First Day

“That nigga Cheese God’ a million and one hands boy!”

Hear my fellow prisoner telling his rap partner about the fight I have just won.

“Bruh bruh, I’m telling you that shit was pretty as Fuck!”

Witness is excited. 

Have to admit it was pretty impressive.

Combination was the same one my Mom had used on me, on several occasions.

Right jab.

Left jab.

Right uppercut.

With the 700+ lbs of pressure my punches carry, it’s extremely effective.

I call it “Shut up, Sit down, Good Night.”

This particular 3 piece was delivered because I had been disrespected, to the utmost.

First day of prison.

Real prison.

Not county Jail.

Not processing.

Parchman Penitentiary Farm.

Real live chain gang.

I was scared to fucking death.

My Dad had assured me, I was going to be raped.

He’d proclaimed it in his same nonchalant Clint Freeman/Morgan Eastwood monotone.

“They’re going to rape the hell out of you.”

Reassurance was fresh in my mind.

As was the White kid I’d seen brutalized at the processing prison.

So when I put down my mattress and meager belongs, and a man approached I was on guard.

He had a net mesh bag filled with various snacks, ramen noodles, and tobacco products.

My high street IQ wasn’t even necessary.

This was bad.

Knew it before he spoke.

Once he stuttered out “I want you to have this, I thank you pre..” 

Before he finished, I was a blur of motion.

“Shut up, Sit down, Good Night!”

Fear had made it faster than normal.

Took the bag of “zoom zooms and wham whams” from his unconscious hand.

Yell at his incapacitated form.

“I expect a bag like that every week!” 

Snatch the buttons off my brand new MDOC shirt.

“My name is Cheese! You see WHAT I am! Ann nigga want problems, I’m right here. I’ll show you WHO I am!”

Gang Tattoos were on display.

Everyone who cared to could see them.

Man on the floor is affiliated too.

With the opposition.

They won’t retaliate, homosexuality is technically against the rules.

His overtures put him in violation of their laws.

There is no way I can extort him for future mesh bags.

However I was able to keep that one.

Made sure to use it for gambling games.

So people would be reminded of the brutal violence I was willing to resort to.

 

Surprise

Nation, has been in the penitentiary for 17 months.

Just has to hold on 7 more months.

Just 7.

Last birthday inside.

Turning 26 in 5 days.

A Big one.

Realizes he's now in his late 20’s.

“What happened? Where did time go?”

Nation is thin.

Average height.

Heart is Giant sized.

“Big and Tall attitude, baby gap body.”

His friend Montray used to say that.

“Friend.”

Not anymore.

Montray, tried to turn state’s evidence against him.

Him!

They’d known each other for their entire lives.

Grew up in apartments so close, they talked through the walls.

Had their own codes.

Several of them.

In the county Jail, before the discovery motion came back and showed Montray had made sworn statements, they had been unbeatable at spades.

Seemed to know each other’s thoughts.

It kept the impoverished pair with snacks and ‘soups'.

Ramen noodles, or soups as they were known, were currency, a mediocre meal tray went for 1 soup.

Just 1 of the undersized ‘chicken’ leg quarters cost 2 soups, if competition was fierce, it might net 3.

The pair had conned their way to full “lock boxes.”

Then one morning Montray was gone. Nation, was selling his breakfast sausages by himself.

Next day his attorney had given him heartbreaking News.

Evidence had later proven Montray lied.

Attempted to make Nation seem like their crime's mastermind.

Text messages proved Nation had been duped into participating.

Wanna be snitch wound up with 15 years.

Nation, pled out to 3 years.

Kept to himself for the most part.

Flew under the radar.

Didn’t gamble on Spades anymore.

Couldn’t read anyone else like he could his childhood friend.

Shines ‘State Boots’ in elaborate patterns for snack foods.

Can turn the ugly 3rd rate leather boots into glistening masterpieces.

His own boots have so much shoe polish at the toes, they glisten like ink black candy apples.

Clients of discernment purchase his supplies, those guys have multiple pairs of boots.

State gave you 2 pair, one for your work detail, one for visiting and inspection.

During inspection you were expected to wear clean shoes.

Just clean.

Warden was impressed by Nation’s footwear.

The man 'allowed' the inmate to shine his boots.

More officers requested him.

Box is full again.

He’s been on ‘detail' since 06:00.

Commissary Trustee.

It’s simple.

Gather the orders from computer print outs.

He doesn’t have any friends.

Customers and inmates.

It's cool with him.

Montray has spoiled and warped his trust.

