to get her devil wings. (Broadway’s passing feline breed.)

The content of these character bags is always the same. 

A credit card so heavy with karmic debt it straightens the crooked seam, from the perspective of a crooked heart. An illusion of calcified third eye sight. 

A compact mirror cursed with the craving of external validation. The lipstick called “Imposter” with a rouge shaded in the irony of “complex, in the hue of simple.” 

Of course this average simpleton asks: “What’s in your wallet?” when the mind is completely empty, and the stomach overfed on platitudes. 

When consumption is queen what do you do with the empty wallet but toss it in the trash.  

This Guke-y queen, Lila Cepa will accept the empty faux wallet as ticket price for my faux musical. 

Now Hiring: Extras! 

Shooting a X-mas Musical in our CONS Coffee Shop. 

Wallet-sized signed photos of Ed and Carl to all the bad actors. Fade to Black. And blue face. 

Prison Ink. Day 254.

Blood confetti in the Thunderdome. Congealing paper to liquid drips like an IV/Pollock bucket slips. Blown banana peel confetti. AGT’s golden buzz. Concealed from blue fuzz. So frequent are the drips filled with Secret Santa hugs/from thugs/the blood is no longer remarkable. Like glucose, unless it’s mine. Impossible! I wrap my hands to leave no marks. The bulls always check the hands after sparks fly. I use my two ankle wraps. Why? I have bad ankles from jumping military rounds. Dripping down the war-tinged blue in OD green beret and M-16. Hitting hard grounds at 17 feet per second/per impact/per land. Times 444. So, I use them to wrap my hands/more like a boxer demands. When I’m not in the Thunderdome/they hold my ankles wide together. A slutty stance. A dirty pugilist dance. Making me feel at home. A paradox of drip and bloody pleasure. From your lip to God’s ear. Better sweet nothings of a sweeter science measure. From verse to prose for my leisure. I smile thinking of Picasso’s answer to the French army when they asked him how best to camouflage their paratroopers. He told them to dress the airborne as harlequins. That would’ve worked, says the sacred ‘Heyoka’ clown of native Americans. The Heyoka with a bucket full of strawberry confetti looking for a blank canvas. Inside my prison tipi-turned-circus-tent, the search for a blank canvas is futile, (like looking for your authentic self, outside the harlequin/clown self) because the tabula rasa presents itself as a Con. Always, with high beams flashed on. The same windowless shark eyes, long blank stares from blanked souls, bared eye teeth dripping predatorial drool. Stalking a shark tank unaware of the rope a dope swimming in the kiddie pool. Thinking of the future bidding wars that I will command from the other sharks in the venture capital pool. The drool gets lost in the ocean of cool, red-warm confetti. Now, quite unremarkable outside of the world of emotion. Just like every time Terry Crews hits the AGT golden buzzer. Mad love Terry! Prisoners have AGT view parties that take a shot of hooch every time they cut to you making a stupid-shocked face. You are the cause of many drunk inmates and every one of my sharks have been way bigger than you. I know that’s golden-gloved AGT buzz worthy to you, but to me, again, quite unremarkable. Stay Golden ponyboy Terry Crews. With a hint of Hinton: Stay Golden, Outsiders.

INT. COBRA KAI SALON-NIGHT

Manny-Peddy Pedoes at work in the prison Cobra Kai salon. So goes the fancy footwork…care to twerk along. Work is the sludge that builds up between the toes when caught in the quicksand-like throes of capitalism not doing the labor that moves you or inspires the individual soul to a greater good through a bigger goal than a 9-5 ever could. Prison work is redemptive for those that live to fix their breaking bad and broken nails with good.

Pedicure?

Sure! A red polish, if you would!

