Issue 05 2024
An IWI Publication
Published annually at Columbia University (New York, NY)
Books printed offset and bound by Bookmobile Craft Digital (Minneapolis, MN)
This publication would not have been possible without the generosity of the Mark R. Robin Memorial Fund for Creative Writing.
Cover Art by Darrian Bennett
Cover and Book Design by Micah Pava
Editor-in-Chief
Haley Glover
Art Directors
Jackie Dinovitz
Micah Pava
Correspondence Team
Haley Garvin
Tracy Shi
Outreach Manager
Charlene Huang
Director of IWI
Jessica Sun
Nonfiction Editors
Donna Dinovitz
Lilly Sabella
Fiction Editors
Stella Lemper-Tabatsky
Jennifer Ries
Poetry Editors
Jackie Dinovitz
Lindsey Siferd
Diana Athena, Donna Dinovitz, Jackie Dinovitz, Haley Garvin, Maria Isabella Hernandez, Valentina Jaramillo, Anabelle Larson, Stella Lemper-Tabatsky, Oana Nicola, Sammi Minion, Ananya Iyer Pandya, Micah Pava, Jennifer Ries, Lilly Sabella, Lindsey Siferd, Hannah Maree Wederquist-Keller
And a special thank you to Keri Bertino and her Writer as Teacher class.
Jeffery Shockley
Jeremy Mac
Patrick J. Pantusco
Like Yesterday
Rehabilitation vs. Slave Labor
The Transformative Power of Education
John Johnson
Justin Slavinski
Leo Cardez
Brenda Diaz
Matthew Feeney
Shawn Younker
Larry Stromberg
X on my Window
Hope and Hopelessness in the Department of Corrections
Prison Blues
Every Action Has a Consequence
Why Not?
Where the Dinosaurs Roam
Hanging Onto Hope
Cesar
Matthew
David Antares
Dave Rich
Plus Sign
It’s Kind of a Sappy Story
Santo Domingo’s Famous Frudge Machine
Inmate Peters
Poetry
Perrie Thomspon
Lambert Ormsby
Willie Savage
Larry Stromberg
Gerard “Caveman” Lawless
Akiva Israel
Dave Rich
Jack S. Copeman Cordrell
Marcus Jackson Boyd
Despaired Hoodlums
Color
Popcorn
The Land with No Name
My Queen Three Poems
All of Me
Unrequited Paper Romance
All Hell Done Broke Loose
Snake Eyes
Get Pure Three Poems
Bruce Phillippi
Benjamin Terry
James Falconburg
Raymond White Sr.
The Floodwaters Workshop
Zhi Kai H. Vanderford
W. James Duncan
Rummy Finds Another Angel A Dark Place
Faith Fallen
Inside Nature: 7 Poems from Incarcerated Landscapes
Designated White Driver
Slipping Away
Manuela M.
Corey Devon Arthur
Exequiel Reyes
Corey Devon Arthur
Kellen Stuhlmiller
Hector A.
Darrian Bennett
Rusty Weddle
Evans G.
Choose Wisely
Woman with Chain Decisions, Decisions
Blood Pain and Roses Two Drawings
Stolen Vision
Pisces
Astronaut
Shoot for the Moon
WELCOME to the fifth issue of Exchange, a literary magazine of poems, essays, stories, and artwork exclusively by individuals who have faced or are facing imprisonment.
Exchange is a part of the Incarcerated Writers Initiative, an effort launched in 2016 to open the gates of academia and publishing to a historically overlooked community of incarcerated and formerly incarcerated creators. As we are an experimental journal, we welcome all genres of writing. It is our pleasure and privilege to be able to engage with every work we receive, published or not. Every submission to IWI/ Exchange is responded to with a letter of feedback and considered for publication in both Exchange and the Columbia Journal.
This year’s issue of Exchange investigates the significance of nature in incarceration and rehabilitation. From clearing weeds on hoe squad to adopting the perspective of a tree, the writing and artwork featured here grapples with the denial and subsequent reclamation of nature and the imprisoned self. Join our exploration of works detailing the rediscovery of hope through community, the restricted view of a prison window, and a man’s loss of sight.
As one featured author states, “I am (freedom confined) defiantly growing.” Like a flowing river, the works in this issue erode prison systems’ ideas of rehabilitation to forge their own streams of thinking about the self. I encourage you to follow suit—drift through these pages, take unexpected turns, and arrive in uncharted waters.
Haley Glover Editor-in-Chief, Exchange
Perrie Thompson
Several hoodlums consume alcohol, drugs and are engrossed in numerous other abject deeds as they congregate on a street corner in front of a windowless, graffiti decorated, abandoned apartment building. The occasion: customary incomprehensible delinquency in response to despair, maltreatment, abandonment, low self-esteem, and feeling unloved. Suddenly, a car speeds up making an abrupt stop in front of the apartment building and gunfire ensues. Consequently, two of the hoodlums are killed and several others wounded. Within a few hours, several of the wounded and uninjured hoodlums returned. One returned aided by crutches, head wrapped in bandage, after bullets ripped through his leg and severed an ear. Another returned in a wheelchair after being shot in the back. Undaunted by their near encounter with death, flaunting their newly acquired war wounds, the hoodlums reclaimed their positions in front of the decrepit apartment building. The occasion: customary incomprehensible delinquency in response to despair, maltreatment, abandonment, low self-esteem, and feeling unloved.
Jeffery Shockley
If I could have back just a moment of time for each time I did not live up to my potential or abilities, perhaps I would not have been born yet today, and the world will not have known the pain of so great a loss...
Like yesterday.
I am a 60-year-old Black man who now resides inside this space I have placed myself in from not living up to whom society and my parents hoped I would grow up to be.
Disappointingly have yet to see.
Raised separately, apart from my family with my grandmother who loved me through a childhood of faults developed in my young age that gave me reason to be someone I was afraid to be…
Myself.
How do you hold true to who you could ever become when some say you are nothing but this lowly stinking inmate? Ingrate incapable of the change prison is supposed to make within the environment you sadly must spend the rest of your life now in.
“We want them to have self-worth, so we destroy their worth of self; we want them to be responsible, so we take away all responsibility.”
“We want them to be part of our community, so we isolate them from our community; we want them to be positive and constructive, so we degrade them and make them useless.”
“We want them to be trustworthy, so we put them where there is no trust; we want them to be non-violent, so we put them where there is violence all around them.”
“We want them to be kind and loving people, so we subject them to hatred and cruelty; we want them to quit being the tough guy, so we put them where the tough guy is respected.”
“We want them to quit hanging around with losers, so we put all the losers in the state under one roof; we want them to quit exploiting us, so we put them where they can exploit each other.”
“We want them to take control of their lives and their problems, so we make them totally dependent on us.”
Adapted from: Making It Right: A Common Sense Approach to Criminal Justice by Dennis Chaleen (1986)
When day turns to night
I can hear what others won’t
Because I can now see what others don’t
It’s why I can remember when all of the colors
Could be seen
Could I do it justice by description
This has yet to be seen
The sun was almost down
And across the street there were sand pits and Swing-sets
Red and white striped basketball courts upon Grass so green with trees so brown
But this rusty chain-link fence
A park it wrapped around
This place, this moment, this time
This is what I thought was forever mine?
It was so peaceful and
Everything felt just right
Me and homies were just standing around with Our neighborhood flags flapping in the wind
Just above the ground
But, it was never meant to be, it really never was Because violence just turned the corner
Rolling down upon us
Although we all must pay the price
For the decisions we’ve made in life?
But damn! What a horrendous sound.
Just like a thunder clap smacking the ground
Oh, my god it hurts
I never thought I could feel anything worse
With my eyes streaming red and My heart torn open I never would have ever thought that my spirit Could ever be broken?
With just one decision, one moment and With just one finger SNAP! This is how I explain the day color left me And the night my eyes went pitch BLACK.
Matthew Feeney
Transcriber’s Notation: I cannot take credit for writing this. What follows was transcribed from a barely legible set of loose-leaf papers I found on May 15th, 2016 stashed under my sink in Segregation Cell D-214 at Moose Lake Prison. None of the pages are dated, so I have no idea when the journal was actually written, nor who wrote it. I have typed this as accurately as possible, only correcting the most egregious typographical errors while trying to retain the voice and intent of the actual writer. To the author, whoever you are; thank you for sharing your journey and I wish you good luck! —Matthew Feeney
Day 1
When I first woke up it took me a minute to remember where I was and how the hell I got here lyin’ on my bed with a big ass bump on my head. Time is different in prison and way more different in Seg. Seg sucks. My cell is 10 by 10 and a dirty dust-colored paint that musta been on sale. Got a single piece metal sink-toilet that’s ice cold on the ass, just like County Jail. Damn window is barred, screened and chained, but I learned if I moved my face back and forth real fast the screen holes disappear and I can see outside pretty good enough. Bed, table, and mirror all bolted to the wall, like we ain’t learned our lesson about stealing shit already. Whatever. Five random books, toothpaste and
soap. “Maximum Security” brand? What happened to my old pal Bob Barker brand products? I got sentenced to 130 days of this Seg bullshit and I was innocent—‘til I got caught.
Day 2
Slept a lot. Didn’t know I was so damn tired. Meals on Wheels rocks— breakfast in bed, just like they got in them fancy hotels in the movies — nothin’ like the cheap ass motels I crash at with a number or the word “view” in the name.
Day 3
This ain’t so bad. Best thing—no need to listen to Sgt. Simon barking on the damn PA all day long. I can sleep all day if I wanna. Lots of pluses to bein’ in here ‘stead of Gen Pop. Time flies when you’re doin’ hole time!
Day 4
Read one of those Harlequin Romance type books. Lotsa girlie stuff like kissin’ and hot drippin’ passion, but the story was still pretty decent enough. Wonder if the cover’s missin’ because it showed Marietta’s much-talked-about boobies? I dig her—she was set-up and framed for shit she didn’t do—just like me. Pisses me off.
Day 5
Days are starting to blur but worst thing is it seems to be slowing down. Damn, where’s life’s fast forward button—like in that silly Adam Sandler movie! Just told I filled out my canteen order form wrong, so I don’t get no canteen for two weeks. This sucks monkey ass.
Day 6
I’ve read all the graffiti scratched on the walls. What the hell they use to carve it? ‘Cause this 4” flex pen is a fucking joke. Don’t know no King Ox, but glad to read he was here before me. Bored shitless—time to nap or read another book.
Day 7
378 cinderblocks used to build this hell hole. I’ve checked and triple checked. That ain’t including the 12 red bricks along the floor of the outside wall. From a distance I can see outside but when I stand closer all that comes into focus is the metal grate. If I stand here in the sun,
will the grate give me a polka-dot suntan? That would be cool. Maybe I can shrink down like Ant Man and crawl my way outta here through one of ‘em holes. Knowin’ my luck I’d run into an anteater or something stupid like that. Maybe I could write a crazy story about that. Thank God there ain’t no clocks in sight. Time is all I can think about cause I’m readin’ a book about Time Travel. Nuff writing, back to my book.
8
Almost finished “The Mammoth Book of Time Travel” and it’s now my favorite book—no boobs, but the short stories still give me lots of thoughts and takes my mind offa being stuck in this damn box.
Day 9
Okay, so catch this. I just finished a cool ass story about a tribe of prehistoric cave men who survive the dangers of droughts and ice ages by jumping in time. Fuckin’ cool. Wish I could do that—tho showing up buck-ass naked outside my cell would prolly catch me a fresh charge!
Day 10
Still can’t stop thinking about those cavemen... Heidelbergensians (had to check the book to make sure I spelled it right). How the hell the authors come up with details like that if it ain’t true? Is there really a group of pre-Neanderthals called Heidelbergensians? Ain’t that the name of the meth dealing dude in “Breaking Bad?” What if it’s true? I mean about Heidelbergensians, not “Breaking Bad.” Fuck the ice age, I’d zip myself forward and get out of Seg. Why stop there? Might as well go for my SRD date. Hell no, I can zip forward past my expiration date—no paper, no parole, no ISR, I’d be free at last!
Day 12
Read another cool story about time travel. Well, there’s like 50 different stories in this book and they’re all about time travel, but this shit might be real. Wonder what it would take to make time travel happen. Worth a try!
Day 13
No rec time for me. I ain’t left this room for a week. I don’t even talk to CO’s as they deliver meals and do bed checks, but I do talk to the
sunset. I talk ‘bout how my day’s gone and my thoughts on time travel. So many thoughts, too many to write down. There’s a strange and annoying clicking in my right ear that is either air pressure or maybe I got a killer ear beetle stuck in my ear.
Day 14
I read this freaky book called “Bringers of the Dawn: Teachings of the Pleiadians” which is written by some chick who says she’s channeling the wisdom of the Pleiadians, a group of enlightened aliens from the Pleiades Galaxy. She’s talking about frequency modulation, cosmic light, the 12 Chakra centers, extra DNA strands, and empowerment of the enlightened. Cool ass shit man.
Day 15
The Pleiadians say we should eliminate the words “should” and “try” from our vocabulary and anything is possible because I am an enlightened pillar of light who volunteered to take on this human form for an assignment. I wonder what made me volunteer for an assignment that required prison time—’specially Seg time! But I guess once I’ve learned my lesson of this life, I can ascend to the mother ship and start over. Maybe if I’m still a little weak on the big payout, I could still get cool super powers like shrinking myself or speeding up time a bit.
Day 16
Practicing time-shifting thru “temporal meditation” and doing deep breathing to help oxygenate my DNA and focusing on the sacred spiral. I’m not sure how this all works, but there it is in black and white. Even if it’s not true (but it must be) what have I got to lose—I got the time to practice and practice makes perfect so what the hell. My ear’s still clickin, must be from all the silence.
Day 17
I’ve almost got it. While meditating for 15 minutes, I time shifted ahead at least an hour. I know it. Just no clocks ‘round to prove it.
Day 18
I found the missing link! Spinning! The book says to “move from left to right, spinning around and focusing your vision on your thumb while
counting and spinning.” They say to build up to 33 spins a day, then try doing that 3 times a day. The Pleiadians say once I can do that, I’ll be able to leave this planet or dimension or time stream.
Woke up on the floor. Pushed too fast, I don’t remember exactly, but musta gotten dizzy and passed out. No blood. Not that I care, ‘cause the book says I can control bleeding with my mind frequency. Wish I could shut off the annoying clicking sound, it’s louder now. Gotta build up the spinning without fallin’ out.
Made it to 33 spins. Learned the hard way not to try spinning after eating dinner. The chow mein was bad enough going down—but the puke made a crazy-ass design on the walls that might mean something. I studied it for a few hours before wipin’ it up. I hate chow mein even more now.
Still working on my spins, but discovered the clickin’ in my ear is actually an implanted communicator that’s starting to turn on. Might be some transmission issues or maybe translation or power issues— lots of static, but I think I hear some words coming through real faint like. They’re telling me I’m on the right track if I only believe. I want to believe.
Sat all day on my bunk listening to the Pleiadian transmissions in my ear. This is better than radio since the only two stations we get here at Moose Lake are Country or Christian and I ain’t neither. This is space alien talk radio!
The aliens are mad at me for not obtaining the Holy number of 99 spins yet. I can almost do 2 sets of 33, but they say that’s not good enough. They’re a funny race. They tell some alien jokes, but they’re so far advanced that I don’t always understand them, but I laugh when I hear them laughing. The spinning seems to help clear up the static issues, so
it’s crystal clear harmonics comin’ in loud and proud! So glad I altered my frequency to be able to pick up their transmissions. I could listen to their words of wisdom all day, ‘cept for when I’m spinning of course. I might look like a damn fool, but ain’t no camera in here and who’s gonna be laughing when it works and they come to check on me and I’m gone? Empty tomb just like Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ on a popsicle stick!
Been so focused on meditating and channeling and spinning I been forgetting to eat. After my second meal tray went untouched, the CO (who is actually a black-shirted lizard person from Galgross 6) asked if I was okay. What a joke. Lizzies don’t care about humans at all. Good thing he doesn’t know I’m not a human, merely a Spirit Being of light and love from another galaxy, just wearing this body like a shirt. Good thing he doesn’t recognize me for who I truly am... yet. I’ve got to keep up my cover til I get to the spins in the right amount of time and the right speed and holy number of spins and then my DNA will be centrifuged into the original 12-strand helix DNA that will make time travel possible. This is taking longer than I thought. Time’s a real son of a bitch.
I’m up to 2½ cycles of spins. Not eating—just throwing my food in the toilet and flushing. Saves time, and my reformed energy soul don’t need no food. Plus prison chow ain’t considered food on any planet. No prisons in the other galaxies, how awesome is that?
I have achieved 99 spins and feel like I’m getting closer—but I just need to do them faster. Spent all day listening to the Pleiadians. Time travel is just around the bend. I can actually feel the warmth caused by the DNA changes in my cells and the Pleiadians remind me my time is growing closer and closer.
Still spinning. Sometimes I wonder why I’m even wasting time writin’ this journal when I could be spinnin’ my way to intergalactic
freedom? But then I realize I’m like Captain Kirk—it’s important to keep a Captain’s log to document where I’ve been exploring for future generations.
Day 88
I have done temporal shifting several times now. While lying there in my trance, hours are flying by. I wish there was a clock I could see to prove it, but it would just prove what I already know—I’m shifting time. For sure. I just need to perfect it and watch my speed, no more dizzy spells.
Day 104
I discovered my implanted communication chip is actually a two-way radio. If I talk to the Pleiadians they actually talk back! Just like them little walkie-talkies but this sucker’s built right into my ear and my soul is the battery! I asked what was for dinner and they told me. I asked them if I was bendin’ time and they said “yup” so I know it’s true now!
Day 106
They just told me I need to do my 99 spins in 66 seconds. The damn book left that part out.
Day 107
So close. Haven’t eaten in a long time but not hungry. I’m receiving nourishment and energy from the stars—even through the window grill! Grilled star juice!
Day 108
Passed out doing my spins. Didn’t hit head tho. Thankfully, implant still works.
Day 109
I jumped at least a day in time. Got the spins down but had to add placing my palms UP (like a TV antenna) plus the frequency modulation of chanting the sacred “ohm” and it worked! I’m sure I moved through time, just not sure how much or what direction. I’m goin’ to soak up some cosmic star energy tonight and try again in the morning. Time travel IS possible. I just need to focus. If prehistoric monkey men could
jump time, an undercover alien agent from another galaxy like me shouldn’t have any problems! Tomorrow I’m going to do it til it works. Goodbye Segregation, hello freedom. Time travel here I come. It will work, it has to work. I believe so much I’m going to hide this journal for the next solar traveler who may come along.
When I first woke up it took me a minute to remember where I was and how the hell I got here—lyin’ on my bed with a big ass bump on my head. Time is different in prison and way more different in Seg. Seg sucks...