Is surprised when he gets to the dormitory.

The other inmates have prepared a party for "The Sto Man."

Ramen noodle casserole made with chips, pretzels, tuna, and crackers, Also has a cake made from mushed up candy bars and pastries.

Casserole is big enough for everyone to get some, takes up most of a 6 foot section of the Day room table.

"Appy Bert Day Sto Man."

“Happy Birthday shoeshine Man!”

Even received a hand made Cross as a gift.

Shows that he is respected by his peers.

7 months might not be that difficult.

The Voice

Sounds like loosened ties, suspenders, and white shirts.

Like cognac.

Velvet.

Cuban Cigars.

Cymbals.

Gyrations.

Deep sexual urges.

Creates an air, an environment of sensual heat.

A Vulcan landscape of lava oceans.

A pulsing throb from deep inside your abdomen, defining depths previously ignored.

Blends.

Entwines with each individual instrument.

Polygamist marriages.

Voice and violin.

And Snare.

And Bass.

Extra marital affairs with the entire Horn section.

One night stand with the electric guitar.

We embrace the promiscuity.

Endorse it.

Laud and deify it.

Gives it’s listener’s permission to release inhibitions.

Indulge their most craven fantasies.

Tragic Comedy

I’m working a 12 hour shift today before I go to work at the Club.

A conversation with a friend reminded me of the night I got shot.

It might have been shock.

Distinctly recall exactly what I said.

Thought.

Felt.

Did.

Everything.

Every 

Single.

Fucking.

 Thing.

Some extremely painful.

You know that sickening, fill your mouth with salt water, rearing, ripping copper tasting, overwhelming, turn your bowels to a painful cauldron type of pain? 

No?

Count your blessings?

Some of my sisters who have been shot and given birth say it’s an unwinnable tie.

Some of my thoughts were graphic.

Some silly.

Some drug induced.

The best way I can tell you what was going on in my head is to just put the thoughts on this page as they occurred.

I’m starting when the shot hit me in the back.

For detail purpose; I had been holding my cigarettes in one hand and was in the process of lighting one.

Fuck was that?

Damn a motherfucker shot me!

Shit!

Again.

Gotta buss back.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking fuck.

Ow.

My fucking hand!

Motherfucker!

God.

That was in the chest.

Anit gonna cry like a bitch.

God.

My ass!

Fuck.

That hurts like a bitch.

Think that one was in the nuts.

Can’t live without the Guy, Lord.

If he’s Dead go ahead and take me.

What the fuck?

When did I fall?

My finger!

I can see the fucking street through my finger nail.

[Aloud]

“Guess I won’t be playing the piano.”

My beautiful hand!

Who the fuck? 

I’m going to kill em!

My Woman!

Oh wow.

She’s gonna freak out!

Gonna leave me!

Yeah.

I’m going to kill this fucker.

Fuck can’t I stand?

Jesus Christ!

Oh wow!

Fuck.

Oh yeah.

That fucking hurts.

Really hope My Dick is still attached.

Man.

My Woman!

Ah fuck.

No I anit giving you my gun!

Oh yeah.

12.

“Here!”

“Shit”

Oh this fucking hurts!

“Aye hand me them cigarettes bro. I’m bout to be in the hospital for a minute.”

“Aye sis call my girl?”

“It’s the last number.”

Aye bro you 2 anit enough to put me in the ambulance.

Oh ahhh God.

Please God.

That hurts.

“Ppreciate ya sis.”

“I’m good.”

"Nah, I'm Gucci."

I’m scared.

Fuck happened.

Scared then Fuck.

“Aye man can y’all cut off the right pants leg first?”

“I gotta make sure my Dick’s still attached.”

“I’m not going into shock, I’m worried bout my Dick!”

Oh I’m scared.

God what’s gonna happen.

What if I can't ever Walk again?

I might be going into shock.

“Say little Buddy, I am hurting pretty fucking good.” 

Oh thank you God!

It’s still there!

“Its still there!”

Oh my God.

“Oh my God it’s beautiful right?” 

“Oh shit my bad lil Buddy.”

Fuck is we fucking doing?

Taking the motherfucking scenic fucking route?

Hurry the fuck up.

This shit really fucking hurts.

“Say shawty.”

“Not you lil Buddy.”

“Aye Shawty?”

“Fuck is we doing? Taking the scenic fucking route? I’m fucking hurting back here!”

[Black out]

Doors open.

Get some fucking help.

Dumbass.

I weigh a lot.

Dumbass.