A jumbo jet in the night sky the size of a crow just flew by, mocking our gated community like Cash’s Folsom train, working its wings against the inky sludge like the little engine that could, as I’m pushing concrete walls that just wont budge steaming with more boyhood innocence than fire wood. Fueled planes grounded to trains. Boys, with hobby-trains, trains hobby-boys to track in grounded circles, that circle back to this enclosed neighborhood. Break the cycles and fly back to your highest good. What do you really want to do after falling? What, Lila Ċepa, is your highest calling…soar to sainthood or work the fires with devilwood that burns at both ends. Oh, what light from both bad and good friends. Through the sludge and Shawshank Doo-Doo, I see a Gibran breakthrough…work, Lila Ċepa, is love made visible. An epiphany pulled from the invisible with a prison pedicure. Can you see the red through the voodoo of the mind that sees oneness embedded in me and you? Mitakuye Oyasin. We are all related is Lakota for how do you do. In prison it means this hurts me way worse than it hurts you. Violence is never the answer when there is a question. There is no question, that there never was a question in my Thunderdome. Only Action! Then, thee only question: Would you keep your cue? Would you call out for home, when the fear comes at you? Would you scream? My only dream in pillow fight club is not to stub my toe on my new Cellie or drip blood on the red-camera ready, so I don’t ruin my new Manny-Peddy with a red that congeals to a mirror black. The goth look on nails was yesterday’s fashion hack. Cue Mack the knife looking more like Mack the Machete. As I surprised him with decades of Green Beret training at the ready. Cue the golden hour. Dripping AGT confetti. Cue The Terry Crews face looking camera-ready and sour. I got talent like my Lebowski golden shower. A steady stream to the unconscious thug living a wet dream on the micturated rug that really tied my cell-room together. Coda to the Oglala rain-dance manifesting bad weather in the Thunderdome. I took his oversized shiv and removed the big piggie that lives to go ‘weeee’ all the way home. I can definitely “get you a toe,” is the reason for this prison ink poem…with or without red polish if you wish. So, did you dance to this? Was there a twinkle to your toes?

Know this: A phantom digit grows in itches every time you cut a man’s toe off in violence, haunting the stitches with a limp to the sixth sense of ghostly hitches that gimp along in every prison dance and song. Can you see the eerie moves of those that have gone wrong? Both specters and spectators work and twerk in my musical of Con.

Prison Ink. Day 103.

Skies lost to concrete blocks. Grounded, breaking the same Sisyphus rocks. Grounded, stars lost to 100 ft high spotlights that bounded their healing shine. The source of dream at night, surrounded by darkness in the high-beam-bright. My current plight within this gated community of ours: Prison stole the stars. My inner astro-physicist staring at the moon, calculating like Le Verrier, my lost Neptune. The tune of the spheres filtered through bars. 

Prison Ink. Day 147.

My auric calligraphy has lost its swoop. A loop looping me until meaning is lost to a lifetime of sound satiation and spin, curling energy to vertigo, like zip tied inside an MRI, inside a prison, where that zip is tied just so…the cinch turns the hands to strawberry red balloons, uncomfortably numb, like the dark side of moons, shading from Pink Floyd’s brick wall. Red-right-hand, bloated turkeys awaiting the fridge door in the cell. Art honoring the fall. Where the hell would I hobble and gobble off too with a cracked leg, crutches left outside the magnet that pinches. Holiday wishes tabled to Grinches. Another broken thanksgiving centerpiece tabled in fabled prison. Doctors here have a sadistic streak. They like to add pain to the newspeak regimen like glass to the food we eat, and force us, like cannibals, to eat human fruits and veggies, as we bite the hands that feed us thinking of strawberries and faux thanksgiving gaggles of turkeys, hanging like Warhols in a chow hall, praising the virtue of voodoo, being pinned like Christ, hoodoo, with holes that leak in honor of Valerie Solanis, on the upside down cross, waiting to be righted by the eye, waiting in another soup line, loop-loop-looping to die. Lost swirls of me by design, the calligraphy of aporia in the divine, mistranslations of the tacky mind, loud magnet rotations, looping some meaning in a bind. Adding strawberry color to the hard hands of doing time. Magnetic feeling, MRI afterthought. White page gone dark, 3am, lilacs kicking on the O bulb in the bridge of my nose, olfactory senses feel factory Warhol kitsch, eating soup, tasting the zinc-cadmium mix in the paint can, smelling rotten tomato. Warhol, a CIA fruit, picked by Frank Wisner’s group, but a worm inside, squirm in the white moppett. Where are the Valerie Solanis feminine warrior archetypes? Hopefully, getting better training. Andy was hired to drug and film famous people in compromising positions for the CIA. He made a career out of it, after compromising himself with his gay, and a scopolamine drip. 