Transcription Postscript:
The remaining pages were all duplicates of the previous journal entries that repeated the same story over and over. I had Ms. Becky (the Moose Lake Prison Librarian) look up “The Mammoth Book of Time Travel” and “Bringers of the Dawn” and she confirmed these are actual books from the Moose Lake Prison library that were assigned to the Segregation book cart a few years ago. If you think you may know the identity of this inmate, please let me know so I can give proper credit for authoring this journal. I’m not sure if I believe (or even understand) what actually happened. It did get me thinking if I ever dabble in Time Travel, I’m going to make darn sure I know what direction I’m going, because I can personally attest to the fact that being in Seg is bad enough the first time around!
And yes, as stupid as it seems now, I did try spinning. What did I have to lose?
—Matthew Feeney
June 2023
Willie Savage
Yellow and Plump—
Juicy Wit Bumps—
Buttery and Nutritious, But Society Says “That’s Not Right”
Simple Corn on A Cob Am I… “Pick One!!” They yell— But I Am, Who I Am!—
The World Says… “You Can’t Be Both, There’s No Truth in That” You Must Be Categorized, You Must Be Generalized— You Can’t Be “Corn Chowder—”
Yes, You Are Thick, But You’re Not What We Consider … to Be “Corn Bread—”
Been Ravaged, Picked Down to my “Husk” By This Joke of a Sitcom Called… Life, and its Castmates— And All Because my “Nibblets” Are Not the Same as Theirs— Some Are Sweet—
Some Are Savory—
Some are Airy and Light—
Some are Fried and Frittered—
Some of Us Are Just Plain Fried— I’m Calling for the Annihilation of all “Cis” Entitlement— Without it, a “Cis” Farmer, When Harvesting Would See the Value of His Crop— Would Not Toss Any to the Side Because They Are Misshapen or Irregular— He Would Pick Me, He Would Brush the Dirt Off Me, He Would Hold Me up to the Light and Say: “She Can Be Many Things— … Anything!”
“She is Valuable— She’s Orville Redenbacher’s Popcorn, Honey!”
Larry Stromberg
Deep tranquility, breathing free
Where past trauma doesn’t exist
Neither is the unknown
Forgiveness is a law, at least on the surface
Families stand together, never separating
Friends are true blue, united by love and respect
All skin color is glorious
Everyday, every night feels like a beautiful holiday
Animals run free, not devouring each other
Prisons become museums
Restorative Justice is the way
Crystal clear oceans, as far as the eye can see
You can breathe underwater!
Mountain skylines
Everyone can fly on their own
Unless, one chooses to soar on Pegasus
Stars speak a language everyone understands
Riding a comet is better than a roller coaster thrill
Rainbows glow in the darkness
Lightning bugs pay the electricity bill
Music teaches the soul
All dreams come true
This location is better than home
The Land with No Name
I have no idea where this place is A dimension of freedom
It lives only in my dreams
Jeremy Mac
Prison is not meant to be an institution of punishment. The sole punishment an inmate is meant to endure for a crime he or she is convicted of is the complete and total loss of freedom from society and nothing more. Prison is meant to be an institution of rehabilitation. Therefore, upon being processed into the Department of Corrections, it is the responsibility of both the institution and the inmate to take the proper steps toward rehabilitation.
Unfortunately, Arkansas’ penal system’s primary focus is not rehabilitation, but free slave labor, and this begins the moment an inmate passes through those steel doors.
I remember quite well passing through these doors for the first time. I immediately went from spending 512 lazy days in county jail with absolutely no work detail or access to direct sunlight to being thrust into triple-digit Arkansas summer heat. Hoe squad. Named for the garden tool the hoe, which is used to work the fields, ditches, and the surrounding areas of the prison farmland. We were instructed by the hoe squad riders sitting high on their horses to get into a tight line, one man behind the other, and with a steady high rise and swift drop of our hoes we chopped the grass before us. Sometimes we were told to make two, three, four beats to the ground before taking a step
backward, chopping clear to the dirt with everyone moving as one unit. Sometimes we were told to make ten to twenty beats per step. And sometimes, if the hoe squad rider was feeling especially cantankerous, he would order us to make fifty beats per step. We dare not stop, no matter how burning tired our arms and shoulders were, or else we would suffer being written a disciplinary for disobeying a direct order. This suspended phone, visitation, and commissary privileges. It also meant time in the hole, and would set a potential parole date back several months. The hoe squad rider is the only one who decides if you are too tired to go on. The same went for those who passed out from the heat and/or exhaustion. You were not permitted to pass out, if you did you were disobeying a direct order.
We worked in several different areas around the prison. We cleared grass and weeds beneath fence lines that ran as far as the eye can see. They were thick with colonies of sugar ants and fire ants. Get those on you and you are coming up out of your pants quick, fast and in a hurry while slapping hands at your dancing legs. We worked a nearby swamp cleaning out grass and brush infested with cottonmouths slithering by our feet and creepy-looking spiders and insects crawling all over us. It did not take long before we were all covered in mud and stagnant swamp water. We worked fields that seemed to never end—coughing and choking on the dust floating around us in thick clouds that we kicked up from chopping yard-high grass and weeds. Dirt clung to our sweaty skin, and by the end of the day we were all so caked in it that no one could tell one man’s racial identity from the next.
Once you’ve done enough time on hoe squad, you earn the privilege of a less arduous work assignment. Depending on your custody level, you’ll be assigned to an outdoor work detail such as tractor squad, horse barn, beef herd, or outside maintenance, or an inside one such as kitchen, porter work, garment factory (the sweatshop), or inside maintenance. You should hope that your supervisor is easy to work for. If you have a very stern or outright mean supervisor, you are susceptible to being written a disciplinary at any given time for any reason they want. You suddenly become ill and aren’t able to work? Disciplinary action. Get accidentally injured while on the job? Disciplinary action. You are found in a different area from your workstation—even if it is
only a couple of yards away? Disciplinary action. Many officers are quick to lie to have you busted as well. And once you are busted, back to hoe squad you go.
If incarceration is the court’s mandate, then rehabilitation—not slave labor—should be a mandatory process provided by the Department of Corrections. An inmate should be able to address and change the behavior that got them where they are and be helped in their transition to a better way of living.
Vocational training, life skills, and faith-based programs are all helpful options and ideal for rehabilitation but not all institutions provide them. In those that do, not all inmates qualify to take them. A person’s time mandated by the court and the crime they have been convicted of determines whether they can participate in these programs. If an inmate is serving a life sentence, he or she does not qualify for most of these rehabilitative programs because there is a slim possibility they will be released back into a free society. NO ONE SHOULD BE DECLARED BEYOND REHABILITATION WITHOUT AN ATTEMPT TO DO SO FIRST. But our corrections system provides its barest resources toward rehabilitating inmates, and seems to take measured steps to ensure regression, which ultimately assures recidivism if an inmate is granted freedom.
Ask yourself this: would you rather a man or woman be released back into society from a prison where there is no mandatory process of rehabilitation, but assured daily punishment by way of slave labor that is counterproductive and worsens one’s state of mind? Or would you rather a man or woman be released from a prison that has taken the proper steps toward rehabilitating them so they may become a positive, productive member of society?
I was 20 years old when I was locked up. I am now 44 years old. I have come a long way from where I was mentally, emotionally, and physically as a 20-year-old kid. Early on I took the initiative to identify my problems, pin them down, and solve them through self-rehabilitation. I refused to allow the negative nature of prison to mold my identity like it does so many others. I have taken and completed every self-help
class available to me. I have a perfect work attendance record with every job detail I have been assigned to. I am a published fiction author many times over, with two books nominated for awards by an authors’ guild in 2021.
But even with all that, I would still like to further my education by enrolling in the Vo-Tech program and taking the college courses ADC offers.
But guess what?
I do not qualify for either of those due to my sentence length.
But you know what I do qualify for here?
Hoe squad. Fifty beats per step.
Gerard “Caveman” Lawless
A blessing for a king, is the sting from a queen.
Bees like Sasha Fierce, with a Hov-a God.
Not far from a dog when it comes down to mine, you’re warned!
Know that the fawns, does, and bucks are us—a crutch.
Plus the smile you bring sends me far-far away.
Yes, I’ll pave the way, and take the place I’ve earned.
I’ll learn to love you better, all matters we discern.
You reform or adapt, but our niche is us.
The urn’s to remember, that it’s heaven here.
A heaven-sent angel, lost in neverland.
A never who forever holds my heart.
A spiritual thought while worlds apart. TO MY QUEEN.
Patrick J. Pantusco
On June 18, 1996, my troubled past and an inexcusable series of choices culminated in a police pursuit that ended in a tragic motor vehicle accident and resulted in the death of an innocent motorist. While it does not mitigate my responsibility or culpability, context is important. When I was thirteen I spiraled into a deep depression. I began to act out in negative ways and withdrew from my friends and family. Not long after the depression began, I started to self-medicate in a futile attempt to escape my emotional turmoil. The more I used, the more I cut classes and completely neglected my school assignments. I could not care less about school, and I didn’t contemplate or care what the future would hold. Despite my failure to attend school on a regular basis or complete assignments, I was awarded a diploma—possibly to get me out of the school system. The following few years were filled with substance use and abuse until I succumbed to an all-consuming addiction.
By the end of my teenage years, I found myself compromising the morals and values that my parents had tried to instill in me my entire life. I began stealing cars to support my addictions. Although I never intended to hurt anybody, my actions were reprehensible and ultimately destroyed the lives of two families while simultaneously devastating my suburban New Jersey neighborhood.
Because the car accident that I caused occurred during a police pursuit following a felony, I was convicted of the strict liability crime of “felony murder.” I was sentenced to a custodial prison term of fifty years, thirty years without the possibility of parole. Barely out of my teens, I was escorted through the gates of one of America’s oldest and most notorious penitentiaries: Trenton State Prison (now New Jersey State Prison). My arrest and subsequent conviction forced me to face my past and come to terms with the consequences of my actions. I walked into prison with my head up, frightened but determined to never be a victim.
Perhaps due to my youth, a number of the older men looked at me as the son they had left behind in the world outside of prison. They took it upon themselves to mentor me on prison protocol, and instilled in me responsibility to do the same for others when the time came. I realize now that they also protected me by shielding me from the myriad horrors of prison life by making it known there was a “handsoff” policy on the kid. Without being saddled with the constant fear of victimization, I was free to immerse myself in the vast content of the prison’s library.
As I learned to navigate the law library, I educated myself on every facet of the law as it applied to my case. While I disagreed with the excessiveness of my sentence, I came to realize that the law was about more than the individual, and my conduct warranted my removal from the society whose freedoms I had taken for granted. I enjoyed studying legal philosophy. Over the years I developed a reputation around the prison system as being well-versed in criminal, civil, and administrative law. I began helping other men prepare supplemental appellate briefs challenging their convictions and/or sentences. When I would meet people, it immediately became apparent that my limited education, merely a high school diploma (one I did not really earn) far surpassed that of most of my peers—many of whom were functionally illiterate.
When I first entered prison I was overcome with hopelessness. I was unable to imagine any life that might exist thirty years away. I, like many of my peers, had my share of incidents over the past twentysix years. I was involved in physical altercations, not to mention issues
with officers and staff. I rebelled against a penal system that I felt was overly oppressive. I, like many in prison, had associated myself with what is termed in New Jersey as a “Security Threat Group” (STG). What prison authorities fail to understand is that within the prison environment, a bond of brotherhood is formed between men who share a common experience and who have been separated from family for years, sometimes decades. I love my brothers, and like family, we are always willing to sacrifice ourselves to defend our brothers.
In 2013, Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey, in conjunction with the New Jersey Department of Corrections, began the New Jersey Scholarship and Transformative Education in Prisons (NJ-STEP) college initiative. The program consists of a consortium of New Jersey institutions of higher education including Princeton University, Drew University, Mercer County Community College, and Raritan Valley Community College, which provide qualified members of the inmate population across the state an opportunity to attend classes (sometimes with outside students) and pursue a college education. Many of the inmates jumped at the chance to earn a college degree.
I immediately noticed that a large percentage of the program’s participants belonged to different “security threat groups.” The NJSTEP student body included: Aryans, Bikers, Bloods, Crips, Five Percenters/God-Bodies, Latin Kings, Nétas, and Skinheads. Years of prison experience made me sure that violence would ensue, and the program would be disbanded. While my loyalty to my own brothers never waned, my responsibility to help the next man was never forgotten either. I volunteered as a teacher’s aide and as a tutor working alongside my peers. I could never have done it alone, and I made sure that no one else had to either. I was initially surprised that I was not one of the only people willing to help others. Members of the student body from across the spectrum supported classmates regardless of their associations. I witnessed the change that providing education in prison fosters. Members of every group worked together, not only helping one another but pushing one another to do better. There was an unspoken, yet unified goal to make the program a success and to never leave anyone behind. If anyone was struggling, the entire class would arrange tutoring sessions. Skinheads would tutor God-Bodies, Bloods
would tutor Crips, and Muslims would tutor Wiccans, and vice versa. While this cooperation did not seem possible, it was the members of the various groups that were not in the program that propelled cooperation. Being true “brothers,” they encouraged their own to better themselves and see others in the program as classmates rather than enemies. They, like us, are all fully aware that reentering society with a criminal record will be extraordinarily challenging, but we are hopeful that attaining a college education will assist us in overcoming some of the burdens that having a conviction creates.
I realized the breadth of change that education is capable of at the first graduation ceremony. As we walked across the prison compound from the library to the gymnasium wearing graduation gowns, EVERY inmate in EVERY yard stopped what they were doing and gathered on the fence, and in unison began to applaud and cheer. The roar of the crowd was deafening, and something I had never witnessed within any of the prisons I have been assigned to over the past twenty-six years. Mrs. Atkins, the program’s then-director, welled up with tears at the sight, and every man walking welled up with pride. The change was cemented within every one of us.
In addition to earning my Associate’s degree in Liberal Studies with honors from Mercer County Community College as a friend to the Phi Theta Kappa National Honor Society, I am now one class away from earning my Bachelor’s degree in Justice Studies from Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey and expecting to graduate summa cum laude. The most powerful lesson that I have learned throughout my college experience is that violence, addiction, and crime are all symptoms of ignorance, and that education is the key to eradicating that ignorance.
Elements of this essay first appeared in another essay by Patrick J. Pantusco, “Violence and Prison” published in the Journal of Contemporary Criminal Justice, 2022. Vol. 33(2) 179-181, Sage Publishing.
I mean: prison. I enter the cell and a fist flies through the dark and slices wide my lip. I look as my kiss streams from the wound: a fight to the death, if this isn’t about sex: about who’s trapped and smashed into like a crowbar inside a clay bust. Moments like these I think, after this, I pick a picture my sister mailed me. This one has the big stuffed Pokémon. I too had a big stuffed Pokémon on bed, and was an honors student. U.C. Berkeley is fun if you’re Gay. On campus hate is theory.
Hate is studied— ornate alien theme like a thumbprint on Europa. My professor asks me to write a thesis, every time I kiss a man… I’m male. The pale prompt: “How does it feel: you’d be killed, guilty by a kiss in other countries? Thank God you’re Gay in America.”
Now taste of blood blooms. Imagining how this hate kills me.
Hate: refreshed commonplace reality. Wait, I’m tossed about the California prison systems… I learned.
I know it’s a photograph. I see my sister lives well. Her big stuffed Pokémon tells me how there’s nothing where I sleep except blood and time.
To undo the picture’s magic, I do cast spells in words spelled. Faraway trains pass. Why not? Not a single car to interrupt. The first line:
“Hate” is a small word: 4 letters breathed into 1 syllable. Linguists say the Young learn this word around the same time they add “love” and “fear” to their vocabulary.
I worry that if I write too far, I’ll go soft and set my body on a path to unpredictable pleasures.
The ink resumes the dirty truth: “Despite its compactness, ‘hate’ has big meanings.
On one hand, hate leaves many alone, bankrupt and exhausted. On another hand, hate costs lives.
And there was a moment in Minneapolis, that was one of the truest and terrifying tragedies of our generation, a threnody of struggle defeated and deferred but never extinguished; a man suffused with tenderness for breathing in America, with three words that came like a sharp stab of voicelessness,
…but being voiceless makes me quite vocal.
My body of text has no race nor sex because Gay transcends geography. Every way. Gay does have so many meanings:
True. Most happy. Letdown. Please kiss. I kiss ahead of all the lies that lynch a person, and far away, that carry untold by train so far away.”
I risk seeming absurd, why not stop? Letdown pen. Shutdown paper.
Meltdown Mind. Shut it. If I stop, the violence becomes solely the accumulation of knowledge. Mere theory. As before
I do have a tendency to screw shit up.
Speech: crowds:
touch, what touches:
Society: each unravels me.
The pen loses control. Manic my sentence.
Now out of left field, the truth rattles out: “Gay is in all races. Each nation. All tribes. Either openly or ‘in the closet.’
In prison, being Gay in 2022 is being Gay outside prison in 1969. The 1969-mindset rules Gay behind bars.
Sometimes, Gay paints us as ‘weak’ in the community. Social status diminished. Gay in prison excludes from many
communal doings, opportunities…
Except sex or death.”
I touch blood left fresh, thumb on bloody kiss.
Gay shan’t fit prison social structure. But Gay fits my Spirit’s Sole Society. That blooms empathy. Empathy invests me with love not to pay hate with hate.
Is it possible, this rare bloom got me closer or suitable sometime, to breathe beyond the prison gate?
What’s weak about that?
But that moment may not come. Then, I would take the Pokémon pic. Look at it. Fancy. It’ll be put away. Back into the black box. Or into the closet.
You can hear them from here— the deep bang on Wall, rubber ball and callous fist, the sweaty whack of knuckle and callous.
Handball, prison sport— hours spent in hit and heat,
exhausting their core— bare chests, repeat, large hands just
banging a small ball, hand to Wall, by lateral lunge thrust then more fast moves come, until failure, until done.
What am I but audience? What’s the audience, in earnest... but a lesson in resistance?
To hide my face, in a book flushed by that burden!
You saw that. And knew.
Again, to your play. Once more. Hit the ball. Give me one more. He & I did go on like this, too.
But this is prison. Not prom. Wrong moves... cost lives.
I’m alone, of course, fresh in romance rot.
Tethered no more by doubt, or one form. What’s your name, Handball Player?
The threadbare politeness of wait-and-see, spread over denials & deltoids, pivoting backbone & breastbone.
But if denial’s just encoded do,
why not decode the tension?
Those muffled glances, b/w whacks, my index finger slid down a page
now he looks over, reveals the thin crest of tan waist, between blue band & no shirt, while I scratch the brim of my eyeframes, shuffle these on sweat, my black curly hair
focused on the few dark erect hairs at that thin tan crest of waist.