You couldn’t lift me at the club.

What you take something?

Dumb fucker.

Nice.

Halfway in this motherfucker. Now the bloods rushing to my Head.

What type of inbreeds are these?

“Ahhh”

“Fuck!”

“I think I’m going to vomit!”

Idiot.

Stupid.

Stupid motherfucker.

Idiotic motherfucker.

“Aye can y’all please get some help?”

Okay.

Let’s go.

This is like a episode of House.™

Fucking love fucking House.

Whatever they gave me is some wonderful shit.

Feel better.

Fuzzy.

What’s that noise?

Like wa-wa?

Shit!

She’s here.

How?

“Hey.”

Stay cool.

“I’m good.”

“Cause I am.”

“I’ll be back at work in a week or two.”

“Aye don’t worry. I checked. My Dick is still there.”

“It should still work too.”

Fuck did I say that silly shit?

I had better stop there.

Kinda want you to respect me in the morning.

The Excuse Of Camaraderie

A friend who is like a brother to me, challenged me to do some writing.

Even gave me prompt words to get me going.

Camaraderie and excuse.

Depression and it’s cohorts, anxiety, and stress have been working me over fairly consistently since December.

I won’t blame that but the words didn’t stir me.

It took me watching another heartbreaking post season loss, and a drive to work for me to understand what I really needed to write.

Excellence does not automatically equal extraordinary outcomes.

Read it again.

Excellence does not automatically equal extraordinary outcomes.

Only extraordinary effort yields extraordinary outcomes.

If you know me even a little bit you know I’m a Saints fan.

Always will be.

They’re an excellent team with  consistently winning numbers, yet they broke my and other Who Dat Fans hearts and hopes again.

I am not bashing my squad.

Ever.

I’m using them as an example.

Here’s another.

My vehicle is equipped with a powerful V8 engine.

An excellent engine.

However my truck has 333,532 miles on it as well.

So of course the other vehicles with powerful V8 engines, that are 16 years newer, with drivers who are 20 years younger than me, zoom past us. 

Excellence in and of itself is not enough.

Excellence is not the ceiling, it's the floor.

It’s a misunderstood notion.

We human beings have become comfortable in our complacence.

Arrogant in our mediocrity.

When everyone gets a trophy, how is a trophy special?

In 15th century France aluminum was the most precious of metals. 

Only the Pope and Emperor had crowns of it.

Rarity makes value.

Value creates worth.

Strive for excellence.

Daily.

Hourly.

Each millisecond.

In every endeavor.

However don’t assume your excellence is enough.

You’re sadly mistaken.

Minority individuals who are Excellent yet must compete with persons who’s mental acuity is not in their league know exactly what I mean.

Everything Happens For A Reason

 He was a star in his hometown.

Small Tennessee town bordering Mississippi had never seen anything like Chevron Taylor.

Defensive Lineman of the year, every year of his high School career.

All American.

Most recruited High School senior class of 2006.

LSU is sending the most to the pros. 

Virginia Tech and Wisconsin have the best defense.

Tours several schools.

Decides on Arkansas.

College football is a different level of the game.

Finds out he wasn’t the only one who hauled pulpwood, and hay.

These guys know how to move people too.

Works harder.

Eats a lot more.

Works out.

He is determined to be a professional football player. Has a few Sparks of brilliance in his college career.

Doesn’t hear  his name. 

He’s not on TV. 

He’s a late seventh round draft pick.

NFL is yet another level.

Career lasts mere days.

Tries other teams.

No takers.

The NFL team he’d signed to loses 8 members of it’s practice squad to a freak plane crash.

Expects a call.

Nothing.

Refuses to return to Tennessee broke and broken. 

Does some bouncing.

Even more bouncing around.

Hollywood California.

New York City.

Two years after college gets another chance to play football.

The $38,000 they’re paying him is less than his forklift operator job and bouncing net him.

Doesn’t matter, he’s playing football again. 

Shreds Offensive lines, with the power of a Rhino.

Racks up 6 sacks through 3 games.

It feels good.

Like home.

Starts hearing his name.

Sure the crowds are not so much a crowd as a group, but those 1200 or so know his name.

Life is good. 

Team building exercise.

Ice Skating.

Over eager teammate hurts both of them.

Depression sets in.

26 years old.

No clue what to do next.

Here’s a bunch of his teammates were infected with HIV by a new cheerleader.

He’d made a point of sleeping with as many of her squad mates as he had been able.

Metal rod in his leg means zero chance of playing Ball again.