Prison Ink. Day 179.

If you treat people like objects, objects will hold up a mirror to your objects. I object! Objection sustained. I’m working on seeing people around me…as people. It’s difficult to overlook the inhuman actions of the humans around me, but I’m trying. And there it is in writing, the reason for my constant failure. Yoda: Don’t try, do. Ok I’ll try, damn it! I did it again! 

Prison Ink. Day 181-191.

Hole Time. No pencil. CO’s being cruel. They took my writing instruments, left me paper. Took my glasses. The white bull was tamed pink with red behind the eyes. I know how my Promise Pieces screenplay will play out…I made it rhyme, so I could memorize it and write it down when I get out of solitary in Ten, in Ten-Pain. Elevator pitch for my 11th script:  Dedicated to Chilean President Salvador Allende, taken out by our Rogue CIA on their favorite date: 9/11. “The Promise Pieces.” A Promise piece painted, in pieces on the floor. Blood tainted hues on the canvas behind a locked door. A madman in a CIA closet, crouched in wait. A late suicide prophet took out the Chilean President with a Four-Four. 6 year old twins orphaned to a violent coup turned war, Esperanza groomed by the US State, to infiltrate and quietly assassinate. Paulina, the artist, was made of revolution’s fate, forced into the bliss of prostitution, to be blessed with the heart to create, from the artist, who didn’t want to get fucked anymore, looking to even the score, with an intelligence community, rotten to the core, when freedom came to Chile, she created the Promise Pieces, the world, simply, couldn’t ignore. If art is created through wounds exposed and sore, let it heal those that know a heart in pieces that a country tore apart, and littered on the ground, to rise with a country lost in corruption and how it was found. In the eyes of a whore. Paulina, a Blue Chip artist, turned tattoo artist for 3 back tattoos. A three year charity, to lose two singing the fatal, just-got-back-skinned-blues, while the artist burns all her work with a suicide lit fuse, leaving one anonymous tattoo left with some killer clues. And, the twin, as always, is in on the rise and ruse. My screenplay: the Promise Pieces, making cinema history news, with a billion box office views. A dream in screenplay, from one of the darker SHU’s. “Special Housing Units” after some random Prison Nigger on Prison Nigger attacks, locked down at Canon City’s Prison Max. 

Prison Ink. Day 191.2

The soul is the planchette to see the Ouija in the world. The mystical on the human game board, to find one’s astrological house with the star compass and set sails for distant shores and semaphore, to navigate the dry and wet seas, to see tarot sparkle on the souls horizon, and to feel spirit in a deck of cards. The two of hearts, an astrolabe pointed at the sky, navigating flight, becoming oceanic. A twirl with Sufi. A round of well rounded poker. You in?

Prison Ink. Day 192.

In memory, the jury floated in the courtroom on liquefied air, casting not a fish eye of a glance on my defensive eddy. Not a single Sherlock in the bunch with courage to see through the police red tape of cowardly yellow taped deception. Thinking of my scuba tongue in court. Speaking in scuba breath. Or whip-it flavors bouncing in the ear drowning you in the faux death of a creamy underwater, like knowing the verdict was guilty before the jury sat down. There were many tells, they swam more than walked back in with a verdict condemning innocence. Not a single look my way, telling me they weren’t even sure, looking down trying to find a good conscience on their cheap dress shoes. There wasn’t a single Solomon in the bunch of morons. But, blue Punks can be very convincing, all gussied up like a brazen hussy in their dress blues, coquettish batting of the authoritarian eye. Lipstick on the pig a ruse, distracting the jury already distracted by daytime tv shows, on their 2017 sized smartphones, thankful this particular big brother is in front of them not in their cars’ rear view mirror, approaching in condescending swagger.

Pre-trial cell with my name already carved on it.  

Postcards from my future government housing alerting all friends and family to my future digs.  

I put my hand on the cold steel bars, the movie equivalent of walking three steps away and staring pensively into the sky, after a life long elusive epiphany hits you, right before the asteroid. 