I’ll harvest your name, somehow.
I’m called: Professor, for a reason.
Women offend more than man. “Yet each man kills the thing he loves.”
I do time at Mule Creek, where men are macho. A man here’s not doubly transgressive: for each Mule Creek man has machismo.
Like war, sex, meat or tobacco, male offenders do not offend Man twice.
Violate legal frameworks, that man’s sentenced BUT he violates no way
in hell expectations of fit gendered behavior.
EVOLUTIONARY MICROBIOLOGIST: EVANGELIST:
Men feed, fuck & fight... ..in return, “God creates man in His own image, in the image of God created He him, male”... thus God asks of Man, that:
“...it’s bodies that were born with vaginas [they] fuck, and that who [they] fight is anyone who wants...” otherwise.
What, then, is a man except hard stone: big club: sharp spear: by thrust of sword: with deep plunge of knife: through gun’s thoughtless load: a killer’s a man,
Darwin & Bible do agree: a killer’s a man.
Fuck & Fight, each is a man’s job.
Women are fed, fucked & feel—that’s a woman’s part, except: clean stone— rub club— hold spear— on your back my bed— with deep plunge of pride— don’t whine, Babe calls.
John Johnson
We have a major shakedown in progress.
Guards mark an X on my window for reasons unknown. Two male guards open my cell’s door, demanding I remove my clothes, starting with my necklace and my white T-shirt.
“Now, your shorts . . . your underwear . . . your socks . . . Lift up your testicles! Turn around, and show me the bottom of your feet . . . Squat! Spread your bottom. Now, cough. Cough AGAIN!”
After putting my clothes back on, two guards handcuff me. They escort me outside and sit me in a chair situated between a row of other incarcerated residents. An hour passes as the sun showers me with its beautiful rays. The others who are handcuffed beside me chuckle amongst each other, giggling and cracking jokes as if this is a fun day at the park. But for me, all I can do is think about how much of an enslaved animal I feel like, with handcuffs cutting off the circulation around my wrists, my arms behind my back—hateful men in black and gray uniforms facing me with superior smirks.
My sight catches at the beautiful green grass under my feet. I overhear a statement coming in my direction from a familiar incarcerated neighbor.
“Keep your head up, big homie.”
Shortly afterwards, I’m taken back to my cell that has been completely destroyed. My belongings, paperwork, pictures, everything is scattered and tossed all over the floor. But why? Who knows. A cup of coffee I sipped prior to invasion is now all over my clothes. The cell’s steel door slams so hard, I feel the collision in my toes.
I use a pillow as cushioning to sit on my hard plastic trash can, an attempt to ease my anxiety, regather my thoughts, my fiery emotions, and myself—before I crack! Glancing over the unprovoked mess they made, for a split second, I begin to crumble. But as I bawl my eyes and ball my fists, I stop myself from this. Are tears going to clean up the harassment left all over your floor, uplift the oppression to no more, ceasing them from ever occurring in the future? Are they gonna free you or help you find peace?
Oppressors whose tone differs from mine only come to rob me blind of wealthy joy, to steal my dignity and pride as a Man, to dismantle and handicap my spirit, and kill off my faith and belief—things that will not be confiscated so easily. I spend hours reorganizing, cleaning and salvaging what I can. Shit, the clean-up job I do is actually pretty damn good. If I didn’t say anything about it, you wouldn’t even know. Perhaps I can even “turn the other cheek” and just forget about it . . . if it wasn’t for the X on my window.
Dave Rich
They said, “Mr. Richardson will always pose a threat to society And to release him in 200 years would be too soon.”
But if I was to get out of prison right this very moment, I’ll mess around and be the first convicted felon on the moon.
I’ma mess around and be the mayor of Memphis one day, Get close enough and you gon’ mess around and get inspired. It’s my hope that you can feel my passion bleeding through Because when it’s all said and done, l’ma mess around and get a Nobel prize.
See, I found something that everyone needs, but only few have obtained “What’s that?” you ask, oh that just something called belief in myself. And with hope in my heart that you obtain the exact same thing I’m like a leaking dam ‘bout to explode, I’m just releasing myself.
(because) I remember having low self-esteem ‘cus of the teeth in my mouth (and) I remember being the slow kid that was somehow decent in math (and) I remember feeling suicidal trying to figure it out But now I’m succeeding doing things I wasn’t even dreaming about.
Now I’m working with professors teaching them how to connect to the youth And tailor education so that it’s suited for you And seeing established people respecting my point of view And it all started with someone saying, “Lil bruh, I believe in you.”
Jack S. Copeman
As I recall the blue smoke rings and gunfire lipstick smears carelessly blown in my face (ah!); to be set upon her paisley pillows with a gleaming smile while in sheer nylon hose spraying a fire deep inside of me nothing else far removed but only her—primping—getting ready for work—a liquid Rockwood blonde
dropped bomb, among all those cold dishes and pans she left clamshelled on the beach and piling high inside the sink: her congealed tempura and sushi stained suggestions on how fast those hot and cold water moods turned
tributary, once she feels—trapped—waiting again flowing away… visitations
No doubt feeling behind, my held desires, I should remember to hold on & never ever write with the open heart of a shower curtain poet, while still living inside the mind of a lonely convict just surviving my time…
unreturned
Those letters, now a frenzied grasp at hopeful thoughts waiting: not worth the postage not worth two noodle soups not even worth a lousy bar of state soap! They give you just before hollering inside this box that the “water’s going off!”
before the fold’s dropped
licked and dried
If it weren’t for now entering the next world of true colors were mere nothing but coins on my eyes—to you—dear Mistress, the same as all those empty pens thrown at the trash with time going stale inside, where wooden slats into coiled fences hide;
so many fucking denials before your eyes, is to block a view so mundane as their cars glistening in the state parking lot.
Justin Slavinski
My friend Seth* killed himself. It happened a couple years ago. I hadn’t spoken to him since sometime in 2012 before I was arrested, yet I still think of him as my friend. We grew up together from middle school, high school, and college to early adulthood. He was my first college roommate and attended my wedding. He was an incredible artist, a techie, and a hell of a shot with all sorts of guns. I remember once seeing him pin a brown anole to a wooden fence with a blowgun from 20 feet.
I don’t know why he killed himself. I don’t know how he killed himself. I only know that it happened.
He also had some undiagnosed depression. He might have been bipolar. Seth would lock himself in his rooms for days when we were in college, only slipping out under cover of darkness to use the bathroom or snag something from the kitchen. But that depression might have been enough; some triggering event or thought may have been too much for him to handle, he didn’t seek help, and he made a final decision. I don’t know.
*Please note: all names have been changed to protect the individuals discussed or their families.
I think about Seth often. Perhaps too much. I wonder what could have driven him to the point of hopelessness where he’d act so decisively and with such finality. Whatever darker demons he may have had, I’ll never know. I haven’t decided yet which bothers me more: the uncertainty of why or the fact that I am still walking this earth and he’s not. I know men with life sentences whose legal resources have been exhausted. Yet they are as vibrant and alive as I am. I have hope in spite of this 20-year prison sentence, but Seth, despite being free, didn’t—how did it come to this?
The number of years I was looking at in prison was soul-crushing. How was it possible to have hope when the maximum, consecutive sentence for my crimes exceeded the time America had been a country?
When I was arrested, jail intake officials asked at least four times if I was thinking about hurting myself. On my first visit to a therapist, she asked the same question. In the first three days after bonding out from jail, my mom asked me multiple times. My aunt and uncle generously offered a room in their house in the country away from the media coverage— and when my uncle’s pain medication went missing immediately I was asked again: are you thinking about hurting yourself? My answer, each time: “Absolutely not.”
Knowing that prison was inevitable from the moment steel clapped around my wrists, I had to prepare myself mentally. That meant therapy, about 70 sessions of it. Throughout my sessions, my therapist and I often spoke of purpose and meaning: What would my time in prison mean? How could I make it purposeful and meaningful, not a 20-year void of endless self-blame? My therapist had introduced me to logotherapy. With that, my outlook for my upcoming prison experience shifted from fearful and pessimistic to fearful and optimistic. I had found a single star in an otherwise pitch-black sky that shifted my perspective. I had found hope.
I knew I was on borrowed time when I bonded out of jail. After my attorney tried everything to mitigate my destructive decisions, I
eventually knew I would go to prison—for a long time. Knowing that day would come did little to prepare me for it, like imagining a visit to Venus. When I signed my plea deal in 2013, leaving me two weeks before prison, I called my therapist from the car after a good, hard sob. She asked if I was thinking about hurting myself —only the second time she’d asked. The answer in our first session was certain, “No, absolutely not. I’m very attached to living.” My answer on the phone was a bit more guarded: “No, but I think I finally get people who do.”
Over the course of my first week in prison, a battalion of medical, mental health, and educational professionals assessed me. Assessment is a very generous term for some very weak questions. Mental health’s five questions: What year is it? “2013.” Who is the president? “Obama.” Do you know why you’re here? “I broke the law.” Are you thinking about hurting yourself? “No.” Are you thinking about hurting others? “No.”
It’s been eight and a half years and I haven’t been assessed by the mental health department since initially being cleared as sane enough to live among others in prison. This is true for virtually everyone else in prison. An annual review by the classification department is the only time a resident must be assessed, and even then it’s a 5-minute, pro forma meeting with about 12 standardized questions about a resident’s job, family, emergency contact, and relationships with individuals on the compound. Mental health never re-assesses a resident unless he has gotten into trouble with security or has declared a mental health emergency. As a result, it is impossible to say how many people have lost hope or teeter on the edge of a mental health collapse in prison.
The language of suicide is a common companion in prison.
I hear it shouted in the dormitories now and then: “Kill yourself!” That’s a response often aimed at residents who are trying to make announcements to their dormitory.
I hear it in the genuine pain of a friend’s voice as we sit at a steel table in the dining hall picking at our peanut butter and jelly: “I feel like the
universe is telling me to kill myself.” Thomas looked on the verge of tears after losing his job twice over, pushing friends away, having been pushed away by friends, having several planned events canceled, his tablet dying, and a friend’s tablet dying while in his care.
I hear it in the exhausted lamentations of a staff member here: “I feel like slitting my wrists.” This came out of frustrations brought on by fellow staff members.
I hear it from more than half of my friends, acquaintances, bunkies, students, or just guys on the yard. Since coming to prison, each has openly discussed how he either attempted to commit suicide or actively considered it prior to their time in here. Each, somehow, was discovered at the last moment or managed to talk himself out of it. Each has hope and purpose now—programs, activities, classes, interests. These men may never set foot on a beach again, or pluck an apple from a tree branch, or watch a movie in a darkened theater. They, however, have found their purposes, their polestars, in here and have rededicated themselves to life.
Over the past nine years, teaching and helping others has built up my foundation of hope by adding purpose. Sometimes it’s in the form of walking laps on the recreation yard with a friend in crisis. Sometimes it’s counseling a guy in the dorm who’s dealing with loss or rejection. Sometimes it’s helping a man add up a canteen list. I’ve found that purpose and hope has helped keep the darker thoughts at bay.
My hope is not only found within, it is found outside as well. My family has supported me in spite of my crimes, and has walked beside me through my prison experience. Seth’s family loved and supported him. Seth had purpose. Seth had friends and interests and drive and all the things I had. I’m pretty sure he’d even seen a therapist.
My hope for my future, my purpose, is in no way related to any rehabilitative effort put forth by the Department of Corrections. My friends, my family, my mindset, my experience have all informed my
hope and my purpose. For those dropping down a dangerous path, the Department of Corrections has little to offer but a few questions at the beginning of a sentence and an annual review focused on administrative tasks. This must change. The conversation must shift, and be had with more than five worthless questions. Every man in the Department’s care is worthy of this effort. Every man deserves hope, and a chance at finding it. Not every man is as fortunate as I have been.
When I think back to whatever hopelessness must have surrounded Seth, I find myself wondering where his hope had fled to. Had no one been there for him? Had he not received help when he needed it? How had his hope flared out from the shining sun in his soul to the lifeless neutron star left in its death? How had it come to this?
There are answers I’ll never get.
Marcus Jackson
When the Venom of the Viper is more deadly than the bite of a Lion when the conditions of the system is equal to the Dope in the Needle When love can be the reason you die slow Painful Long suffering due to Friends turning Foe When the good die Young for chances Missed And the wicked Live smiling enjoying the risk How do you decide the Lesser of the two when You’re born blind and Leaders lack a clue When Murder is More common than conception And curses are disguised As Blessing when desires are like a Bottomless pit And torture is more pleasurable than Relationships How do you choose Death From Death, When Presently you Possess Breath?
I call my father on birthday #42.
He doesn’t remember. Offers only: “When I get pure, I won’t be living here, anymore.” He tells me he bought a spaceport because he got a good deal. “Everyone is entitled to a spaceship and to travel the Known Universe. Do you know what a world is?” he asks me seriously. I’m not expected to answer, only to listen.
“No hunger, no ill-health,” he continues. “Rights we’ve been denied here on Earth.”
His world has magic moons and pays you to live with all the girls.
He claims his father sold his soul to “these people” when he was three:
the people who’ve been living in his head since I was twelve.
“The Queen wants to reshield me, so I can get pure.” He mentioned the Magic Kingdom four times today. I seek a distinction between dementia and Disneyland because he fails to once mention my magic day.
It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. He says so by reiterating this: “When I get pure, I won’t be living here anymore.”
Leo Cardez
Author’s Note: The many reasons I ended up in prison are too personal and sad to share here. I don’t think it is appropriate or necessary to discuss those issues in public out of respect and privacy of all parties. Nor would I ask anyone to believe that I am capable of reporting an unbiased version of the story, and therefore, the chronicle of my criminal justice involvement will remain untold here.
About four years ago, during my first psych. interview for in-processing, right out of county jail, a tired counselor with a gentle demeanor and large round glasses asked me, “Are you depressed or suicidal?’’ I quickly assured him that I was neither and, furthermore, was handling the circumstances quite well. I had my family, my faith, and my strong character.
But I lied, the truth was: I had fallen into the well and was being consumed by the darkness. I had considered the easy way out the coward’s solution, but even a rock turns to sand with enough pressure.
I’m a college grad, father, successful communications executive, and proud Latino. In prison, I work as a mentor and inmate leader. Every day I see fellow inmates with problems and tell them: Talk, speak up. But many years ago, suffering from a deep depression, I didn’t say a
word. Men are raised to be strong. Not to show emotion. Not to cry. For a Hispanic male raised in an old fashioned household, these expectations are amplified. And they’re killing us.
The numbers are staggering: 17 million Americans experience depression each year; 35% of U.S. adults with depression or some mental illness don’t get any treatment for it. (I don’t have the exact statistics regarding the inmate population, but I’d bet our numbers are much higher.)
In that meeting, I was afraid of being judged as weak—which is a valid fear behind these walls. In prison, more than in the real world, perception is everything and any hint of weakness will surely be exploited by the predators. So I hid beyond my tough guy facade, but inside I felt small, stupid, and under siege.
My depression emerged when I was arrested, and it came and went throughout the three years I spent fighting my case. During that time, while out on bond, I functioned; things were better for a while, and then they weren’t. I learned, depression can be episodic like that, coming in alternating waves of intense emotion and numbness. Still, I would not seek the help I needed. That’s how powerful stigma is; it erodes our human instinct to call out for help and to survive. Stigma has prevented stories about mental health issues in prison from ever being made public, even though we’re all vulnerable to it (even the guards).
After months of silence, I was drowning and couldn’t pretend anymore. I felt as if I was locked in a barrel at the bottom of the ocean, helpless, there is no worse feeling in the world. My family knew something was wrong, because I was isolating myself and getting thinner. I wasn’t sleeping. “Brother, it’s time to get some help.” And at that moment, I was too weak to resist.
The first therapist I saw spent two minutes with me asking questions about my sexual orientation and suicidal thoughts. I don’t remember what I said to her. It was artificial, corporate, packaged, and apparently not enough to support another visit—I only saw her the one time.
Months later, I saw a psychiatrist on a computer monitor. She went through her checklist. I didn’t do that again, either.
I needed to talk but thought I couldn’t. Instead, I began to engage. I rediscovered my faith and began attending Chapel and Bible studies. I started to play sports at the yard and gym and games in the dayroom hours; and something unlocked in me that helped me start talking. I was able to share what I was going through with those closest to me. And I began to get better.
Talking about my depression seemed scarier than living with it. I felt vulnerable and exposed at the thought of divulging such intimate details about my feelings I feared the conversation wouldn’t go well. That I would be judged. My depression was constantly telling me to stay quiet.
I didn’t believe I even knew how to talk about it—how to put these feelings into words. But I did—I’d just forgotten it. One evening during a night yard walk with a friend who was getting out soon I spoke openly about my issues. We usually spent these walks talking about books, home life and ambition, or just blowing off steam and venting. For whatever reason, I felt I could trust him and it felt like the right time to tell him, “There was actually a time in my life when I was really in a dark place and sometimes I’m afraid I could go back there.” “What do you mean?” he asked. I started talking and it was as if the dam had burst—you couldn’t shut me up. It was unlike any other conversation we’d ever had, and for the first time I understood that my personal battle with mental health didn’t have to be a skeleton in my closet. Yet this talk was only the first step toward getting past my own stigma, which I continued to struggle with for years. Now I know that the only way to end stigma is to have productive discussions about mental health issues in prison. To break the silence. To encourage and prompt conversation one at a time.
The place where inmates feel safe talking doesn’t always look like a therapist’s office. Facility Chaplains offer not only an ear, but hope, which is almost always the first to go in severe depression and important to restore in the healing process. Therapy groups usually don’t have a
requirement for how much you have to talk, so you can ease your way in. Wellness practices like meditation or yoga may help people develop useful ways to adapt, such as breathing techniques.
Inmates don’t know where to start the conversation even when they speak to a counselor or therapist. The truth is, these conversations can start anywhere.
And that is why I chose to write a piece that I hope sparks conversations about mental health in prison. Every time we talk about mental health issues, we erode the stigma—yours, mine, and everyone else’s.
Ben “Enzo” Wilkins
Only parents would understand
How He’d give his last dollar to see his child smile proud
From birth connection unexplained
A new meaning to life sky walking on a cloud
Who’dathunkit those silly little gestures
Hold the key to the universe in their pure young eyes
Forgiveness is finally revealed
Caress the moments before hearts learn to harden
Trip & fall without stumble
Accept death no question if it meant their resurrection
Wasted years bleed freely
Undo ill choices sans wallowing thoughts of past rejection
Be strong for them
Explain how fear and weakness leads to misery
You feel their pains
Repurposed a hundred times worse beneath the surface
To let your child down
The soul’s burden rests intense on broken spirit wings
Ask forgiveness
Regardless of whatever outcome you envision
They deserve a reaching out
No matter circumstance of one’s chaotic mental doubt
To paraphrase a line from the movie The Karate Kid, Mr. Miyagi said, “Daniel-San, you must grow strong root like bonsai tree, then you understand everything.” Perhaps an Arabica shrub would agree.
