This is a flock of sorrows, of unoriginal sins, a litany of obscenities.
This is a festering of hateful questions. Your only mirror is one of stain-
less steel The image it affords will not tell whether you are young still
or even real. In a claustral space, Hours of lead, air of lead. The sound,
metallic and amped. You will know the force of this confinement as
none other. You have been sentenced for worthlessness. In other eyes,
crucifixion is barely good enough. The strapdown team is on its way. The
stricken, whose doves you harmed, will get a mean measure of peace. The
schadenfreudes, the sons of schadenfreudes, will witness your end with
“howls of execration.” Followed by the burning of your worthless body on
a pile of old tires. None will claim your remains or your worthless effects:
soapdish, vaseline. comb, paperback. All you possess is your soul whose
mold you already deformed. You brought this on yourself. You and no one
else. You with the dirty blond hair, backcountry scars, and the lazy dog-
eye. You shot the law and the law won. You become a reject of hell.








Prison towns prison motels prison movies prison books prison dreams

                               Voices in the air-conditioning
     
                    Convicts hate convict sweat convict voices in the toilet tank

                         This cell your dwelling; this grave your garden