Pass the popcorn. 

I thought this was a comedy. 

It will be according to Aristotle’s formula for comedy: Tragedy plus time equals comedy. 

I got nothing but time. 

Comedy comes when I’m done. 

After 10 years.

?

#7.  Place Your Bet! Boris and the Cellie Bullet. Russian Roulette. 

Cellie bullet, Russian Roulette. Gun under the chin, A direct hit? Da? Nyet?  Call your bookies to place your bet. Then…call thee prison realtor with the Cellie gambit. 

Boris the chess playin’ Commie cleaner is called in when the new murder cell is a direct hit with a meaner figurative gun. I staked my claim on the very next one. Every cell in this unfair con game has a murder or murderer square in frame. A hell of a reality. Really, not that big of a deal. Every cell is haunted by at least one real ‘passed’ inmate. Real, estates of death. A broken spoke on life’s wheel of Karmic cycles spoken for out of breath. Mine were very fresh. I could feel the death. Did I mention I once owned a real ghost tour company in Denver’s Union Station and can feel, since my near death experience, orthogonal permutations of interference, from inter dimensional energies. Energies that steer clear of these gated communities. 

The last two inmates in this cell, no bigger than a bathtub, took a 40 minute bloodbath. Rub a dub dub. The end of a karmic path for one scrub, on the floor dead, floating in a pool of rotten-Strawberry-red, (Boris had dibs and sponges on the word that rhymes with rub a dub dub) then cast out with the cooling bath water. 

The other con, head impaled with a metal trash can, on the Glasgow coma scale. A dead-adjacent man, in hospital bed sheets, a close head cover over. Too soon to swoon for a tug the plug, then pullover on a thug that won the bet, in Russian cellie roulette. Moreover, when there is blood in the streets, after any hostile takeover, buy real estate, my prison realtor relates, after every bloody foreclosure. 

Full disclosure, I watched the guards wait outside that cell too afraid to breach the violent hell of two cruel black tanks, with dual front ranks warring with Wakanda-cannons, locked like horns of quarreling moose, impossible to unloose, in a space of mace fume, the size and stink of a gas station bathroom. 

Hold your breath, it’s just as smelly fighting to the death, in a future tomb of the unknown Cellie. A number. 

Because of this particular transaction, the whole prison lost their metal cellroom trash cans. The moron wardens who were fans and approved heavy Metallica head bashing cans, with edges made for sharp whacks, had to have kickbacks behind the obtuse back slaps that created these government contracts. 

My chess playing comrade, Boris the Russian mad, physicist-rapist, who had taken a prison class on biological waste removal is called in no haste, to clean up the Duchampian ready-made congealing to mess. A mint on the pillow for the next cellie’s approval. At best a housekeeper always on call, as per prison usual, with a few prison side hustles, with a nose Rudolph’d by alcohol covered by a gas mask and a hazmat suit to protect himself from all the rotten fruit, as he moonlights as my realtor, after cleaning up the O.R. from the last doctor on doctor operating theater (and writes a chess column with the byline tag: “Knight Moves” for the prison rag mag). 

His days and nights are filled with rotten strawberry fields. Fights go nuclear in a hurt locker that yields a bloody cornucopia. Russkie Boris, the recently debunked chess messiah, told the guards the cell was mine, after I promised to teach him to push wood in better time. That line (not even a single letter) has anything to do with prison sex. It’s a euphemism for chest. Oops. Freudian slip slid up to queen six. A nip slip exposing chess, but thinking sex. Sorry, been a while down that side track. 

Even Freud expects a little love hack on the couch kicking back, annoyed, thinking back, when I misunderstood love’s force. Love’s mission in sexual congress, daydreaming past the bars, singing freedom’s chorus, slapped back to my muted soundtrack to Boris. 

He was the best in chess until I moved into this prison industrial complex. His frustrations, he suspects, comes from the effects of never, ever beating me. I’m not Grandmaster Elo grade, but I’m definitely a Duchampian Readymade chess piece plus 66 days with God played in peace. (Death date From Oct. 2, 1968 to Birth date Dec. 7th, 1968.) Then, a piece of my soul demanded to reincarnate, Duchamp to Lake, and was inappropriately outlawed and crowned the flawed prison chess king. 