Throughout moments of peace and times of war, this evergreen which bears coffee beans has been cultivated by humans for its caffeinated properties. From seed to soil, sunshine to sprout, consider the lifespan of coffee as that steamy, cherished first morning sip brushes your taste buds.
Ah...
From bean harvester, to the arduous cleansing process, from weighing and packaging to transport by truck, barge, or air freight, our staple of morning ritual persists.
Coffee majestically brings people together. Then we urinate it.
From the wastewater treatment facility to watering our sun crisped lawns, to evaporating humidity then reforming as clouds, to raining on the evergreen shrubbery which grows new generations of beans—the robust Circle of Life for Coffee endures.
Call it coffee reincarnation.
A farewell line from Mr. Miyagi seems appropriate: “It’s not what in here,” he said, pointing to his balding head. “It’s what in here that is most important,” he said, intently pointing to his heart.
Daniel-San nodded selflessly. Perhaps an Arabica shrub would agree.
Did you ever notice how extroverts are easily offended by the petty crime that you tried to squeeze into their ramblings? Introverts bathe in the glorious waters of utter silence. So I write.
Some people communicate better through correspondence because a partner cannot interrupt their true expression in written form. They bleed onto the pages—past hurts gentle—as new bonds strengthen. So I write.
I carve on topics which lead others to thought and action. My sole purpose is to inspire readers to reflection. Above all I write since writing is my redemption. So I write.
Consider each individual holds a vice. You are not alone, for I crave the midnight oil. My first published credit resembled a fix to an addict. So I write.
Behold the runner on their last leg of a marathon high, or a glutton stuffing his gullet with pie without reprise. Tis the feeling of a prisoner breathing free air after a decade inside. So I write.
Creating new places from blank pages excites, no limits abound. Imagine discovering self-nuance and behavior of others too. Wherewithal, has the purpose you chose for yourself come true? So I write.
Oh, the dreams that we all dream!
Yea, would we abide in those hallowed scenes
Of children forth in fairy tales and beliefs of fulfilled dreams. Could we but reclaim that now archaic and forgotten flame called innocence.
But we do dream, we pale imitations of gods and goddesses
We never knew but so blithely name.
Each of us, everyone: the children of spring and sun and in bloom
Those castaways and castoffs who dwell in shadowed shame and fear of gloom
The working man in that moment’s rest
Each hard-tasked mother in toil and sweat
Or pale old man who struggles with each last gasping breath. We dream, us race of dreamers on this stage called life
Until the child in all of us has withered, died.
Touched.
Bein’ blessed with a kiss on my neck
Or the soft caress of breath on my chest
As they feel the pulse in my breast
These are dreams I cleave to
Like a breeze on a cliff I lean to
Transfixed like a spear clean through. Please,
I want to feel, so bad!
I’m willin’ to feel bad if that’s all to be had
It’s sad that sad is a feeling
I can’t remember the last time that I had. What?
You ain’t feelin’ the feelings
When I say I ain’t feelin’
This numbness I’m feelin’?
Look,
Track marks mark the tracks of old scars
Upon my beatin’ drum, beaten dumb and numb
‘Cause my heart lost track of what it was to love.
But,
I still slice red stripes on pale lines
Tryin’ to stop life at stop signs in my stopped life
But they’re all red lights that I fly by
Red tears release undead fears as I push the red line
White stripes, mirrored lights, smoke flies, dead eyes
All lies, ‘cause hope is just another rope to hang by Yea
Something I say every day of my life
Cesar Suarez
The bitterness of the Ukrainian winter did not reach all the way to the sunny skies of California’s December. The text message was to be sent as a gift to the little girl waiting for it in her new home in the United States.
The Donbas region was a brutal front in a brutal war where two mighty armies battled for the soul of the future. The only way to communicate with loved ones behind Ukrainian lines was to send a text with a plus sign, indicating that a man was still alive. This was only possible once a week, so as not to give up their positions.
This week his day to send a text would land on December 25th. A perfect Christmas gift for his daughter taking refuge in America. On December 25th no plus sign arrived and the sunny Christmas in California felt every bit as cold and bitter as the Donbas Front.
Brenda Diaz
Este es un resumen de mi vida antes y después de mi llegada a la cárcel. Yo: Brenda Diaz, de 39 años con tres hijas y una nieta. Hace 4 años me separé de mi esposo y asumí el rol de padre y madre y económicamente. Tenía mi trabajo todo iba bien. Las cosas se me salieron de control económicamente y el dinero no me alcanzaba los estudios de mis hijas ni el sustento de mi casa, de ahí contacté a una persona para empezar a trabajar a transportar drogas a los E.U.
Todo iba bien iba y venía el dinero me sobraba económicamente. Todo iba bien hasta que el 30 de marzo de 22. Fui arrestada en San Diego. Me tuvieron 2 días en la cárcel y salir. Deje de trabajar un tiempo. No tenía trabajo y Wendy mis carros y algunas cosas que tenía. Pasaron 6 meses de nuevo me volví a contactar con gente para volver a trabajar. Cuando me decidí a trabajar de nuevo, mi primer viaje me arrestaron de nuevo pero ahora en la línea con 25 kilos de cristal. La suerte no estaba conmigo esa vez o sería ya por el azar del destino. De nuevo fui a la cárcel.
Esta vez, las cosas iban muy en serio, ya yo muy desesperada contacté al papa de mi hija para que le avisara a mi familia en Tijuana y me llevaron a una celda. Fue horrible. Por 10 días no comía, solo leche y fruta. Por fin, al 4 día ya yo desesperada una señora me dijo como comunicarme
Brenda Diaz
This is a summary of my life before and after my arrival in prison. I am Brenda Diaz. I am 39 years old with 3 daughters and a granddaughter. 4 years ago I separated from my husband and assumed the role of father and mother financially. I had my job, everything was good. Things got out of control financially and the money was not enough for my daughters’ studies or to support my house, so I contacted a person to start working on transporting drugs to the U.S.
Everything was going well, it came and went, I had plenty of money. Everything was going well until March 30, 2022. I was arrested in San Diego. They kept me in jail for 2 days and I got out. I stopped working for a while. I didn’t have a job, car, or anything I had before. Six months passed and I contacted people again to get back to work. On my first trip they arrested me again but this time in line with 25 kilos of crystal. Luck was not with me that time or it would be by a chance of fate. Again I went to jail.
This time, things were very serious, and I was very desperate and contacted my daughter’s father to notify my family in Tijuana and they took me to a cell. It was horrible. I didn’t eat for 10 days, only milk and fruit. On the 4th day, I was already desperate, and a lady told me how to contact Tijuana. It was finally then that I was able to talk to my
a Tijuana. Fue por fin que pude hablar con mis hijas. Cuando por fin hable con mis hijas al no tenerme ahí con ellas al igual yo, me hice la fuerte con ella y les dije todo estará bien. Ya más tranquila, porque ya podía llamar cuando está ahí en esa ledas pase yui cosas que en mí vida.
Había presenciado, después de 2 semanas, me di aplicación para poder trabajar. Yo veía por la ventana como las damas andaban afuera trabajando y recuerdo que mi compañera de celda me comento pronto estaremos como ella afuera trabajando. Sí, después de 1 semana y media me contrataron. Llegue a un edificio donde ya no eran celdas les llaman cubículos. Ahí tienes un poco de libertad y privilegios como ver TV, oír radio, usar microondas, etc. Empecé de “carpucho” que es llevar la comida a los edificios y limpiar celdas. Metí una aplicación para ir a trabajar en la costura y menos del mes, me contrataron.
El día 5 de octubre tuve mi primera corte y la juez me dijo no tienes derecho a bail. La segunda vez, que fui, me propusieron un trato: Me darían 3 años para hacer la mitad o 18 meses, y sin pensar dije que sí al abogado. La tercera vez fui a firmar el trato que me propusieron, ya la cuarta vez un 2 de noviembre de 22, me sentenciaron por fin. Se me hacía tan difícil estar aquí, pero con el simple hecho de saber y hablar con mis hijas eso me da fuerza para seguir adelante. Me habían dado la oportunidad de que me dieran provecho 6 meses a dentro, y un año afuera, pero la juez me lo negó.
De pronto, sentí que el mundo se me iba para abajo. Llore, llore, pero después de unos días reflexioné y pensé dios tiene algo mejor para mí. Se me hace un poco difícil el no hablar ni entender inglés, y mi sentencia fue de 18 meses para salir el 10 de marzo 24. Se me hace muy difícil entender y mis hijas se pusieron tristes. Al igual que yo siempre he pensado que las cosas pasan por algo y no hay casualidades. A lo mejor 6 meses en este lugar no eran suficientes para reflexionar todo lo malo que estaba haciendo. Aquí en la cárcel estoy haciendo cosas que allá afuera no las hacía. Aprendí a valorar a mis hijas, a mi nieta, la comida, y mi libertad.
Es triste y difícil estar aquí sin algún apoyo económico, pero gracias a Dios que tengo 3 amigas que siempre me procuran, si ocupo algo o me
daughters. When I finally spoke to my daughters, not having me there with them, I acted strong and told them everything will be fine. I was calmer now because I could call when they were there and when things happened in my life.
I had completed, after 2 weeks, my application to be able to work. I saw through the window how the ladies were outside working and I remembered that my cellmate told me soon we would be outside working like them. Yes, after 1 and a half weeks they hired me. I arrived at a building where there were no longer cells, they called them cubicles. There you have a little freedom and privileges like watching TV, listening to the radio, using microwaves, etc. I started as a “carpucho” which is bringing food to the buildings and cleaning cells. I put in one application to go to work in sewing and in less than a month, they hired me.
On October 5th I saw my first court and the judge told me, “You don’t have the right to bail.” The second time I went, they offered me a deal: they would give 3 years to do half or 18 months, and without thinking I said yes to the lawyer. The third time I went to sign the deal they proposed to me, and the fourth time on November 2, 2022, they finally sentenced me. It is so difficult for me to be here, but the simple fact of knowing and talking to my daughters gives me strength to move forward.
They gave me the opportunity to be sentenced to 6 months inside, and a year outside, but the judge denied it to me. Suddenly, I felt like my world was falling apart. I cried, I cried, but after a few days I reflected and thought God has something better for me. It’s a little difficult for me not to speak or understand English, and my sentence was 18 months to be released on March 10, 2024. It was very difficult for me to understand and my daughters became sad. I have always thought that things happen for a reason and there are no coincidences. Maybe 6 months in this place was not enough to reflect on all the bad things I was doing. Here in prison I am doing things that I didn’t do outside. I learned to value my daughters, food, and my freedom.
It’s sad and difficult to be here without any financial support, but thank
invitan algo de su comisaría. Dios las bendiga, empezar quera a pedirle a dios que me dé la serenidad, la fuerza, y sabiduría para pasar el año que me queda aquí tranquila. Por ti tengo esa tranquilidad que tanto le pedí aunque hay cuestiones que a veces están fuera de mi control, pero solo inhalo y exhalo.
Ya tengo 6 meses trabajando aquí en costura ya me cambiaron de puesto estoy en print y los fines de semana voy de voluntaria a la cocina. Trato de estar la mayor parte ocupada trabajando para que el tiempo se pase rápido. Todos los días hablo con mis hijas. Me hacen videollamadas las veo y a mi nieta también, veo a mi padre y hermanos. Tengo a mis tres amigas que pronto se irán gracias a dios. Aunque estamos en este lugar pasamos momentos agradables, tratando de no meternos en problemas que por cierto aquí es muy común. Puro drama, pero en fin somos mujeres. Trato de llevar las cosas tranquilas. Voy a clases.
Pequeño resumen de como te cambia la vida en segundos y en aquí que aprendes el valor de la familia y de la libertad es difícil, pero es la voluntad de dios. Solo espero mi salida un año más. Este fue y es la consecuencia de mis acciones en el pasado, Solo le pido a dios todos los días que cuide a mi hija y mi nieta y me dé la serenidad y la fuerza para esperar mi salida...
Recuerden muy bien que la libertad es lo más grande que nos da dios y que no tiene precio y que coda acción tiene una consecuencia.
¡Los tiempos de dios son perfectos!
God I have 3 friends who always look out for me if I need something or they invite me to share something with the commissary. God bless you, start now to ask God to give me serenity, strength, and wisdom to spend the year I have left here in peace. Because of You, I have that peace of mind that I asked for so much. Although there are issues that are sometimes out of my control, I just inhale and exhale.
I have been working here for 6 months in sewing and they changed my position. I am in print and on weekends I volunteer in the kitchen. I try to be busy working for the most part so that the time goes by quickly. Every day I talk to my daughters. They make a video call to me, I see them and my granddaughter too, I see my father and brothers. I have my 3 friends who will be leaving soon, thank God. Although we are in this place we have pleasant moments, trying not to get into trouble, which by the way is very common here. Pure drama, but anyway we are women. I try to keep things calm. I go to classes.
A small summary of how your life changes in seconds, and here you learn the value of family and freedom. It is difficult but it is God’s will. I’m just waiting for my departure for another year. This was and is the consequence of my actions in the past. I just ask God every day to take care of my daughters and my granddaughter and give me the serenity and strength to wait for my departure...
Remember very well that freedom is the greatest thing that God gives us and that it has no pressure and that every action has a consequence.
God’s timing is perfect!
Rummy picks up a hitchhiker named Hope Benjamin Terry
Come now darlin’, Ol’ Rummy will get you where you’re goin’.
Ain’t you pretty as an angel. Mama said God made one for us all.
I’m too old to do no harm, and it’s too dark to be along here.
Snakes’ll be coming out to warm up on the road.
We’ll get you where you’re goin’, me and my dog Bess will.
Ain’t you a pretty thing and ain’t that a pretty ring.
Young miss, you done got me rhymin’ like a bullfrog pitching woo.
You ever eat a frog leg? Watch ‘em kick in the skillet fat?
Get your ol’ fingers slick, lips shiny with grease.
Whitest meat you’ll ever set your teeth to. You got pretty ones you do at that, you do. Hey now, no need for sadness.
Ol’ Rummy don’t mean nothing, now. Bess’ll have us where we’re headed soon.
Shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh. You like little piggies, do you?
These here is heritage. We won’t stay long.
I just need me a few things before I get you where you’re going.
Matthew Mesnard
I gotta level. I’m feeling a bit of remorse. Why? I’m losing my favorite human; which I’m not happy to admit. If word gets out, I can only imagine the gossip ruffling my leaves. It’s us against them. I get it. How I got this way in less than twenty of their years? I dunno. Same as I don’t know why I said this world’s time was theirs. But I’ve grown a lot, no pun intended, and much of it from her, I gotta be honest.
Ain’t sayin’ my age but I’ve seen a bit. I’m thankful just to be alive. When homes first went up around here, guess what they were? Yeah, wood. So them versus us makes sense. Lots of wood trim on this place built near me, for sure. Same for its original shingles. And what happened when they got a new roof? Stripped-off and chucked into a metal coffin called a dumpster.
Speaking of coffins... More wood. What’s up with wanting to dwell inside trees? I also don’t appreciate the horror shows through the windows of that house. Know what else they do? Cannibalize more of my kind to store objects. They can use all sorts of fancy materials, but nothing makes a statement like good ol’ wood. That ain’t a badge I’m hankering to pin to my trunk.
But that gal... Not so bad at first, except how her parents gave her an open coffin to sleep and play in. Not her fault. At least they didn’t hack up another tree when her brother came along later.
These babies can’t do anything, so I was fine with her. But I didn’t know they turned into humans. They learn from the others; such as that nature to take their frustrations out on my kind. I even got a word for it. Pulplust. On the bright side, we can regenerate.
So, the girl wasn’t even walking when she first showed depravity to my kin, but I don’t know if it was intentional. She jumped up and down in her little coffin, then tried sucking the fiber right out of it. I thought at first she was just being a dingbat, but humans are quite crafty about destroying my kind. They even had this enormous person who could slaughter an entire forest with a swing from his ax. I’m glad I only saw a cartoon recreation, but it still brought a little sap to the surface.
I doubt humans have much sympathy—even for their own kind. They do awful things to each other. I’d laugh my roots out if not for the fact it’s so repugnant. We have morals and compassion. They uproot one another just for looking a little different. We share few features, but have solidarity, pardon the pun.
We work differently than people in one major way. If a human’s cut down, that’s the end. But us? From stump, a shoot can one day sprout. Back to the topic of my favorite human—who, as I said, didn’t start as such. She had that same thirst for wood as the lot of ‘em. One day she went to that big coffin in her room with all the smaller ones built inside. She slid them out one-by-one. And after that? She used the thing as a ladder. Sheesh! Ladders pop my leaves off.
Why cut up a tree to make something for people to feel taller? It baffles me. There’s an easier way to do that. Climb a tree! Eliminates all the destruction.
There was a buddy of mine. An oak. All gnarled and ancient. Loads of wisdom. Weathered whatever the natural world hurled at it. Always regrew. Bent, but never broken. If only it could tell stories as well. It
taught me a lot about humans & was correct about 99.9% of it. Never told me babies turn into humans, or how there’s an in-between stage called kids. What ghouls. For being so small, they sure make noise. Some say to look on the bright side: all the air they produce makes us stronger. Hoofah! What good is that when the cluster wants to annihilate us? Yanking bark off just to huck at each other? Some have metal things made just for torture; etching crude runes into us, like they’re trying to claim ownership or impress others.
That oak lost some good friends to that “house” thing. Humans demented by pulplust. In one area they hungered for devastation; digging out big rectangles by ravishing trees and whatever else, but the depravity didn’t end there. Then they drew long lines. Atrocious scars in the ground, and what for? Forcing strange trees to grow in those scars. Orderly row of trees? What a desecration to nature. Then after they grew for a while, out came some metal terrors who slaughtered them. Roots and all. Them rows must have been for making the murdering more convenient. It would happen over and over again. Wouldn’t a human get tired of committing such atrocities? Apparently not.
Here’s something else I heard. Some human made a tinier house away from the one he lived in. Each day one at a time, people would go inside for some sort of secret ceremony. The oak said it would sometimes leave a stench in the air, almost as bad as one of us burning alive. If it was a religious rite, I don’t think God would be pleased with their offerings.
There was another time another coffin sort of thing was built. For what? Us! Not only did a bunch of trees get demolished to make it, but then more got chopped up and crammed inside. Destroying good families just to make wood.
Hearing all that caused me to truly fear the human creation. Really pings deep in my roots. What’s off-the-branch is the way those kid things get treated by the humans also. They’d do something too wild for even human standards, so then one of them tries to split the kid’s stump. A human sometimes even hacked off some of the oak’s growth to use on a kid.