Also gets him put off flight 583, most deadly airline crash in recent history.

Plane crashed into a new Mall’s Grand opening.

The event was being hosted by the NFL's Defensive Lineman of the year.

Feels unlucky.

Doesn’t see the essence of the plan.

Missed Signals

We were smoking marijuana together. 

Only knew her through her brother. 

Who was also on the L. 

Slow R &B is playing in the background. 

She and I are having a private conversation. 

Her brother has to be called across the room to hit the blunt. He's ignoring us.

His Girlfriend is there. 

In fact her presence is the only reason my friend and I are there. He sneaks to his sister’s house to meet up with her. 

Has a wife. 

Isn’t my business. 

I’m pretty high by this point. Conversation turns to the playlist.  

It's mine. 

At the time I was a walking talking party. 

Had music in my playlist that would be fitting at any and all events. 

Tonight it was all about the “Nasty Music” that was literally the name of the list. 

It was my go to “Panty Dropper compilation at the time. 

Don’t remember why I was playing it. 

It was working though. 

My friends sister got heavy on innuendo, that went completely over my head. Hints as she blows me a “Shotgun.” 

Our lips touch. 

Starts to throw indicators that we should change venue. 

Finally asking repeatedly if I had a specific song… “Step into my Room.”  

Literally told her I had heard of “Meeting in by Bedroom.” 

But not that one. 

Yeah. 

Missed it.

Actually looked for the song. Didn’t occur to me until I was on the Subway home. 

Called back.

It was too late. 

Her boyfriend had been invited over.  

Liquor Memorial

He's a difficult man to deal with.

Not easily approachable.

 Quick to anger, sharp tongue, acerbic wit, he can't help but be insulting, it's literally all he knows.

How he’s wired.

This particular day the downstairs neighbor is having it out with one of the neighborhood teenagers. “Boy is I’m fucking with you? Seriously am I fucking with you? Then why the fuck is you fucking with me?”

I don't have a dog in this fight.

 Teenage boy is a piece of shit too.

Lives three doors down, downstairs.

Think his mother is maybe 12 or 13 years older than him.

She has the maternal instinct of a Shark.

The loud neighbor is maybe in his mid fifties.

Around here I am the closest to him in age in the complex.

 Should probably be his friend but I'm not.

Don’t care for people very much.

Guess I'm what you'd call an introvert.

Growing up with a preacher Daddy I learned scripture real quick.

There’s a scripture in Proverbs that says “ A man breaking up fight is like grabbing the ear of a dog.” That might not be an exact quote, but, I don’t care to be bit by the dogs these young dudes carry.

 The old man is going to get himself killed.

Toss my cigarette butt over the banister, step back inside my apartment.

My apartment is nice.

Not on the outside.

On the outside it’s a piece of shit and I’m embarrassed to have people over.

It’s the best my pension will pay for.

Inside, I have created the space I feel like I deserve.

Spend some of the extra I squirreled away.

Huge mirrors.

Exquisite furniture.

Unique accessories.

One of a kind art works.

Like an island in the middle of the ghetto.

Every time I step outside my door I’m armed.

Got the pocket rocket on me right now.

Raised voices make me nervous.

Another story for another day.

I’m kind of suspicious.

Been hurt and disappointed a lot.

Sit in my throne chair.

It’s hot.

Really funky.

Mack mouth, a buddy from the Corp, took me to the flea market, I got it there.

100% recycled materials.

Looks like a real throne.

Comfortable to my bad back.

Noise outside is getting under my skin.

Reminds me of Kandahar.

Turn up my music.

Block out everything.

Memories flood in.

Lives I’ve taken.

See their eyes.

Hear the cries of the dying.

Get a fresh bottle of Southern Comfort.

Drown out the voices, pain, evil recollections.

By the time I am halfway through the bottle I fall into oblivion.

Is It Really Love?

Her heartbeat calls to me.

Even working in a strip club around near perfect bodies, she occupies my thoughts.

Pull out my Samsung Galaxy Mega, send her a text message.

Don’t get a chance to check her response, a fight breaks out in VIP, then a drug dealer is asking for me at the front door.

Get a sizeable tip.

Text reads.  “Getting ready for bed. Left a key under the plant.”

 Check the time, it's 3:24 a.m. we're about to get a rush.

We’re the strip club everybody comes to when everything else is closed.

Women routinely pay their $75 entertainment fee as late as 4 a.m. place officially closes at 8 a.m. but we often don’t leave until 10 or 11.