The bested Boris kissed my royal Queen's gambit ring and offered me the next castle from his realtor’s listing. 

The floor of the more recent murder cell still had a slight ‘sticky’ to its fresh cleaned shine. A slight sappy sole dwell, when I first traversed it as mine. No lost souls cursed to stay behind. I had a cellmate free cell for 6 days of bliss amidst prison ghosts freed. For some reason ghosts see no need to stick around a single season to witness the leaves on the trees change, to be in range and channeled by my Yuwipi (channeling) tricks. To seance spirits crossed off the crucifix. It never sticks with the incarcerated mix. A truism of after-prison-life-politics. Despite the hurt/trauma, no specter will haunt a…prison for a longer stay. The convicts that inhabit the cells and DNA, are simply too damn spooky to spook away, forcing the wraiths to move on, to the house of a new dawn, after the fatal melee. Gone, baby gone, rather quickly. 

Would you stay, to stick around to haunt your old prison stomping ground? No, I didn’t think so, hence the chess moves on my Cellie merry go round, riding red knights crowned in quiet on my new bloody playground. Checkmate said no cellmate for six days, a lovely ghosting sound. Where enlightenment is found in the redshifts to clean. A color of serene.

Then, oh shit,…have you met my new Cellie, Celery Rick? A zombie more than a ghost. Trick or treat? Most Sweet. Why is he licking his lips, staring at my feet? My brains are up here in this veggie-revenant cute-meet. Will this be the next murder suite? Is that why the guard gave my new Cellie, a Bloody Boris business card? 

A new con game: Cellie Russian Roulette. A new starry eyed con staking his claim, all in on the bet. Click goes the revolving Cellie. Lock, stock and gun-barrel bars. A trick in the chamber, bullets shaped of bigger-stranger-danger, astrology’s trigger pulled by Mars, god of wars. 

The smoking guns of Boris, prison realtor, shooting for the stars, cleaning Baby Ruth candy bars out of all the pools of red, instead of baking cookies like most open-death-house goodie goodies, leaving behind only the smell of the dead. 

We find voracious vultures attracting starving scavengers, looking to be fed. Sniffings of listings after shots to the head, like looking through the obits for new digs in a graveyard. Boris in this cemetery, with his business card always at the ready…aim…fire sale. 

Spent Cellie casings on the floor of the jail. A shakedown and clean round to a new property showing. Knowing who to blame: Boris the force around The Russian Roulette Realtor’s Con Game. Since my realtor has honored my claim, my Russian ‘mob speak’ improved with my view this week, and I got a new bad-ass Soviet “Family” name: Shakhmaty Spetsnaz: Chess Special Ops. Yes, that ‘dua linga’ line was made to rhyme. If it’s all the same, I’ll stay with Lila Cepa Post op, (Curtis Pre-op) as to not alert the cops, thinking I became Moscow mob. I’d be shipped to a penalty box called the hole of dark fate. Job lost with my new prison real estate. 

On the pro side, the hole has no cellmate. So, spin the revolver, let it all ride, a click in the empty chamber or a Dr Alcala and Mr Hyde. 

A revolving spin to vertigo, goes celery Rick, veggie-dizzy, a quick hammer pull to another Bolshevik, full of night moves used from slammer chess boards to morgues, in cold lockers of hurt where inmate meat is stripped of its last shirt, skinned, then hung on hooks. Rocky meat hooks tenderize the meat, marbled like Michaelangelo. Frozen looks and assets go to Boris the Blogger/Cooler-Realtor/Butcher for escrow after the gorgon clean up side show. 

The checkmate king of the side hustle, cutting up the real fifth estate, while cleaning filth in real estate, to accommodate for more ‘Bratva’ bling in his bustle. The cool ring behind his cooler realty muscle.

The Quote taped to Boris’ bunk: Newton's First Law of Motion: Law of Inertia. An object at rest will remain at rest. He added: “At rest in prison is dead.”  