Another strange thing about humans themselves is the categories of them people. There’s “he’s” and “she’s.” I still struggle to understand the division. The same goes for kids, and maybe babies too. All I know is the “he” ones are the worst. The girl had a “he” called “brother.” What a piece of work. Not only did that brother torture me, but was rough on the girl also. Yelling at and even smacking her at times. If my branches weren’t fixed, I’d... At least he never used a hammer on her. Another human torture device.
Some days that brother would pound that hammer into the ground; tearing up grass and even kicking my roots. Hitting below the topsoil is just uncalled for. The worst was when he brought a bunch of wood out. What tree it came from, I had no clue. Flat and stripped naked, the disgrace of its grain showing. How humiliating.
The wood against me, he took that hammer against me.... Whackwhack-whack! Now the wood was stuck to my trunk. By the third time, he got caught in the act by a human living in the same house. I don’t know what happened when he was pulled inside, but I hope that brother got splintered somewhere or leaked some sap.
When that human came back out, I popped a few leaves when he grabbed the hammer... But he turned it around and got that strange wood off me. Not gently. And I still distrusted humankind, but someone stepped in. But it was that night when a seed of conflict was planted deep within...
The door opened, and a flickering light bounced my way. It was the girl. I never saw her out this late, so something seemed knotty.
“I’m sorry my brother hurt you.”
She opened her small hand, then patted me. That was a first.
“This is what mommy does when I’m hurt...”
She opened a box with a red rune on it, then used her light to find something. Taking something out, she placed the thing over one of
my fresh holes, and it stuck with no hammer needed. One by one, she covered all five spots where my bark got pierced.
After that, she sat next to me and made some bird sounds, but with words. I tried to respond, but she didn’t understand. Not that I expected it. Before leaving, two things happened. Instead of using it to yell, the girl put her mouth on one of those dooliehickers stuck to me, then tried wrapping her scrawny branches around my trunk. I don’t know if whatever done had any powers of rejuvenation, but it sure felt nice on its own.
There’s this fable I heard of humans nice to us, called “treehuggers.” I haven’t the foggiest as to the meaning, but that was the first nice human thing I witnessed. Maybe the “hugger” legend had some merit.
I can’t peg exactly when or how it happened but eventually one of my wishes came true. That hellacious brother stopped coming around. What I do remember was the “her” human of the house getting out of one of those rolling coffins that zip up and down the street, but then got helped into some two-roller thing; pushed by the “he” who stopped my laddering that one day. The girl was there, but not the brother. She moved different too. No bouncing or running. No yelling neither.
That evening, the girl came to see me again. No light or strips for my bark. She looked at one of my scars from the ladder incident, but nothing came out. No word or whisper. Then... something that still chills me to the center ring. She had some kinda fracture or failure. She let out a low tone and leaked some chlorophyll. It fell on me like rain, but much softer. As it happened, she would touch those ladder scars. It made me kinda embarrassed, but also feel an invisible vibration of pain.
Time works different for us, so it’s difficult to keep track. We think a bunch, do a ton, and communicate in vast ways... not that humans would care to pay attention. We got a lot going on for a kind seeming to stay in one place. Busy like a bee? Hah! More like busy as a tree. I say it because there’s more to that girl as time went on.
Another day she came to see me, she brought a small square coffin
that wasn’t made out of wood and also didn’t open. She said I had to listen to it. Instead of doing that bird talking, the thing did it instead. At points she did copy along. If it was anyone else, I’d say to leave it to the birds... but I liked the way she tried. It’s nutso to say, but true. Maybe her chlorophyll did it to me—seeping through my bark causing some bonkers cuckoo reaction. What if the neighborhood greens noticed me acting like this? Mulch me sideways!
I remember once how the girl helped me with a delicate situation. It dealt with cicadas. Those exoskeletal mooks annoy me to no end. For starters, the sound they make. Even kids have to scream louder to be heard. And the way they gyrate all over my outsides like I’m some sort of pleasure center for their furor? Hoofah toofah!
Well, this girl grabbed a bucket and picked every last everloving bug carcass off me—at least as far as her squishy branches could reach... but it was enough for me. Those revolting little roots of theirs cause an intense itch I can’t describe.
As time moved on, we both went through some changes; growing a bit, her stringy top-leaves hung longer, and my marks from that “brother” bozo mostly healed. If only the emotional ones would. Seemed like the girl kept feeling bad about what that schlub did. She’d touch those spots and would change expression. Sympathy for me I guess. At times she’d turn red like it was early autumn—sniffing hard. She’d try to hold in her chlorophyll, but didn’t always succeed. The times she spoke when like that, it went up and down or barely any voice at all. In those sorta moments, I’d feel a breeze of emotion rustle through me. Ay-yi-yi.
Many would laugh, but I developed a certain feeling for that girl whenever I saw her. Even when it wasn’t her coming to see me. She spent loads of time with me though, and told me all sorts of stuff. Since she treated me as a friend, I felt likewise. Over time, I gave her a name of my own. Favorite. My Fav.
We had more and more good moments. Not just her bird-talking, but she did that plenty. During those moments, she told me I was the only one she could talk openly with. At times she wondered if I was her
only friend. A bit over-the-top, but that’s her words. Maybe it was true; shunned for our visits, or for her other attitudes I didn’t see until later on. For all the grotesque things humans do to their kind for amusement, I wouldn’t doubt her being some kind of pariah because of me.
When the windows were open, I’d catch words she spoke to the other two in that house. I never heard myself as a topic, but there was a bunch I didn’t understand. Like “conservation,” which I thought meant talking, but it’s being careful with stuff to make it last. Another is “recycling”. Found out it’s reincarnation for trees. Paper—that heinous product made from us—can become paper all over again to preserve the memories of my compatriots, rather than getting sent to that stink hole of a village known as a dump.
See? There’s a reason she’s my Fav, but sad what an outcast she became for it. There were these “rally” things. That’s fancy-talk for humans gathering somewhere to hear good ideas—like ending all that godforsaken pulplust. I guess they didn’t always go so well for the girl. She’d say, “It’s like nobody’s listening.” The nogoodniks. One of the humans in the house said people would listen to her one day. Oh yeah? Like when? While choking to death from murdering too many trees? On that day, I’ll be laughing. Laughing from my grave. Stupid goombas.
Sometimes I’d see her getting made fun of by others. Mostly “hers” around the girl’s same size. I assumed it was on my account. There seemed to be one who treated her worst of all. It was a “him” who pushed a rolling thing with one foot to get around. The stuff said, I have too much class to repeat. Same as not revealing any of my Fav’s secrets. He hurled what I can only assume was the worst a human could, calling my girl “treehugger.” She yelled something back too. I don’t know what, but it was the loudest I ever heard my girl. Zooey-mama. But when he was out of sight, she smiled. Was there more to that treehugger myth murmured from the groves?
That stumblebum on the rolling thing kept coming by. At night mostly. If she was out in the day, he’d antagonize, eventually settling on calling her “T.H.” She didn’t seem to mind, but it peeved me since it was coming from that irritating lout. How I wanted that incorrigible log of meat to
fly off his contraption and take a header into the middle of the road.
One night, something happened I’d never predicted. A rolling coffin stops at the house, and a door opens. I don’t care none until hearing the voice of my Fav... but then I realized that some antagonizing hooligan was with her. What chutzpah, the jamok! Their bark was much different than usual, and the girl was showing off some of her grain structure. What was this world coming to? I could feel the tips of my roots drying up.
They came my way, then she touched a couple of my mostly healed spots while uttering something I wasn’t able to follow… but I heard his reply.
“So you really are a treehugger.”
She smiled, then they made some happy sounds.
They waited a bit before he asked her, “So?”
“So what?”
“Are you one?”
The girl took a step back. I thought it meant my Fav was finally ditching that putz. Instead, I felt pressure against my trunk. It was her! And I guess she sprouted more than I predicted since her branches got practically all the way around. So that’s what a hug is. I may have lost a few drops of chlorophyll by accident, but none were wise to it.
When she let go of me, he questioned, “Are you a tree… kisser also?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
There was no sun, but it looked like his face was burning. “I’m a, uh, cheek kisser. Not trees.”
She kept staring at him. “Yeah?”
“Uh... Maybe.”
The girl leaned in with her head turned.
That crumbum moved closer with his mouth sticking out. I don’t know why, but the girl let that idle bum go through with his little stunt. She even pulled her top-leaves away on one side. A hurricane of emotion blew through me. I was the friend, not that sluggard. He never cared about reincarnating trees or that conservation stuff. I was the one she told secrets to not this plebeian plonk. Ooh! The fury. I was rustled.
He closed his eyes while pushing in... and then she sidestepped. That lout lost his balance, falling onto the ground with a thud. Way to play the long game, Fav! When he stood up, the girl ducked behind me. He pursued, but she was faster—getting inside the house and slamming the door in his face. Rejected and dejected, he left. Now that’s what I call a good night. Nincompoop.
Another moment lodged in me from a different night. Just the both of us. No interlopers. I wondered what secret she wanted to share this time. Her, my Fav. Me, her friend. Not the natural order of things, but I didn’t care. My girl and I had something unmatched, not that I told any of the other trees. If the groves caught word, I’d go bald as if it were winter.
A look in her eyes showed something was wrong. I wasn’t prepared for what came next. She said she was a “grad” now, whatever that was. Her and a whole class. Class of what? She went on about being “accepted” and “parents” being proud. Did this have to do with all those rallies? Did she finally get accepted back into the human flock? If so, how did she earn it? Did she have to murder one of my brethren to prove loyalty?
The girl said she’d miss me and our times together. Oh no! Was I the sacrifice? The thought pulled the soil right out from under me.
She spoke of being in another state. Me too! A state of fear and confusion. Nothing was making sense anymore. With all the stress to my system, my shoots were going numb. The girl did say many sweet
things pertaining to me. I tried to reply, but no luck.
After all that, she presented a strange object saying it had special meaning while tying it around one of my branches. Some kind of gewgaw with hanging threads and a knot on top with a shiny, golden thing attached. Right after that, she walked off.
Being all alone, I reflected on humans as I adjusted to something new attached to me. All my knowledge about them came from my peers. That healthy, necessary fear of humans and all of their unbridled, murderous potential. But all of that was before the girl sprouted into my existence.
I must have been lost in thought, because all at once the girl curled her branches around me once more. What was coursing through me? Solace maybe. Bewilderment. Hope for more of them humans out there to be like my Fav.
Not long after that night, the other two humans got into their rolling coffin they crammed with all sorts of things. Usually stuff is taken out of it, not the other way around. After some waiting, the girl came out of that painted piece of my kind called a door, and joined the humans. With a growling sound, the coffin floated away like a cloud in a blustery wind. No parting words. No encouragement. Not even a tap on the trunk. That’s it: did and done. My sap stiffened a smidge, to call the weather by how the sky looks.
But I couldn’t stay that way. Can’t let any bitterness infect my rings. That sorta thing can mess with the best of our grain structure, if we let it. A hardness that gives way to rot. All bad.
I tried to turn it around by reflecting on the positive. What I experienced, who has a story like that? Not from any of them gossiping groves. Good times, great moments, and tenderness even. Me and the girl. My Fav. Not to get all schmaltzy, but a seed’s gotta sprout where it falls.
That ornament sways with each passing whoosh or breeze. At times
when it taps against me, I can’t help but think of her. Guess that was the whole point.
The oak I hold in such high esteem? Some yahoos did a number on it—cracking it off all the way down to its stump... but deep down it’s still holding on and growing. I’ll be waiting, and when we speak again, I’ll share a story about a human that called me a friend. An actual treehugger. It brings a warm feeling to a fusty old log like me.
James Falconburg
Inside the dark forest of trees is the loneliness, residing in empty glass, behind the mountains of chaos Whispers the wind from the day.
The mighty river of remorse cuts through a canyon Shaping the walls of Sorrow; beyond the path of yesterday, a promise for tomorrow.
Echoing are two black ravens named for one to blame. What makes the darkness grow, or causes the wind to blow and who knows before I know?
Raymond White Sr.
Everyday it is winter in my world, and tonight, the rain reverberates against the cool dark hollow road like pellets, the high moon is intercepted by storm clouds, and only I am alone, drenched in the flooding depths of this solitary night, and as I look into the deepest measure of this traumatic cold sky, I see that the long lost star I have been expecting for some while now, has vanished into the oblivious hailstorm, undistinguished, it’s as if the star has fallen and shattered against the cracked pavement along with the pellets of rain, (My faith is elusive.)
The overpowering month of winter has persistently becast its trials of grief upon me, where I am left with no option, but to become a part of this chaotic obscure season and drown along aside it, impart from myself. My Freedom.
By writers from the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility
These poems were generated during an eco-writing workshop sponsored by Rehabilitation Through the Arts and ArtsWestchester that was held at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, the only maximumsecurity prison for women in New York State, in September 2022. In the workshop, writers considered how they had experienced the natural world in childhood and then reflected on the landscapes in and around the facility, which includes nineteenth- and twentieth-century prison buildings within a suburban setting. These concerns deepened into poems—about what they saw outside their window, about a tree, a groundhog. About the tears of the earth. A call for action. Rain on the pavement between buildings.
The folio also represents the writers’ desire to be heard and recognized. Because of the invisible nature of incarceration, people who are imprisoned are typically ignored and undervalued as they’re often hidden away in remote locations. But the United States has the highest number of incarcerated individuals in the world, more than one million people, a significant share of the population who deserve to be heard on issues like climate change.
The prison abolitionist and scholar Ruth Wilson Gilmore has pointed out that “forgotten places” are not outside history. Extreme heat, wildfires, and flooding affect the incarcerated. As the poems testify, the carceral landscape intensifies the inequities inherent in the climate crisis. If there’s truly to be eco-justice, it must extend to all.
—Pamela Hart, Rehabilitation Through the Arts teaching artist
Jacqueline Wesley-Rosa
For twelve years now I’ve observed the world revolving from a small prison window
The views have been facing East, West, facing North & South… Even Southwest views, then northeast views from sunrise window positions, to sundown positions.
All the while surrounded by rich forestry. Trees, trees, and more trees. Vibrant during the spring & summer as they sprout & bloom – Life continuously evolving… deer, wild rabbits, groundhogs too. Even closeup views of chipmunks doing what they do.
Birds, crickets, brushling sounds of animals moving around. On occasion even touch the summer leaves silky smooth, veiny rich green, moist & alive.
Fresh air is one thing that’s here Nothing like the city with its smog.
Flowers, hey, I often smell lilacs as the breeze blows.
Fall & winter have represented stillness, peace – as the trees bear no leaves – hardly a sound from the forest now – just a woodsy place where things may creep. Whether it’s winter, spring, summer or fall each enlightens me with a spirit to love it all!
Pamela Smart
I am a tree growing in the (concrete confines) of a prison. My roots clutch the earth buried deeply in the soil of struggle. My branches pruned by pain s t r e t c h heavenward over barbed wire into the soothing sapphire sky of waiting miracles.
I am a tree weathered by winds of worry a survivor of the storms of oppression that threatened to topple me.
I am a tree grown in a burial ground watered by tears cried over the deferred dreams of thousands of prisoners who walked these grief-stricken grounds before me
When I’m long gone my time will be marked in the body of my bark concentric circles chronicling my captivity
I am a tree in a concrete jungle. I am (freedom confined) defiantly growing
After the West Coast Fires
The bright yellow embers of my pain
Spark in the wind
Carrying to the next host
Waiting to erupt orange fury
Eagerly consuming all
Wood, metal, earth, skin
Into charred and twisted skeletons
Piles of ash
Lighting up the sky, day or night
Reaching for the high heavens
Like a thick smoke signal
To my creator
They are miserable
And now I am too
Good luck quenching
My anger
Move out of my way
I have a loyal army
Ready and willing to erase
Your mistakes
The bright yellow embers of my pain
Sparking in the wind
Carrying to the next host
Waiting to erupt my orange fury.
Devonee “Phoenix” Wilkerson
Where is the groundhog that lived near my windows?
His home was uprooted like leaves when the wind blows
The last time I saw him He was captured, encaged, crying and clawing trying to find a way
out of this prison that man brought along
“Oh Freedom” was probably his song
What had he done to offend man so?
What crime was committed? Was he really a foe?
His natural habitat bountiful with life
Now an institution marked by strife
In the name of profit We kill and destroy
The god-given freedom the groundhog was meant to enjoy
Krystal Allen
Fierce monstrous clouds bandage the reddish purpling sky
My bruised soul bandages this innocent bleeding heart sunsetting the black and blue universe
Waves of wind shifting the clouds that hide the setting sun Restless lid, flutter lashes
Waves of yawns shifting the mood that hide the lids from rest-less
Luminous moon follows the patterns of imprinted steps
Follows and never moves
The shadow follows the pattern to imprint its soul
Follows and never leaves
Majestic Black Queen
empowered by the jewels encrusted through her soul
Each step through enriched soil
She extrapolates and regenerates
Blended elements
Her diamonds coalesce to its diamonds.
The tree forms a seated throne deeply rooted to transform
Her regal ancestors
From Strange Fruit to the strangest fruit
The cries from the tears of sweet nectar nourish the royal king/queendom
A crown with the night of the universe
Filled with galaxies
Bleeding a violent origin
Supreme purpose
And welcoming death
Bury me with nothing
The world has, have, had everything Death is eternally lived as paradise
Kimberly Brown
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure or is it?
One man’s plastic bags fill landfills and pollute the planet one man’s trash
One man’s Styrofoam packing peanuts cups and plates account for mountains of undegradable refuse the world over one man’s trash
Treasure
One man found dinosaur tracks in the bed of a dried-up river what a treasure
But what about the fish? What will the wildlife drink One man’s trash
Watering hole dried up My friend’s dog can’t catch crayfish or frolic
How confusing for him There’s no water now One man’s trash
One man’s trash is killing the treasure one man’s trash
Come on one man Take a stand Stand together Save the treasure
Zarah Coombs
The Bright Beaming Beautiful Sun lands feathery fuzzy warm kisses on my skin.
Gathered sticky sweat as I make my way up the hill then back down again. Exasperation isn’t a known thing You have to make it from Point A to Point B within 10 minutes.
The cool breeze as the season changes licks at my sweat’s residue a small refreshment.
In between labor & toils preparing meals and refreshments for Rehabilitation Medical Units at the going rate of $.23 an hour as the cost of living exacerbates and inflates to unattainable prices with or without assistance.
The day is coming to an end looking forward to a shower then my bed
Traveling from Building 16 to 14 through indoor tunnels
An earthy smell draws my attention away from the chatter of too many voices a sound above white noise
A gust of wind beckons me to come I oblige and the
gloomy grey skies pierce my soul filling my eyes with awe.