I’d rather be home with her but I don’t know of any other job where I can bring home $500+   for one night.

Two more “Dope Boys” and a local rapper decide they’d rather pay me then the night club.

Good.

Going to get her something nice.

It’s only been a month, but I think I love her.

Want her happy.

By the time I make it to her house, pockets are stuffed.

Bank stack my cash in her driveway, double check my pockets for loose bills or illicit substances.

 X-pills, and other party drugs get twisted up in the quick hand to hand cash often. 

Don’t need that kind of drama. 

Yup Molly.

A big hunk of it. 

Pinch a piece.

Swallow the tiny piece with the last of my energy drink.

Toss the rest in my center console.

Someone will give me some money for it tonight.

Go inside with the key. 

Fold $750 onto the dresser.

It was a good night.

Halfway through my shower drug kicks in.

Never had water feel so amazing.

Sex is earth moving.

She knows I’m on something.

Just rides the wave.

Passed out after the Third encore.

Wake up to new clothes.

Stylish.

Elegant.

Stuff I’d never buy myself.

Colors I wouldn’t normally rock.

Like them though.

Stagger down the hall.

Need coffee, smell it.

Pots off.

Coffee's slightly warm.

Tepid.

Overload it with sugar and creamer.

Nuke it.

Thunder rumbles.

It’s 5:26 p.m. 

Feel lazy.

I’m there alone. 

Call her.

Meet up for Mexican food.

Head to work straight from the restaurant.

Tough night.

Starts off badly.

Ends with me in the hospital.

She visits once.

Guess my injuries scare her.

Recover alone.

Burn through savings.

Get evicted.

Move back home.

Love  wasn’t enough.

 

Politically Correct

It was funny.

Damn it.

Wasn’t as if he had meant any harm.

It was a joke.

 It hadn’t been for the current political climate, no one would have thought anything of it.

Still makes him laugh.

Even as he does the drive of shame home, it’s still funny.

“You never hear anyone say Fuck the fire department!”

Maybe it's because the song “Fuck The Police” is from his era.

His wife is going to have a fit.

Had been “Kicking the bo-bo” with his work friends, same harmless shenanigans as always.

Ran across the meme and shared it with his work bestie.

Fuck.

Didn’t see the client standing there.

The job is going to stop unemployment insurance. 

He’s seen it happen before, Just didn’t think it would happen to him.

His wife is going to kill him.

Park’s in his driveway.

Poverty Stories

Rick left before the sun rose.

Walked down the highway to the temporary agency and curled up in front of the door.

 Work there is first come first serve so he makes sure he is first in line.

It’s been raining for a week straight, so the kind of work he usually gets assigned is not available.

He needs money today.

Room rent is due.

Having to pay day by day is not where he thought he would be, especially since he served his country. Veterans should be taken care of better than this.

Thinking about what should have been or could have been isn't going to feed him. 

He needs some work today. 

Few workers are called out.

Each time the name isn’t his Rick worries. 

Doesn’t want his dog to have to sleep outside.

Office closes at noon for lunch.

Rick walks around aimlessly until the office reopens.

Finally, a moving job.

If the client tips he just might be able to make rent.

The end client has given his son $500 to tip the movers. 

He hands the driver $300.

$200 will be going up his nose.

The driver gives the temps a hundred dollar bill to split. 

He will be paying for company tonight.

Rick is happy.

 Another day of being warm and dry.

Danni can't remember when shit got this bad.

When stuffing stolen items into a girdle became her daily routine. Selling the ill begotten gains outside of the factories in order to feed her kids.

She’s not a drug addict or a terrible person, she’s a mother.

Record is peppered with shoplifting charges knows that each time she “goes to work” she’s taking “Penitentiary chances”

 Her babies have to eat.

She also has to make sure that Deacon, her boyfriend is okay.

Deacon is named after the religious occupation.

That is where his religious  leanings stop.

The only male of six children.

To say he is spoiled is an understatement.

Hangs out with some more good for nothings at the bus terminal.

He sells “jail broke” fire sticks.

Winds up bringing in about $100 a day.

It could be more, if he spent less time drinking and smoking and more time selling.

Deacon has no problem eating food that Danni steals or buys with her children’s food stamps.

While his woman is being wrestled to the floor of Burlington Coat Factory© he’s passed out on the benches at the transfer center.

When he gets to the extended stay hotel the 11 year old has fed the younger kids but Danni is not home.

The next day Deacon is gone.

It’s a week before CPS is notified.

The kids are placed in foster care 2 days before Danni gets out of jail.