(PS) A tickle in the taint that could go either way. Finger paint with poo or the girly goo of florid hootchie coo. A creamy canvas styled in baroque stink or rococo bloom. A dreamy bouquet of pink or tomb black rosebuds, gathered as we may, in my memories of youth spent, from humans at play in the sewers below the Shawshank basement. A poke into the abyss, a bliss from where all human life springs, even assholes and offsprings of finger rings in these pedo-ho’s. A shitty thinker? A floater or a sinker? My word flows like diarrhea flows, straining to find the ‘precious’ in the stool. The ring around the toilet-stink blushes Golem’s fool, as the gold rings sink in my secret Santa’s brown butt drool. So, I went the other way. Cool. Cool, cool. Never gay, just some ring around the Rosie butt play. Hope it all comes out in the end. A very happy holiday. Miyamoto rings are all the rage. A new year’s trend, to teach a rapist in my cage a lesson. Master class is in session. Bend over prison punk, bend over. Greased fingers haloed in oversized rings like Yeats’ blood dimmed tide. Like the mere anarchy ride of his second coming, inspiring the worst of us, with passionate zeal. Do you feel my rings circling your prostate, as I dream in rosy hued taint, of a time when I was the patron saint of tickling my women’s fancy and her taint. Now, I’m handsy with rapey-Gacy prison punks, wearing shitty Heyoka paint. A sacred Lakota clown doing his own stunts, eyes hooded in Iyeska-red confetti and Hapa-saint, teaching how to finger paint with poo. Hand guns shooting steady, onomatopoeia at the ready. POW and KABOOM to whom it may concern. Be here now, already. It’s your turn, for a turn with your new Cellie! Place your bet, and spin the chamber on prison’s Russian Roulette. Win a Baby Ruth candy bar, floating between the bars of caddy shack red. The stars of truth mirrored in pools…as the last gift from the dead. As Matisse swallows his studio in scarlet. Cue: The next bullet to the head. Looking for a sign, to open the mind with less dread. Less of Bach’s Fugue and Toccata. Cue: La Llorona by Lucia Flores-Wiseman. A sunnier hue, a brighter chorus, in light of the hellish, human view brokered by Boris. 

#7.49 “Prison Punk Make A Wish Foundation.”

11-11-2020. Taking a bite out of crime under a blood-red, waning-crescent-moon.  

Here I thought I gave up my crime fighting ways when I started the Veteran’s pod at Fremont. I blunted my shiv. The chemistry of nitrocellulose raining inert Neptune diamonds on my Heyoka vision board. My Hanbleceya if I ever really needed to get out.  

The vet’s pod was my version of giving back.  

I am now the Eastwood/Chris Kyle, American Sniper.  

My 19 year old Cellie, an Eddie Ray Routh type guy that was thrown out of the Air Force, dishonorably, after a few months, but still got in this exclusive prison veterans pod, thinking he’s McGruff the crime fighting dog, and I was crime incarnate, sleeping in the bunk below him.  

Veteran’s Day, in the Vet’s Pod, close to midnight, when the prison settles to silence.

Inaudible sobs carbonate the air. A dying fizz, like the last bubbles in the flat champagne of a drunken brunch that lasted a slurred prison sentence too long.  

A feast that intoxicates some to dream bubbles of afternoon delight while others grind their teeth in their sleep, drowning in bubbles of gnash and foam.  

I wake up from my delight with a sharp back bite from a rabid, hungry-Hannibal-hippo-wanna-be. Or so he thought. He was more the oxpecker picking through a hippo’s teeth with an imposter complex. 

I knocked that jailbird out of my dreams but lost a pound of back flesh to his nightmare.  

I close my eyes, my ears as big as Eagle hugs, listening for the slightest rustle in the jailbird nest above me, thinking about his lip and the pigeons I fattened at St. Mark's Square in Venice. A rich merchant on vacation. What I sold to get there. What I bought to get here.  

Next samsara spin in time I sell clever and buy bewilderment on karma’s ledger. 

I broke a damn knuckle on his snidlit head in the exchange. 

He was incredibly fast, black Hercules strong and he had the advantage of surprise. 