Steps taken unnoticed just to the edge as big drops of rain ping silently against my skin causing it to prickle.
In awe and further glee as everything shuts out, a moment in time pauses as I witness its beauty, scent and soothing sound of collective drops on the pavement. Individually and in unison a melody that just hits different. Then the moment passes as the realization that my reality awaits, as it comes into view feeling exhilarated and at peace in this place of chaos that is consistently inconsistent.
David Antares
While attending a carnival on All Saints Day, Beatrice and Zephyr find a kiosk worth investigating.
“Beatrice, look. Santo Domingo’s Famous Fabulous Frudge.”
“I see it, Zephyr. I see it.”
“Hey, mister. What the hell is frudge?”
“I will gladly explain, young lady. But please, watch your language. There may be little ones about.”
“Whatever.”
“So, would you like the short answer, or long?”
“Short.”
“Long.”
“Cute. Who’s your curious friend?”
“My little sister. Say hi, Beatrice.”
“You wouldn’t be a crazy man, would you? Mama says we should never talk to crazy men and strangers.”
“Good advice to live by, Beatrice. You should never ever talk to crazy men and strangers. But you see, my dear girl, I’m not crazy, and we are not strangers. Nosiree. On the contrary, we are soon to be bona fide business associates. And by that I mean we will soon be coparties to a bona fide commercial transaction. You being the buyer and I being the seller. Which brings us back to what I am selling.”
“Frudge?”
“Exactly.”
Beatrice says, “But your sign says free, mister. All day long. If it’s free, how come you’re selling it?”
“Yes, well, let me explain. The frudge itself is totally free. Absolutely free. Scout’s honor. But to stay in business I have to mitigate my expenses. Travel, overhead, whatnot. A wee bit of a service charge does the trick.”
Zephyr asks, “How much?”
“Five dollars a pop.”
“What?!”
“You will not be disappointed, I assure you. So, and I do hope we can find some consensus here, short or long?”
“Short.”
“Short.”
“Wonderful. Frudge, my dear Beatrice, and um… who might you be?”
“Zephyr.”
“Zephyr. Excellent. Frudge, my dear girls, is, no kidding, the most amazing food in the cosmos. Bar none.”
“No kidding, huh.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“I’m not sold,” says Beatrice. “Give me the long answer.”
“Well, actually, Bea, the long answer is proprietary.”
“Propri-uh-what?”
“He means it’s top secret,” says Zephyr. “Like when you and Bobby Sizemore were kissing behind the–”
“I. Don’t. Care. Long answer or I’m not buying.”
“Well then, in that case, and at the risk of incurring highly stressful I.P. lawsuits which will most certainly put me out of business, you shall get the long answer, dear girl. Anything to make a sale.”
“Great.”
“Frudge, my dear girls, is the chocolaty, savory, sugary froth whipped up by all the tiny virtual particles popping in and out of existence in the cold vacuum of space. Slippery little things they are.”
“Get outta town,” says Zephyr. “How do you get it from there to here? In that?”
“Yes yes, my pride and joy. Santo Domingo’s Famous Fabulous Frudge Machine.”
“It looks like a blender to me,” says Beatrice. “Sittin’ on top of a microwave.”
“Hey, mister. Are you Santo Domingo?”
“Oh no. Nonononononono. Alas, Saint Sunday, rest his dear soul, was zapped into lasting oblivion by his own creation.”
“By that?”
“It can be a very finicky machine sometimes. I believe a calibration mistake caused it to transport Saint Sunday the wrong way.”
Beatrice says, “So it’s a transporter. Like on Star Trek.”
“Akin to that, yes. But more precise. More compact. But its function doesn’t end there, Bea. Nosiree. When calibrated correctly, when calibrated to match the exact frequency of the microwave radiation left over from the Big Bang, it becomes a working wormhole. And most importantly, a wormhole stabilizer.”
“Get outta town.”
“I plan to, my dear. As soon as I’ve fleeced, I mean pleased all the good people residing hereabouts.”
“Mister, I think you’re a con man.”
“I suggest you reserve your judgment, Zeph, harsh as it feels to my weeping ego, until you have tasted my frudge.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay then,” says Beatrice, “bring it on.”
“I’m giving the machine a rest, dear girl. Business has been brisk today. I’d even say excellently profitable.”
“For that you need customers don’t you?”
“Indeed so, Zeph.”
“We’ve barely seen a soul here, mister,” says Beatrice, “and we’ve been here all morning.”
“Yes, well, they come and enjoy my frudge, it’s the highlight of the carnival, you know, and POOF, they’re gone.”
“Little sister, this guy is all talk and no action. So why don’t we just POOF on outta here.”
“Wait. I believe my machine has had ample time to rest. We may proceed.”
“Okay then,” says Beatrice, again. “Bring it on.”
“I will need the service fee to begin.”
“What?!”
“Think of it like a vending machine, girls. In goes the money, out comes the merchandise.”
Zephyr growls.
Beatrice says, “Here.”
“Thank you... And there we go. Give it a sec now. Yes, it makes a bit of a buzzing sound while it’s transporting.”
“Sounds like a microwave to me,” says Beatrice.
“Until the blender kicks in, um, I mean the materializer.”
“Right,” says Zephyr.
“And there she goes. That whir is quite distinctive, don’t you think?”
“Uh huh. Sure.”
Beatrice says, “Sis. Um, sis? Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“I’m seeing something, yeah.”
“He didn’t put anything in there, sis. So where is it coming from?”
“I don’t know, but I think I’m going to be sick. That stuff looks like shit.”
“Zephyr. I’m appalled.”
“Me too.”
“Why is the glass frosting over?”
“Bea, the frudge you ordered is being transported here from deep space. Remember?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
“And deep space, my dear, is very very cold.”
“Good enough, little sister?”
“Okay. I’m sold.”
“Transform on my mark... Three. Two. One.”
“Holy shit! What the fuck?!”
“Domingo. I’m appalled.”
“Me too. What the hell kinda creatures are you?”
“We are certainly not little girls,” says Beatrice. “And we had you goin’, didn’t we.”
Zephyr says, “You’ve got a bounty on your head, Santo Domingo. Or more specifically, your frudge machine does.”
“Down on your knees, mister. Now!”
“Okay okay.”
“Good. Now, hands over your head. Slowly. Good. Cuff him, sis.”
“Wait. Please.”
Zephyr says, “Do you think the powers that be can let just anybody have a wormhole?”
“And a transformer to boot,” says Beatrice. “Well, nosiree.”
“Okay okay. Turn me in. Take my pride and joy. But before you do, aren’t you even going to taste my frudge?”
“Hell no. I ain’t eatin’ no shit.”
“It ain’t shit, Zephyr. If your name is indeed Zephyr.”
“Yeah, it is. And she’s really Beatrice.”
“No need to cloak our names. We aim to be famous.”
“So what is it, Domingo, if it ain’t shit?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s frudge. Frozen fudge.”
“You’re telling me,” says Zephyr, “the savory, sugary, chocolatey froth whipped up by all the tiny little virtual particles—”
“Popping in and out of existence—”
“In the deep freeze of space, is frozen fudge?”
“Exactly.”
Beatrice says, “I like fudge.”
“And you gotta try it, Bea. Just one lick and you’ll never be the same.”
“Just one?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Zephyr, I gotta try it.”
“No.”
“Please. Pretty please. Um… I’ll tell you just how far Bobby Sizemore got with me, that night behind the—”
“What?! …You little trollop. I’m tellin’ mom.”
“I. Don’t. Care. I’m gonna get me a lick of that frudge before we blow this little nowheresville carnival, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Whatever.”
“Wait, Bea. You can’t just take frudge straight out of the blender. I mean materializer.”
“Why not?”
“It’s gotta be done carefully, my dear, and precisely prepared for consumption. And I’m the only one who knows how to do it.”
“Okay. Go do it.”
Zephyr growls. “And don’t try anything funny, Domingo, or I will zap you into lasting oblivion with my powerful female radiation.”
“Okay, Zeph. No funny business. Absolutely, positively no funny business. Scout’s honor.”
Santo Domingo gets up, turns the blender off, um I mean materializer, and soon has two, count ‘em, two frudge sticks in his trembling hands. He offers them to Beatrice and Zephyr. Beatrice takes hers.
“I said, I ain’t eatin’ no shit.”
“C’mon, sis. Don’t we always do everything together?”
“Apparently not when it comes to Bobby Sizemore.”
“Sorry.”
“C’mon, Zeph,” says Santo Domingo. “It really is the most amazing food in the cosmos. Eat all you want and lose weight too.”
Beatrice says, “Awesome.”
Zephyr asks, “What about after taste?”
“Disappears in seconds, dear girl. Guaranteed.”
Zephyr takes the frudge stick. “I must be crazy.”
“Together now,” says Beatrice.
“Yes, yes, together,” says Santo Domingo.
“On my mark, sis. …Three. Two. One.”
And they both take a long, slow lick.
“Damn, that shit’s good,” says Zephyr.
“Hell yeah. Better than sex good,” says Beatrice. “Make us some more.”
“Gladly. But don’t forget. Five dollars a pop.”
“Comin’ right up,” says Beatrice. “Shit, where’s my pocket?”
“Fuck,” says Zephyr. “Where’s MY HAND?!”
Santo Domingo watches the would-be bounty hunters poof right out of existence, and says, “Like I said, the aftertaste, she don’t last long. Nosiree, not long at all.”
Zhi Kai H. Vanderford
Minnesota Progressives, progressively worse
Deal with law enforcement, you’re driven off in a hearse
I need a designated white driver, to make sure I’m not killed
By police on the scene, presuming my guilt
Minorities need not apply, unless you want to die Minnesota: land of 10,000 fakes, how many deaths does it take I need a designated white driver to make it through this state
Passive aggressive, resurfacing hate
Define transparency
If it means cops killing citizens in front of me
I need a designated white driver, rent him by the hour
White skin is power, unarmed, the rest of us cower
I’m doing life for killing a white man
36 years served, hope for a parole plan
I’ll need a designated white driver
Cops on the attack, given recent facts, they’ll shoot me in the back
Yet I’m Asian not even Black
Ice Cube put your money where your mouth’s at, Or are you a sellout, as a rich cat?
Need I remind you that you’re still Black?
Produced “Ride Along,” reduced “F*ck the Police,” to just a song? Where’s NWA? OGs with street cred—you forgot the hood when you got ahead?
Black Lives Matter—“Are We There Yet?” do you feel a debt?
I call you out, you lost your fire, while we expire I need a designated white driver, a plan to be a survivor Play the white man’s game, robotic and tame
I need a designated white driver I can’t bleach my skin I can’t breathe
Prejudice wins
Matthew Feeney
You are locked in a cage, packed tighter than sardines in a tin can and feeling lost and hopeless. You are here. Life is out there. To get to the other side of the fence, all you really have to do is punch your prison time card and, unless you’re serving a life or indeterminate sentence, you’ll eventually get out.
I understand. It is easier to lie in your bunk and sleep away your time with your eyes wide-shut than to participate in programming that could have a positive impact. Doing nothing is easily justified, but I suggest a different approach to doing time.
Get out there and take an educational class, any class. Just do it. It will not only make the time fly by, but you will gain valuable experience and credits that can help you stay out once you get out. Everyone is given 24 hours every day—even while incarcerated. Every day we get the chance to choose what to do with those hours. Remember: even if you made a bad choice last week, month, year, or decade, tomorrow you get another set of 24 hours with which you can make a different choice. Why not?
We may be locked in a cage, but they cannot keep our minds imprisoned. Reading a book is a simple start. Whether it be a Vince Flynn adventure novel read for fun, a book on Buddhist meditation, or a college accounting textbook, the act of reading helps develop and sharpen
your cognitive abilities, reasoning skills, and empathy. It also improves your vocabulary and introduces you to exciting new worlds. You never know where it might take you.
I always enjoyed reading—even as a kid. In prison, I soon realized “intake & orientation” meant remaining locked in my cell 22 hours a day, so I asked my mom to order me some books.
Walking back from property1 with this big stack of new books caught the watchful eye of a Lieutenant I had never met before. He commented on me being a reader, and then just like that invited me to apply for the unposted chaplain assistant position in the spiritual library. I interviewed, got the job and loved it. When I was eventually transferred to my next prison, that initial job experience in the spiritual library helped me get a job in the new prison’s regular library, where I worked comfortably for three years. All because an officer I didn’t know happened to see a new guy walking down the hall with a stack of books!
My brain was hungry for more than just work and as I got more comfortable, I started exploring my options. I discovered the D.O.C. facility I was living at offered many educational opportunities, including in-person college classes, online degrees, and classes that provided certification for C-Tech computer network cabling that could lead to a well-paying job immediately upon release.
Of course, not every facility is as supportive of its clients’ futures. The facility I am at now originally had a policy that prohibited staff from helping to facilitate any educational opportunities beyond a GED. Deeply convinced of the importance of these educational opportunities, I asked questions, wrote kites2, and finally filed an official grievance on this issue. Two months later, the facility changed their policy! Later that summer I became their very first client to take an approved accredited college class through Rio Salada College.
By the end of the year, two other clients had signed up for college
1 Property: The department inmates go to pick up incoming packages.
2 Kites: Forms used to communicate between inmates and staff.
classes. One of them, John Paul M., said: “I was incarcerated in the middle of my first semester of technical college—now twenty years later I finally have the opportunity to take another class!”
Despite being a writer, I decided to stretch myself by taking something out of my comfort zone: Financial & Tax Management for Small Businesses. As luck would have it, I received my textbook and coursework the week before we went on a COVID-19 lockdown where we were restricted to our rooms 23½ hours a day. I got four weeks of homework done in four days and stayed ahead even after the facility lifted the lockdown. My numbers must have added up alright because I finished the class and passed with an A.
I am currently taking a Buddhist correspondence course via U.S. mail, and I enjoy learning completely new worldviews and concepts. I requested the addresses of every Buddhist organization in Minnesota and sent all 27 organizations a postcard asking for volunteers willing to coordinate a spiritual group at our facility. One of them responded by contacting our facility, and I learned that they will be hosting weekly Buddhist meetings starting May 30, 2023.
I was also on a waiting list for over a year for a new program that offers a Master’s in Humanities, which was specifically developed for inmates through Cal State. Last month, I found out I was accepted and will be starting classes in Fall 2023.
In addition to formal educational classes, my former D.O.C. facility offered some amazing positive programming run by outside volunteers, including the Redeeming Time Project that worked on works of Shakespeare, Alternatives to Violence Program (AVP) and the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop (MPWW). These programs offered a unique opportunity to spend time out of our cells, and they enriched and advanced the lives of the participants.
Attending that first MPWW class back in 2015 changed my life. It was because of that one class that I discovered I not only enjoyed writing but was pretty decent at it. I started spending more time writing different types of things, even poetry, and was eventually assigned an amazing
MPWW writing mentor who provided much needed feedback and encouragement.
I was finally inspired to submit the first and only story I had ever written for publication. I only had three addresses to submit things to so I thought: “Why Not? I have nothing to lose but the cost of postage.”
The first publication, the Journal of Prisoners on Prisons, rejected my piece entirely because they don’t accept fiction (oops, my bad!) but the second publication titled, The Beat Within, published my story. I was officially a “published author,” and that was so cool. But then I got blown away when, a few weeks later, I was notified my submission to PEN America won 2nd place in fiction, which included a substantial cash prize. I was hooked.
Various outlets around the world have published more than 200 individual works of mine since those first humble submissions in 2017, including the same Journal of Prisoners on Prisons that once turned down my poem and later featured a nonfiction essay. Lest you think publication in outside magazines and periodicals is easy, it is important to realize that as of May 25, 2023, I have submitted 5,639 works to 554 unique publications.
Why spend all that time, energy, and postage on sending my writings out? Why not? I am doing something constructive with my time, honing a new passion and working on usable skills that might become a future vocation. Sometimes I even earn a few bucks. I have found my voice. I am writing about grave injustices and flaws in the criminal justice system, and publication allows me to shout about these issues from the mountaintops!
I read about a new “Prison to Law Pipeline” program in the Minneapolis Star Tribune newspaper. Maureen Onyelobi is the first inmate in the country to get admitted to an accredited law school where she is going to pursue a bona fide law degree and become a licensed attorney. She is a great example of someone shaping their own future, making the most of her time behind bars and not being deterred simply because something has not been done before.
That brings us to the most difficult cases: people serving life without the possibility of parole (LWOP) or “indeterminate” sentences of civilly committed individuals. Why waste time improving yourself if you are never going to get a chance to see the light of freedom? Why educate yourself if you’ll never be able to apply for a job in the real world or have a chance to work for a company that might care about your credentials? Why prance around like a fool and bother memorizing lines from some long-dead bard who didn’t even have the courtesy to speak normal English? Why read a book about a place you may never be able to visit? Why do anything?
To that I say: what is the alternative? Your life is important and you can make a difference in the world—even if it is from behind bars. Just ask Onyelobi. According to the article, she is serving a life sentence in Shakopee, Minnesota. She didn’t give up. She had to work extra hard to earn her bachelor’s and master’s degrees while in prison before she could even apply to law school. She is my hero.
I am serving a de facto life sentence with about seven hundred others. After I completed the maximum six-year Minnesota D.O.C. prison sentence, I was civilly committed to the notoriously draconic Minnesota Sex Offender Program (MSOP), where I have lived since January 2020. MSOP has been in and out of the news and the courts over questions of whether it is constitutional to keep people locked up indefinitely to prevent future crimes they might commit. The U.S. Department of Justice filed an Amicus brief on our behalf in July 2022 that is still pending. Prison sucks, but it’s even harder not having an “out date,” so I understand if one would prefer to pretend the real world does not exist anymore.
So that leaves us with a lot of WHY questions. Why do I care? Why do I get up in the morning? Why do I continue to educate myself? Why do I participate in treatment? Why do I take classes? Why do I write essays like this? Why do I do any of these things if there is no possibility I’m ever getting out?
The answer is simple: why not?
Shawn Younker
Dawn creeps up slow and dreary on these autumn mornings, as if The Reaper preferred ominous stage settings before he could perform his grievous work. On the fresh cut grass, dew drops glimmer like tiny jewels. At this ungodly hour, shadows rule. In the distance, there comes the telltale sound of walkers and canes scraping the pavement.
With a quick glance across the prison yard, we can see several aging prisoners make their sluggish way to the institutional medical department. It is time for morning pill pickup. If facial expressions are any indication, The Reaper would be a welcome surprise on this dismal day.
Nobody has much rap for the elderly in these places. Especially here in the Department of Corrections. Older convicts are all too frequently left to their own devices, as demeaning as that may sound.
One day, I too will march in their ranks, amble to one medical appointment or another on weary legs, endure a pathetically lean regimen of medications, and pray to any god willing to listen that my end will come soon and swift.
I am a dinosaur. An old head. An aging relic from some forgotten era.
From a day, even, when this wicked prison system offered reasonable accommodations for the world-weary disabled.
But the D.O.C. I see now, in this rotten year of our Lord, afford leniency to the younger generation, and all their new rules. Naturally.
Dinosaurs fall hard in these modern times. The way of life we had grown accustomed to in decades past is no more. Gone are the feckless attitudes and soft-hearted job assignments. Gone are all those cushy perks. The easy-time notion that was once a hallmark of prison life has now devolved into some third world Punishment Ethic, sadly enough.
But times change, as they are meant to do, just not for the better. And almost never in the name of Progress, as those mavens of prison reform so arrogantly boast.
Yes, sir. When the cartilage starts to wear, and the joints start creaking like rusty hinges, a little time in the institutional gym can’t help by much. Nor will you find much sympathy from these gatekeepers. The screws are all about Equal Opportunity Punishment. What’s good for a violent maniac is good for an old-head.
Fortunately, for a lot of us, a new bill is on the table, alleged to soon grant much needed relief for the ill and geriatrics. Just today, in fact, I read that state officials are hoping to add prisoners between the ages of 42 and 79, who suffer chronic illnesses and debilitating health problems. Which sounds well enough, on the face of it. A small light of hope, admittedly. But we would all do well to remember that hope is coin of the realm along these penitent corridors.
Maybe I’ll be in that blessed group? No, scratch that. We’ll say it like this: when that glorious list gets compiled, by God, I aim to be on it! Who writes these callous policies and treacherous mandates, I wonder?
It’s easy to envision some weasel-faced bureaucrat hunkering malevolently over a pile of documents in some sleazy cubicle, drafting pitiless addendums, brooding with evil glee the ugly ramifications
these new orders will undoubtedly mean for the downtrodden and disadvantaged.
Which may be true.
To be fair, I should add that the DOC does in fact offer a facility designed specifically for the “medically compromised.” It is called SCI-Laurel Highlands. Unfortunately, this institute is offered more as a privilege than necessity. A close inspection reveals that only a fraction of their population is ailing or disabled. Young and healthy inmates comprise the majority. Because of this foul imbalance, older convicts wither away in harsh, maximum security pens. On the evidence, it appears that administrative shot-callers would rather fill a bed than render aid.
We can’t know what prompts these degrading cell assignments, but we can damn well be sure that it is about the numbers, never the needs. Administration staff members are office people, pencil-pushing suits, far removed from the hard realities of day-to-day prison life. Of course, it’s always easier to make terminal judgments from an armchair, for good or ill. If there was any real compassion left in this Correctional System, the elderly would be treated with respect and concern.
But, what do I know? I’m just a dinosaur, after all, a dying beast far past his prime. An old head easier sneered at then consoled, easier ignored than consulted. Just another soul lost to the pages of History.
Indeed.
I felt my heart ripped to shreds a million times today While thoughts of you permeated my soul. Your smile, your laugh, they just fade and they pass
W. Jason Duncan
As time, again, mixes into the fold. I dream of a time, one that could be so near When our lives again might just co-mingle. But what carries me now, a simple thought that somehow You’ll find it in your heart to be forgiving. I’d wish you here my dear, to ease these pains of late, Yet such is the way, with that thing we call Fate Yet circumstance has already claimed its toll. I feel you slipping away, yeah you’re slipping away You’ll be gone before these tears hit my pillow, I know you’re slipping away; yeah you’re slipping away
And when you’re already gone, “I love you” means so little. Yeah you’re slipping away; you’re not here to stay
So please free me now, before my heart shrivels away And my body tries to follow...
Peace for me, will only come you see
Once life slows itself down yet hastens the ground That brings us back together. Yeah, life’s gotten ahead of us now And our time has somehow, become ever so fleeting.
But, all I ever want, is what I always want; that is
To keep up this rhythm of love we were beating. You see, you continue to be, the only focus for me But this lens I see through, just won’t get much clearer. I feel you slipping away, yeah you’re slipping away You’ll be gone before these tears hit my pillow. And when you’re slipping away, “I love you” means too little.
Yeah you’re slipping away; you’re not here to stay So please free me now, before my heart shrivels away
And my body tries to follow...
Only half alive, I continue living this lie The one I keep telling myself, keep feeding myself And forcing myself to swallow, Patience I’m told, is the only tool I hold
To get me through this place of sorrow. But patience runs low, when your heart overflows
For someone whose heart won’t follow. Oh but you slipped away, yeah you slipped away You were gone before my tears hit this pillow. Yeah you slipped away; you weren’t here to stay. So free me now, ‘cause my heart’s shriveled away And my body longs to follow...
Dave Rich
My hands jitter as one on the cup end of a coffee overdose. The concentration it takes to steady them pushes mobile droplets of sweat from my pores.
This is it. This is the moment I have been waiting 2,613 days for. I have lived this day several times over in the space between my ears, every time planning each detail from what snacks Mom should have waiting for me in the car, to who I would leave my over-worn Timberland boots. Months of preparation witnessed as I gleaned what useful knowledge I could from re-offenders who had unsuccessfully remained free. “What were some challenges you didn’t see coming?” “What were your biggest adjustments?” “What went through your mind as you exited the pod for the very last time?” Despite my efforts, none of my questions prepared me for this moment and the energy it would require to remove my penitentiary blues for the last time.
Having scarcely removed one sock I pause again. This time to feel my heartbeat through my fingernails.
Dammit. Forgot to clip my fingernails. Oh well, I suppose there are worse things to forget. Man, I’ll never forget this place. And the people
I’ve been blessed to have crossed paths with. I wish I could take you with me.
As my mind roams, a mixture of sweat and tears concocts on my cheekbone and snails to the crevice of my lip, its saltiness awakening my hunger pains. Often, it is the ritual of soon-to-be released inmates to undergo a dietary cleanse to better re-acclimate their digestive systems with real food. I observed this tradition as arduously as anyone before me. But now, as I sit, under-dressed in an over-air-conditioned room, stomach and heart both competing to see who can be the most disruptive, I halfway regret having not eaten in the past 24-plus hours.
Having removed the last article of state issued clothing I begin to slowly dress out in attire of my own choosing. The feeling is surreal.
Oh, thank you God, I had forgotten how a pair of normal boxers could cup one’s crotch. Nothing at all like the pubic hair oppressors I had gotten used to. If John Wayne wore boxers, I’d bet my last state-draw that they were manufactured at a Tri-Core1 facility.
Oh, and the leg of my pants greeted my limbs like lotion, unlike the dye-heavy jeans that would stain socks, shoes, boxers, and skin when wet. And hallelujah for tagless shirts! Finally, a fabric that doesn’t grip my skin like an angry clawed carpet.
“Mr. Peters,” came a voice interrupting my wardrobe-orgy.
“S... Sir?” I stutter. I never stuttered.
“I’ve been told to inform you that there’s been a slight delay with your release. Probably due to today’s big event.” His speculation massaged my growing anxiety.
It just so happened that on the day I was set to be released from prison, visiting the facility was a big-time rapper turned motivational speaker. Eddie Monsta had been one of my favorite rappers back in the day,
1 A state-run plant where inmates produce inmate clothing.
and while I was saddened that I would not be able to hear his words of encouragement, there was absolutely no one I was willing to spend another second of my life in prison for. Eddie Monsta included.
Events such as this one required an immense security presence, so much so that it seemed understandable that normal procedures would be disrupted. The next twenty minutes were passed in nervous meditation. Energetic excitement spun to a stressful anxiousness as my thoughts persecuted my aspirations. “God, I get to see my baby girl after all this time!” soon became “Oh God, I get to see my baby girl after all this time.” My absence from her life these past years now violently harassed me. Would she even want to see me?
I replace the worry with other thoughts.
“Mom is probably almost here by now,” I thought as I checked my barren wrist for the time. Forgot. Gave my watch to my pal Terry.
Ole Terry. Just the thought of my friend made laughter uncontrollable. Terry would tell the funniest jokes at the most inopportune times. “If a man is in a forest and no woman is around to hear him speak, is he still wrong?” he once asked during warden’s inspection! Boy, we liked to laugh our way straight to the hole had not the warden gotten a kick out of the joke himself. You sure had a way of making difficult times a little less difficult. I’m gonna miss you buddy. And as soon as I get on my feet, I’ll be sure to show you some love.
The warmth of the moment was seized by what seemed like a 10-degree drop in temperature that grazed my very bones. But colder yet were the thoughts that accompanied. “Nobody’s gonna hire you. Who are you kidding. You couldn’t hold down a job even if you wanted to. Just face it, you’re a junkie. Nothing about you has changed.” The nervous energy returned with a pulsating vengeance. My efforts to still myself aided in regionally focusing the energy to the toes of my right foot, which now propelled the whole of my leg to jackhammer-like action.
“Replace negative thoughts with godly thoughts as often as necessary to remain focused on God,” was the wisdom given to me by Chaplain
Reeves. “I am the righteousness of God in Christ Jesus.” “If any man be in Christ he is a new creature. Old things have passed away, behold all things have become new.” “For I am his workmanship created for good works…” Something like that.
Peace. Finally. Then...
Bzzz... Bzzz...
Freakin’ fly. God, why did you create flies? Hmm. Bet Marshal would have an answer to that question.
Marshal was a young kid, fresh out of high-school, whole life ahead. One of those cases of wrong place, wrong time. He had absolutely no business in a place like this. The kid was chock-full of knowledge. He was always in the habit of heaping on us some useless piece of information. “If all insects disappeared, within 50 years all mankind would vanish,” he once randomly interjected. “But if all humans disappeared, within 50 years every other species would flourish.”2 “Hey, what’s the last thing that went through the fly’s mind before he hit the window?” Terry chimed in, “His ass-end.” Man, I miss you guys already. Terry, you had better take care of the young guy. I’d hate for him to go through the things I’ve been through in this place.
I can remember having no hope, seeing no light at the end of the tunnel. “Gettin’ high just to get by. Don’t care if I live, don’t care if I die,” went the lyrics to a song written by one of my old smoking buddies. Man R.I.P. Brick Wall.
William Watson had earned the nickname Brick Wall for being unreasonably mulish. He seemed to enjoy being a contrarian, if for no other reason than that being so gave him permission to “be.” He didn’t care who didn’t like him, for he didn’t much like himself to begin with. He had, perhaps, the most memorable tattoo I have ever seen. Along a forearm decorated with ink and wound-heavy flesh lay a peculiar
2 Quote from physician and medical researcher Jonas Salk.
inscription, “ALREADY TRIED IT,” with arrows pointing to the mended slashes just above his wrists. His fentanyl overdose just over a year ago played a huge role in my decision to get sober and pursue a relationship with God.
“Oh, I know God is real,” Brick Wall would say to the baptist preachers who would frequent the pods occasionally. When they’d inquire as to how he knew, “ba’cuz um cussed, o’wayz haz been,” he’d reply. Finding Brick Wall a case they were ill-prepared for, the preachers would often leave him to his vices in search of riper soil. On one occasion, however, Brick Wall came face-to-face with a baptist that had more gumption than brains.
Good ole Samuel Mathers was the definition of a deep south, country boy. Unlike others of his company, there was no fear in Sam Mat. He’d once stood right smack dab in the middle of the pod to preach a 30-minute-long sermon, unaffected by scores of boos. On this particular day the spirit led ole Sam Mat to the doorsteps of Brick Wall. Sam must’ve preached to ole Brick til he went hoarse, mistaking his meth-induced hyper-vigilance for interest in the gospel. Brick Wall sat right giddy along and Amen’d at all the right points, even prayed the prayer of salvation. When the preacher concluded his proselytization he inquired as to whether or not Brick Wall still thought he was cursed. To this Brick Wall replied, “O, um certan ov it now, utterwise the mann upstairs wuldn’t’ve sunt you to torment me the past hour.” Ole Mathers, either in a fit of bewilderment or conviction, stormed away, never to return to B Pod again.
Peeking through a slither in the bomb shelter-like door, I see traffic busied with the affairs of the day. Emboldened by my thinning patience, I push open the door wide enough to rejoin (prison) society. “Excuse me ma’am,” I said to the nearest C.O. “Excuse me, Miss Sowells, I’m trying to find out what the hold up is with my release today...”
“Oh, you’re going home!”
Home. I’m not even sure I know exactly what home is any more. “Yes Ma’am...”
“Congratulations...” Don’t say it. Don’t say it. “Now, you stay out of trouble, now, you hear me.” Damn it. Though I had often managed to get in quite a bit of trouble, I always hated when someone in authority said this to me. It was as if they didn’t realize how condescending it was. Either that or they simply didn’t care. I just smiled and agreeably moved the conversation along, as usual.
“Thank you. I’ve been waiting for quite some time now. Do you know...”
“So, what are you gonna do with yourself?” she said with an excitement that I was unable to match on my best day, let alone on today. By this point, my mind was indistinguishable from a wet towel wrung dry. Regretting having engaged Miss Sowells in conversation, realizing that no useful information would be obtained by her company, exhausted by the amount of energy she was willing to dispense on such a frivolous dialogue (monologue at this point), I now actively sought an escape.
“God will not put more on you than you can bear, but will, with the temptation, provide a way out...,” I audibly quoted. Miss Sowells assumed it was in response to the difficulties I was sure to face once released that I quoted this scripture.
It was not. It was quoted in an effort to politely endure her presence. When she finished quoting not just the rest of the scripture, but the remainder of the chapter, I courteously asked to be excused to use the restroom.
Once in the restroom, free from C.O. Sowells’ overbearing presence, I cleared my mind to muster the focus needed to empty my bladder. Though it felt full as a state-draw commissary sack, I can only manage to squeeze a few droplets out. The events leading up to this day had, no doubt, had an adverse affect on my blood pressure. This, combined with a diet built around ramen noodles, made it so that urinating became a task of great effort. No matter. No cellmate to my back waiting on me to flush so he can resume his meal; no probing C.O. peering in through the window with a high powered flashlight checking to see if I’m still alive; no threat of being written up for a poorly timed piss.
The smell emitted by a flushing toilet; the chorus of grunts by an older cellmate forced by his appetite to be a morning person; the scalding temperature of sink water when the next cell over flushed the toilet; counting the meals until the next commissary run; seeing “ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME” freshly tatted every time I looked up; being herded to and from the chow hall like cattle to marsh lands; none of these things will I miss about prison.
Ahh, there we go. Sweet relief.
My exit from the bathroom was swift and calculated so as to avoid eye contact with Miss Sowells. A quick glance at the clock gave me permission to OFFICIALLY start worrying. A quarter after! My thoughts slashed away at my sanity as I returned to the cold, shadowless room. Taking my seat on the icy bench, I was comforted by something Marshal had once said. “99% of the things we worry about,” he’d told me while I was at the height of one of my many warrior worrier moments, “only happen 1% of the time.” Of course, I now worried that this was that one percent.
“Be anxious for nothing, but in all things, with prayer and supplication, let your request be made known to God.” “He will keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on him.” “Take no thought of your life saying, what shall we wear... something, something lilies of the field.” Getting a little rusty.
Okay. Get it together. You got this. You are at the door. Think about the people, like Marshal, who are only beginning their stints; think about the people, like Terry, who have life sentences and won’t get this opportunity; think about the people, like Brick Wall, who didn’t make it to the door, but died in a cold dark cell.
Ole Brick Wall. For all the headache and trouble you caused me, you truly were one of my closest friends of recent memory. 23 and 1 quarantine confinement’ll do that to you, I suppose.
They say Brick Wall used to be as big as a house, carried over from his days as a collegiate football player and then as an amateur wrestler. Not
when I met him. When we crossed paths, a good gust of wind would have blown him over had his soul not been so weighted down with regret and remorse, a far cry from the Brick Wall I had heard stories of. God, he was so sorrowful, always apologizing in advance for some offense he hadn’t even committed yet. His permanent state of anguish and woe made his presence at first taxingly pitiful. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy, and with tale after tale of hardship, he made sure to ever steer the narrative in this direction. This pity soon wore off when one realized Brick Wall’s manipulative schemes. I swear, sometimes it seemed like he would practice his lies on me to determine whether they were trustworthy enough or not.
The Covid pandemic made general population indistinguishable from maximum-security housing units. The hour spent outside the cell each day were forced-fed with as many activities as possible. Cooking, cleaning, phoning, bathing, socializing. All competed for a larger slot than given. Brick Wall and myself had a fine-tuned system worked out. While he’d go door-to-door to make the necessary arrangements to score, I hunkered down on the phone to secure the funds necessary for the transaction.
Brick Wall was easily the worst middleman ever, skimming equally from both sides so that I always received less product than I paid for and the supplier received fewer funds than demanded. Brick Wall’s transaction fee, I suppose.
God it feels good to be sober. 28 days and counting. Hadn’t felt this good in years. I mean look at me. I’m in the best shape of my life. Can’t wait to get out and find me a good Christian woman.
And like that, my anxiety was triggered anew, except this time, I was helpless against this latest barrage. No refuge could be found to shelter me from the cloud of uncertainty that now emptied itself on me. “What if... But what if...” The irregular pounding of my heart now throbbed my wormy temple vein into a full-on python. Though my extremities were now as cold as ice, sweat thickened my clothing, making my shirt stick to my back like hamburger meat to a skillet. Standing to my feet, tugging at my shirt to peel it away from my skin and get some much
needed air to my core, a spell of lightheadedness demanded that I return to the seated position. Defiant, I fought through. Finally, the ground beneath my feet became solid, but now the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead rose to a pitch louder than that of the drumming of my poor heart. Then, when it couldn’t possibly get any worse...
Bzzz. Bzzz.
The damn fly from hell returned with a vengeance, wisping by my ear, taunting my plight, mocking my troubles. I could take no more of its terrible antagonizing. The hunt was on.
Waiting. Waiting, I stalked as the pest came to a halt mere inches away on the cool steel, well within striking range. And strike, I did, like my release depended on it.
Fortunately, it didn’t.
I missed the fly by a hair. And the reverberation transfer from metal to bone further compounded my endless angst. How I can’t wait for this day to be over with already.
Now came the louder than usual croaking of the dried hinges of the vault-like door, chipping away at the silence I had worked so hard to obtain. Opening further, a hand emerged; attached to that hand, an arm that elongated itself to an elbow sporting correction officer regalia. I had hoped I’d had my last interaction with a C.O. in this capacity with Miss Sowells. This clothed arm, and the message it brought, left the feeling of a boulder in the pit of my stomach weighing me down against the seas of life. A belly quickly emerged from beyond the gateway, then a leg, then another arm, finally, a capped head wearing the expression of a busy apathy on its face, like that of being tasked with too many things to delegate emotional energy to any single one.