I could hear the tap-tap-tapping of Monsieur Calvin Candie’s rap-rap-rapping of his ivory cigarette holder on his lightly clenched teeth admiring my turn, once this Muslim Django went unchained on me and bared his fangs at my six and I still curled him in a corner, shackled with unconsciousness at my 12.  

Playing my best black slaver, I thought about breaking his fingers and toes, while he was out, but that would alert the nihilist-bulls, so I made him a Lebowski rug (pissed on him) and when he regained the light, I called him janitor. 

Tonight, I feel no sleep forthcoming, or any afternoon delights on the near horizon. We are still on Covid Lockdown. 3 days in the cell. 20 minutes out to shower. Like violence and shampoo. Rinse and repeat. 

First prison Punk that falls asleep is dead in this two man cell, smaller than the 8th amendment should allow. I’m too old for this “sleeping with your boots on,” “no country for old men shit.” Back to Venice or Namibia when I’m out. Far from prison Punks like Ethan Virgil.

Prison Ink. Day 1353.

No sleep. A deeper darker wane to the crescent moon bite in my back sky. I can’t go to medical and say I fell backwards onto a prison-Punk-lipped serrated object. My deep back wound looked exactly like a human mouth bite. That’s more “hole” time, regardless of the fact, I was asleep for the crime. 

Garnering a whimper of courage, streaked like the leonid shower in negative that shit stained his underwear, Ethan Virgil asked me to call him Mustafa from now on. I said: “No Punk.”  

Three days after he bit first blood, when the moon left, his sanity went with it. He went Hannibal crazy again. This time the Green Beret was awake, directing blood splatter like the film maker, Ruggero Deodato. 

My own version of the movie “Cannibal Holocaust.”  

Funny story, this movie was one of the first ‘found footage’ horror movies that was done so groovy with gory in 1980, and dyed to red gravy perfection, Deodato went to trial for killing everyone in the film. 

The judge found him innocent when all the dead actors walked into the courtroom. 

Buckets of strawberry red #40 dyed corn syrup drenched their props from wardrobe. Faux film death, the only real, healthy use for the GMO stuff in Italy, where genetically modified foods are illegal for human consumption.  

I have a feeling my newly changed-to-horror genre of film will have more authenticity in props and wardrobe, than even the visionary Italian director had with his faux cinema verite and the OVRA that falsely imprisoned him. 

A dye of a different kind of rotten strawberry-red stained my hands today. 

The Carpet pissers did this? Shut the fuck up, Donny. 

Ok. I’m out. Sleep deprived. Hallucinating Jackie Treehorn porn and Gutterballz and Chainz. Dreaming for a quick sec…I smell a Bodhi tree shaded by enlightenment…The Buddha was thin. It's hard to meet a fat vegan. My cellie with the Buddha Belly, has unique spiritual tastes, full of transubstantiation of human meat and more. Illusion is a spin of truth on its head-to-floor, where Christ not Mary, after resurrected, was the whore. Selling backward ass with salvation donkey. “This too shall pass” sung in the wrong key. Le Bateau spun in the MoMa Sea…beating upside down, up against the wall of museum currents. Borne ceaselessly into the past. Events, even tempest upside-down turmoil, aye, I, like Matisse’s boat, float best, wronged in oil, like a cold duck without a care, caged, looking at the pot of bubble and boil, thinking how jacuzzi-warm it looks in there. My head in the soil, living life’s upside down flow like the hanged man of Tarot went Dorian Gray and started to spoil the illusion. 

Prison is another illusion of time spent with rotting canvas in the basement. The smells come with every chow bell. More cowbell. Less prison chow bell. 

Fat spiritual gluttons with a secret taste for human flesh in the cell, but only after saying grace. Hand to god. Heart and headspace in hell. Amen. Peace be with you. Fuck you prison Punk!
That’s fair. Buddha's here are hard to bear, my cannibal cellie says with his eerie stare. He says humans “taste of pork” on his epicurious fork. Next Pork chop you eat, think human meat and cringe. Then bacon for the mind to unhinge and realize, my cannibal cellie has the right look in his eyes…prison buddhas are hard to bear, ruining bacon for those that awaken and care. Dreams of Nirvana lost to the Dorian Gray chow hall air. The merchant winds trade in blood and unrest. With a pound of flesh, I bought the Gray stink, from my cellie in a wink of sleep. Next wink, we keep beating on. Borne ceaselessly into the past. The world spins round, flipping body and Christ upside down, god to man, back hand to god. Fat Man’s ‘Poverty Fast’ flipped him to a skinny vegan, like my cannibal cellie who thought it was “Cellie Season” which gave me a legit reason to knock his teeth out. Hard to eat human meat or the body of Christ without teeth. That kind of change is good for the heart. You’re welcome, you know, I try to do my prison Punk part. Hence my Foundation. A start, on the path to an enlightened heart, where suffering is seen as bliss. 

My ‘Prison Punk Make a Wish’ Foundation. A Non-Prophet. Like the Fat Man’s. Like the ‘Everyman’s’ squatting in a tax-shelter or escaping swelter, in the shade of a bodhi tree. 

Mission Statement Defined. Then, loopy big dick energy, John Hancock swoopy signed. Heavy handed. Deep Dive into my first wish granted, first honoree still alive: Ethan Virgil-Prison Punk. 

My young tough cellie started crying and said he was dying in prison from Covid. Lost his mind, bit a chunk of time and flesh off my back and kept it, and wept with it, after I knocked the hack, culinary-cannibal out. 

This little prison Punk, caught stealing valor, was a bitch. A great pretender stealing more than valor. A lying punk, no Fred Mercury, in the mix. My first Cellie in the veterans unit. Saying he was what he wasn’t. A tell. In prison the exact definition of prison Punk. They don’t fare well or have much luck. His skin color? Who gives a fuck. I’m a veteran who knows red, under both black-and-white dead, friend. 

I’ve killed for both of them. 

Here I’m defining prison Punk. From the lowest level of consciousness. The prison vet pool’s shallow end. 

It burns in my ear, too. God bless, so I’m heading to the deep end. 

But, before I go, I had to know, the shallows, from the look in my eyes, as problems before I could solve them. Situations I had to recognize to fix. I’m a human linguist. How fun. I define, using the right word. Not the wrong one. 

The fault line: It is wrong that they exist, from view’s elevated and divine, that is on us, failed World Teachers giving up, nothing to discuss, just doing time. 

The quiet songs of wisdom. Hymns unheard, music silenced in loud descents. Like they know not what they do, said by overzealous parents to other people’s children. Until, someone, impeccable with word and fist, teaches them to you. 

I created the “Prison Punk Make A Wish Foundation.” 

A true non-prophet, for a sad situation, when something’s amiss, to help the lost find their own authentic spirit. A bliss past deception in their blood and piss. Unbeknownst to all of them, it was their heart’s greatest wish. The wish list of the condemned, like Schindler’s going Tarantino. A twisted list for this incarcerated Bear Jew, looking to make Nazi dreams come true. Did I mention, I can get you a toe? True, Lebowski Bible true. KNOW: A triple feature in the prison library, sponsored by me, with commercials from my aforementioned company. Like this one…

NOW Hiring: Pirate turned Prisoner, Dread Pirate Roberts anew. Position open due to the original retiring. Are you of archetype, desiring humble with no hype, to make other’s real life dreams come true. Education requirement: Kung Fu, Sun Tzu, and gummy with the good goo of romantic Christ like sentiment, that the darkest souls in humanity, simply know not what they do. Until this foundation’s light, shiners through, with a one-two. One-two, black souls to blue, and now we’re talking real colors of happy wishes coming true. Sacred contracts, reminding me that you, prison Punk made a wish and signed in bloody teeth marks on my back in your prison Punk sneak attack, the name of your best you. 

My foundation’s first tattoo. 

You’re lucky I went nonprofit, the capitalist in me would have sent you to your own divine comedy. Sold as a better Virgil of you. 

On Ethan Virgil’s Cell Wall: A Picture of his Mom. A quote from the Koran: “La Tahazan,” which means “never fear, for Allah is always here.” 

Really? Even unconscious with baby teeth gone, crumpled in a corner of red mess? Prison Punk, make a wish for ‘humbled,’ because there is nothing else here that Allah will bless.