“Mister... ah, Peters?” he said after what felt like an eternal second, his to-do list preventing him from giving me the courtesy of eye contact. “Mr. Peters. I regret to inform you that there’s been a hiccup with your release today...”
My noodled soul shriveled instantly. A hiccup. What the hell do you mean a hiccup. “Wait, what?”
“I am sorry, sir. That is all the information I have for you right now. Please dress back out and return to your pod.” As my confused agitation grew, so also did the C.O.’s uneasiness with the situation. “Sir, please remain calm. I am sure everything will be sorted...”
“Remain calm? This statement infuriated me to no end. “What do you mean remain calm. I AM CALM!! YOU REMAIN CALM!!!”
“Sir. I am going to ask you to have a seat.”
“I am not understanding what is happening right now! I was told weeks ago that I would be going home today! I have booked and paid for a spot at a halfway house! My sick mother is driving from over 100 miles to pick me up, and now I am being told that I won’t be released! I have given all my property away...”
“Well, you know according to policy you are not permitted to give...”
“POLICY!” POLICY! My irateness was heightened at every misstep by the officer who now felt threatened enough to push his emergency response button. Within seconds a whole gaggle of responding officers descended on the room. I was placed in restraints until ranking administrators arrived to hear my case.
Sympathizing with my predicament, an administrator ordered that I be unshackled and asked for patience on my part as he tried to figure out what had gone so terribly wrong. Apparently, said one of the administrators, an error had been made days ago with the calculation of my time. The records department, contradicting my quarterly timesheet, showed that I still owed 286 more days before I even hit my release eligibility date. “For this reason,” came the hope-strangling clarity, “the state of Tennessee can not release you today.” He apologized for the mistake, adding, “Technically, you should have never even went up before the parole board until mid next year...” The administrator kept talking, but my ears waxed dull with the insanity of the moment.
Why me God?... What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette right now.
286 more days! In an instant, everything I hated about prison rushed me like a tsunami wall. The 15 seconds in between “Chow call,” and “Last call for chow,” the sudden implementation of commissary’s “prices subject to change without notice” disclaimer during tax season, the accidental peep show afforded to an inmate not realizing his cellie is using the restroom until it’s far too late. Trying to wrap my mind around reliving all these things was too much of a burden to ask any man to carry. I couldn’t do it. I had mentally checked out and was now incapable of returning to institutional living. The damned lines on the asphalt pavement demanding that I stay within their narrow lanes, the damned lumpy mattress that made sleeping on flat steel a worthy consideration, the damned mirrors that gave you a different version of yourself depending on the time of the day.
Everything the administrator now said was (silently) subject to the harshest scrutiny I could bring to bear.
“Now I realize this is a lot to take in...”
YOU HAVE NO FREAKIN’ IDEA.
“...and I am really sorry for how it happened...”
UH HUH. WHATEVER YOU SAY.
“...so we are going to give you some time to come to terms with everything...”
YEAH JUST WHAT I NEEDED, MORE TIME.
“We have mental health personnel on standby if you need their services...”
WHY? SO THAT CAN BE USED AGAINST ME LATER ON DOWN THE ROAD, I CAN SEE IT NOW. Due to your mental instability, this parole board mandates that you first complete programs x, y, and z
before you be reconsidered for early release. NO THANKS. SEEN IT HAPPEN TOO MANY TIMES TO COUNT.
Though I was barely consolable, my thoughts now turned to my ailing mother who was sure to be equally as devastated as I was. The news, I worried, would compound her heart complications, sending her straight to the emergency room. The thing I feared most, the thing most incarcerated persons fear most, is receiving an unexpected summons to the chaplain’s office, for these were normally followed with the dispassionate information of the sudden death of a loved one. Having barely made it thus far without the loss of a close family member, I now considered the reality of serving time without a much-needed member of my support team.
“We’ve already taken the liberty to inform your family...” continued the administrator.
YOU DID WHAT! Of all the crimes committed against me this day, this was perhaps the worst. Though the error of today’s events was owed to some nameless unknown person—a shame within itself, for I was robbed of the pleasure of having someone to blame for my misery— both the pain and the expecting relatives were MINE! Matters such as these require the delicateness of invested interest to break the news. I should have been the one to tell Ma about today’s disappointments. Who knows what type of cold indifferent receptionist from hell sourpussed Mom’s cheerful anticipation. Had it not been for the need to call and check on my grieving mother, I doubt that the administrators would’ve succeeded in getting me to return to the unit.
“Damn, back already,” joked one C.O. as I returned to the housing unit. The scolding look I gave him made clear that I was in no joking mood.
Once back in the pod, I could not make it two steps without someone asking me what went wrong. Even people I didn’t like felt compelled to express their sympathies.
“How do you feel?” came an inquiry from one whom time, rather than affinity, had forged a mutual tolerance of.
“I don’t,” came my hollowed-out response. I couldn’t afford to feel, or think, for that matter. My mind was squarely focused on calling Mom. The frustrations of the day, however, were further heightened by my inability to secure a phone.
64 cells. 128 inmates. 10 phones. Nine of which were occupied. One lone socked-phone lay unhooked and unoccupied, daring someone, anyone outside of a certain affiliation, to tamper with it. I had seen how that story ended several times. Though I had been stretched every way imaginable—and some ways previously thought unimaginable—I retained enough sanity to know the consequences of bucking the phone. This realization, however, did little to hinder me from openly voicing my complaint. With count time looming heavily in the foreground, it became apparent that calling Ma would have to wait until the next recreation period, so I retired to the cell to gather my thoughts.
Jeffro, the cellmate whom I hoped to never see again, welcomed me back into the cell with shared disappointment—mine a result of my failed release, his a result of his dashed hopes of having the cell to himself for the weekend.
Jeffro was one for whom life had conditioned to expect and accept disappointment, so much so that a permanent frown had etched itself across his face. His forehead rowed with excess skin. His eyes sunk with the weight of water bags. All and all, his face from a distance bore an uncanny resemblance to the palm-side of a tightly clenched fist.
Of course Jeffro wanted the details of what went awry, and of course I obliged, not realizing that with each retelling of the matter the more drained I felt. Jeffro had seen much in his 30-plus years of incarceration, but never had he seen something like this. “Damn. You need this more than me,” he said, sliding me a wadded-up piece of notebook paper containing what was most likely meth, his drug of choice. Jeffro knew well I had fought hard to maintain my sobriety, but he also knew that life was sometimes only bearable when inebriated. I realized in that moment that, in his own twisted way, this gesture was an act of the highest form of compassion the old man could muster.
The rattling of keys soon stole our attention. The cell door flew open. I unconsciously stuffed the contraband into my pocket for quick concealment.
“Mr. Peters?”
“Yes” Hopeful. Maybe there had been a new development and I would go home today after all.
“You are in the wrong cell, sir. Please pack up and relocate to cell 123 before you mess up my count.”
Pack up. I was reminded that I had no property to pack. God, can this day get any worse?
It could. It did.
The occupant of cell 123 was none other than Briscoe. A young guy, affiliated, loud, disrespectful. No telling what he might’ve had in the cell, but I’m certain that, should we get shook down, he would try to make me take the charge. If it came to that, I resolved to go out fighting, seeing as either way I’d be written up, hurting my chances of making parole. Having told the story of my monstrosity of a day yet again, and lived through Briscoe’s unfounded skepticism—for he, being paranoidly high, wasn’t convinced that I wasn’t a plant placed in his cell to gather information on his activities—I made it through what was the longest and most difficult count of my incarceration.
The one good thing about being moved into Briscoe’s cell is that it placed me in closer proximity to the phones.
As predicted, Mom was just as hysterical about the situation as I was. Fortunately, uncle Mike, the levelheaded one of the family, was there to talk her down—otherwise, she would’ve showed up to the prison and given the warden a bit more than a piece of her mind. With little time
remaining on the phone we said our good-byes and encouraged each other to soldier through.
Too stressed to remember I was hungry and too exhausted to care even if I did, I returned to the cell to attempt to sleep the day away.
While reclining on the mattress-less top bunk, I fiddled in my pocket to rediscover the wadded-up piece of paper. A cold sweat blanketed me as I contemplated my next move. “Just flush it. If you open it it’ll only tempt you to want to do it.” “Just do it already. What do you have to lose anyway?” Against my better judgment I decided to open the paper to inspect its contents. What it contained aided me in finishing out the remainder of the day. There, written in crimson ink was a scripture that read: “In the world you will have tribulation, but be of good courage, for I have overcome the world.”
Larry Stromberg
It was the fall of 2019. I went to work that morning as a Certified Peer Specialist (CPS) worker, making my rounds in the prison infirmary like I had done almost every morning for the last few years at SCI Graterford and now at SCI Phoenix. As I walked by an infirmary cell, I saw that somebody new was in one of the medical cells. His name was Joe Granroth. I slowly entered and introduced myself to Mr. Granroth. I told him my name was Larry, and that I was a CPS worker. He said to me with a weak, low tone in his voice: “I’m Joe. I’m a lifer dying from a brain tumor and full-blown bone cancer.” I was taken aback by his honest remarks about his health and prison sentence. I told him: “I’m here to help you the best I can. I’m here to talk to you, even pray for you, Joe.” He smiled and seemed grateful that somebody seemed to care.
Over the next few months, Joe and I became good friends. We talked about spirituality, the criminal justice system, family, music, books, movies, sports, and about his loves and losses. He told me about his life. We talked about everything. He was ready to move on to the next life.
Yes, he was scared to die. He said to me: “Never give up on hope, Larry!”
Joe was a man of sincere remorse. His heart was genuine. He spoke words of hope to me—a lifer myself. But the cancer was beating him down. The pain was immense. The chemotherapy was not helping his terminal condition. He longed for the everlasting peace of being painfree, pain-free in his body and soul. Still, he told me not to give up. Follow your dreams. Always hold onto hope, despite your circumstances.
Joe began to deteriorate even more. The cancer was eating away at his bones. The horrible headaches were overwhelming. He lived on morphine to ease the pain, and lost control of his bowels. The last day I saw him, his eyes were wide open and I could hear each gasping breath on his ventilator. Joe passed on that day. Tears fell from my eyes because I lost a good friend. I have not forgotten him. Joe died with true courage. He inspired me so much, while enduring his own terminal circumstances.
Since then, I’ve met many men who died in the infirmary. They all became my friends, men with life sentences and others who had a parole date. Each inspired me to be a man of more compassion. A man who still dreams and is not desensitized by the system. A man who is hanging onto hope with each breath I take. Even as I endure a death by prison sentence.
Rehabilitation through the Arts Collection
Rehabilitation Through the Arts helps people in prison develop critical life skills through the arts, by modeling an approach to the justice system based on human dignity rather than punishment. These works are the product of RTA’s Visual Arts program, where participants tell stories and build a sense of community and accountability by exploring themes and experimenting with materials and techniques.
“Stolen Vision” by Hector A.
Hector A. is an artist and is currently incarcerated in New York State.
“Pisces” by Darrian Bennett, RTA Alumnus
Darrian Bennett is a visual artist influenced by anime and hip-hop.
“Shoot for the Moon” by Evans G.
Evans G. is an artist and is currently incarcerated.
“Choose Wisely” by Manuela M.
Manuela M. is an artist and is currently incarcerated in New York State.
“Decisions, Decisions” by Exequiel Reyes, RTA Alumnus
Exequiel Reyes is a formerly incarcerated artist.
“Woman with Chains” and “Blood, Pain, and Roses” by Corey Devon Arthur
Corey Devon Arthur is an incarcerated writer and artist. His art show “She Told Me Save The Flower” exhibited at My Gallery NYC in 2023.
“The System” and “Up Hill” by Kellen Stuhlmiller
Kellen Stuhlmiller is an artist and advocate who grew up in Hawaii, Maryland, and Texas.
“Astronaut” by Rusty Weddle
Rusty Weddle is an artist and tattoo artist from Russell Springs, Kentucky. He is the father of two children. Rusty has spent most of his adult life in prison.
“Inside Nature: 7 Poems from Incarcerated Landspaces”
“Regal Element” by Krystal Allen
Krystal Allen holds a B.A. in Sociology and Human Rights, and a Master’s in Theology. She is preparing for advocacy work upon release.
“One Man’s Trash” by Kimberly Brown
Kim Brown has served 30 years and is the longest serving African American female in New York State. She is currently working toward a Master’s degree from NYTS.
“Realities Between Realities” by Zarah Coombs
Zarah Coombs is a writer from Brooklyn, NY.
“Orange Fury” by Keya Ponder
Keya Ponder is a poet, artist, musician, and dancer. She has received an A.A. and B.A. in social sciences from Marymount Manhattan.
“Growth in a Burial Ground” by Pamela Smart
Pamela Smart is serving a life without parole sentence. She has a PhD in Biblical Studies, a Master’s of Law, a Master’s in Professional Studies, and an MFA in English Literature.
“A Prison Window View” by Jacqueline Wesley-Rosa
Jacqueline Wesley-Rosa is a songwriter, poet, and comedienne.
“Profit Over Freedom” by Devonee “Phoenix” Wilkerson
A singer and actress, Devonee “Phoenix” Wilkerson is a college student and sociology major at Marymount Manhattan College.
Individual Writers
“Santo Domingo’s Famous Frudge Machine” by David Antares
David Antares is a writer and grandfather to two granddaughters. He is currently incarcerated.
“All Hell Done Broke Loose” by Cordrell D. Askew
Cordrell D. Askew is a writer who is currently incarcerated in Arizona.
“Prison Blues” by Leo Cardez
Leo Cardez is an activist writer and playwright whose work has been published in various anthologies, as well as in Harbinger, Crime Report, and The Abolitionist, among others.
“Unrequited Paper Romance” by Jack S. Copeman
Jack S. Copeman is a writer and has been incarcerated for over 30 years. He has been published in various journals and reviews.
“Every Action Has a Consequence” by Brenda Diaz
Brenda Diaz is a writer from Tijuana and is currently incarcerated.
“Slipping Away” by W. Jason Duncan
W. Jason Duncan is a writer from Chattanooga, TN.
“Get Pure” by Boyd Edwards
Boyd Edwards, also known as D.R. Jones, writes poetry and was published in the maiden issue of Exchange with his piece, “Alone.”
“A Dark Place” by James R. Falconburg
James R. Falconburg is a fiction writer and poet, and is currently incarcerated.
“The Journal” and “Why Not?” by Matthew Feeney
Matthew Feeney is serving an indeterminate sentence in Minnesota. He has had over 200 works published, all accomplished without Internet access.
“A Scared Fag in Jail” “The Handball Player” and “Bad Girls, Bitch and Chicks in Chains” by Akiva Israel
Akiva Israel is a poet and is currently incarcerated in California.
“Snake Eyes” by Marcus Jackson
Marcus Jackson is a writer and is currently serving an 18 years to life sentence for a crime he committed when he was eighteen years old.
“X on my Window” by John Johnson
John Johnson is a poet who is currently incarcerated in Michigan.
“My Queen” by Gerard “Caveman” Lawless
Gerard Lawless is a writer who is currently incarcerated in Memphis, TN.
“Rehabilitation vs. Slave Labor” by Jeremy Mac
Jeremy Mac has written five books and one short story collection. He is currently serving a life sentence for firstdegree murder in the Arkansas Department of Corrections.
“It’s Kind of a Sappy Story” by Matthew Mesnard
Matthew Mesnard is a fiction writer who is currently incarcerated.
“Color” by Lambert Ormsby
Lambert Ormsby is a blind writer who reads and writes in braille.
“The Transformative Power of Education” by Patrick J. Pantusco
Patrick J. Pantusco writes nonfiction and is currently incarcerated.
“Grasping at Youthful Scenes” and “Something I Say” by Bruce Phillippi
Bruce Phillippi is a writer who is serving a life sentence in a California prison.
“All of Me” and “Inmate Peters” by Dave Rich
Dave Rich is a writer who is currently incarcerated in Tennessee.
“Popcorn” by Willie Savage
Willie Savage is a poet, lyricist, and LGBTQ inmate at SCI: Houtzdale in Pennsylvania.
“Like Yesterday” by Jeffery Shockley
Jeffery Shockley is serving a life sentence in the state of Pennsylvania. After being at SCI-Fayette for 19 years, Jeffery was transferred to SCI-Mercer.
“Hope and Hopelessness in the Department of Corrections” by Justin Slavinski
Justin Slavinski is a writer and food critic who is currently incarcerated in Florida.
“Hanging Onto Hope” and “The Land with No Name” by Larry Stromberg
Larry Stromberg is a writer, actor, playwright, and director who is incarcerated at SCI Coal Township.
“Plus Sign” by Cesar Suarez
Cesar Suarez is a writer and is currently incarcerated in California, serving a 20-year sentence. He is the last of four children to Frain & Carmela Suarez, both now deceased.
“Rummy Finds Another Angel” by Benjamin Terry
Benjamin Terry is a poet and is currently incarcerated in Missouri.
“Despaired Hoodlums” by Perrie Thompson
Perrie Thompson is a writer and youth advocate, and has been incarcerated since 17 for first-degree murder.
“Designated White Driver” by Zhi Kai H. Vanderford
Zhi Kai H. Vanderford writes poetry and is currently incarcerated in Minnesota.
“Diary of a Delinquent Father”, “Coffee’s Circle of Life”, and “So I Write” by Ben “Enzo” Wilkins
Ben Wilkins is a poet and contributing writer for the National Writers Association who is currently incarcerated in Alaska.
“Faith Fallen” by Raymond White Sr.
Raymond White Sr. writes poetry and is currently incarcerated in California.
“Where the Dinosaurs Roam” by Shawn Younker
Shawn Younker is a writer who is currently in solitary confinement.
We accept submissions from current and formerly incarcerated writers in the following categories:
Fiction (up to 5,000 words)
Nonfiction (up to 5,000 words)
Poetry (up to 5 pages)
Visual Art (up to 5 pages)
All writing submissions are eligible for publication in IWI’s literary magazine Exchange, and may also be considered for general print or online publication in the Columbia Journal. Both printed publications will be released in Spring/Summer. Pieces may be edited prior to publication. All writing submissions will receive a thoughtful feedback letter written by a graduate writing student at Columbia University.
At this time, we can only accept artwork submissions by email. Please do not mail us original copies, as IWI cannot return manuscripts. Writers can send their digital submissions to ColumbiaIWI@gmail.com or physical copies of their work to:
The Incarcerated Writers Initiative
415 Dodge Hall Mail Code 1804
2960 Broadway New York, NY 10027
Please include your name, physical and email addresses, genre of your submission, a biography about yourself, and how you heard about IWI.
We look forward to reading your work.
A note about IWI and Exchange : The Incarcerated Writers Initiative was started in 2016 as a way to publish writers and artists in prisons across the United States and to give voice to those overlooked, undervalued, and marginalized. We believe the inclusion of your literary voices will strengthen the artistic and scholarly communities.