PREFACE

This book is a compilation of expressive poems and letters from four men serving time in Federal prison. It is about their life, their experience, their feelings and observations as they pass time day to day in an incarcerated existence.

A Native American, a proud and educated Lakota Sioux from the Montana reservation who had served most of 20 years expresses his pain through his poetry. You shall meet him first. His descriptive couplets let you come into the most protected and unreported sections of prison. You shall be amazed at what you see and hear. A Stephen King novel could not be more descriptive or frightening.

A big cowboy with a high intellect from the Laredo area of Texas medicates his pain with humor. You shall laugh along with him as he shares his life and experiences, his mis-interpretation (tongue in cheek) of Lonesome Dove and the absurdity of the prison system.

A full Colonel, retired from the Army after 47 years of service, serving life in Federal prison. He was convicted for spying for Russia in the late 60’s, 70’s and early 80’s based upon an FBI sting operation in Florida in the late 90’s. Denying his guilt from start to finish, he will nevertheless die in prison. He was convicted at the age of 74. He is now 80. In his writings, you often must read between the lines to get a feel for what he is saying. In Federal prison all letters are read and censored. If you say the wrong thing, you could end up in the S. H. U. (“Shoe”, Special Housing Unit), otherwise known as “the hole”! Getting some of his writings out of prison was not an easy task.

Finally, you will meet the lawyer who controlled the “law library” in prison. Somewhat ala The Brethren by John Grisham. He worked his way into prison by infuriating the power of some very wealthy people, the Bancroft family. Yes, the same family that just sold their Wall Street Journal for several billion dollars to Rupert Murdoch. His writings tend to be philosophical about life, the legal system and his prison experience. You will be interested in what he has to say.

Prisons are people. Each one, no matter their race, age or mental state, cannot be stereotyped as a class. Each is an individual, with their own unique personality, character defects and character value. Each has his or her own hope for when they get out. Each has their own fear, which they mask in their own unique way. Each has their regret for how they became an inmate.

CHIEF

CHIEF

My first cell mate was a Lakota Sioux who had been in prison many years. I was a novice, having never been locked up. He knew all that there was to know about prison life. He did not speak, not for months.

If you are a Native American in prison, you are called “chief”, no matter what your name. The American Indian community incarcerated are distinctive. They have their own ways, their own movements, their own signs. There is little talk. There is understanding, knowing; they have been here for centuries.

Chief, in his Native American way, taught me the “dos” and “don’ts” of prison life through example. Never with a word or a gesture. Partly through fear and partly through observation, I caught on and became a quick learner.

In time, Chief slowly opened up, and we began to communicate verbally. Very little at first but slowly, more and more. Chief came to realize that I was not like other non-natives. I was trustworthy and no manipulator could undermine the bond of relationship with me.

In federal prison, you find Native Americans who have committed nothing more than a misdemeanor of drinking too much alcohol to anti-government political activism. This is because any crime, large or small, on a reservation is a federal crime and under the jurisdiction of the federal government.

Chief had long been a political activist – his resentment was deep – Wounded Knee. He was my friend.

Aaron

AS WRITTEN BY “CHIEF”:

Poetry written in reflection of inmates in special cells to be observed by other inmates coined as “suicide watchers”.

Suicide watchers duty is to assist in preventing the suicidal inmate from completing his wish.

Poetry is an outlet of expression perceived by the writer in a given situation.

In this case, as a Lakota-Sioux warrior inmate, that has a part time temporary job as a Suicide Watcher.

Temporary is an understatement, as I have worked at this position seemingly non- stop for the past 20 months. As you read, note the situation differs with each suicidal man’s moods, emotions and activities.

The attempt is prevented by being placed in a suicide proof or hard cell where everything, water, lights, reading, writing, flushing your commode is controlled from the outer premise by guards.

I write in terms of counting my blessings as I observe how things have come so close as to the intent of these men, hopeless and at a point in their life’s cycle which must come circle for it to be complete, even in death. Death is the period beginning a new sentence, from which, no one has control of, but God-Wakantanka. Count your blessings.

I am and always have been a Lakota-Sioux warrior. Born on the reservation, raised on the reservation, educated in Catholic schools on the reservation. My people are strong and proud. Our land extends from Canadian mountains to the American High Plains. We have fought both countries

and have fought for both countries. We look forward to the day of our independence.

Waahopa

THRU THE BARS OF HIS FINGERS……

I watched as he slowly pieced the letter together, he tore his only mail and he’s done this, rage, anger, straining as if in finality to no one, he cussed as his eyes slowly read each word etched pain, across lines of communication, unheard jaws as taught as rawhide over a drum, head bowed silently, paper pieces crumpled in a ball, held by white knuckled fist, he never said a word as I watched from across the cell . .

Got up slowly, stood at the commode tearing the letter to shreds , stretched to his full height, looking at the ceiling, breathing slowly, turned and paced the cell, turned stiff leggedly and flushed as the water gurgled, swirling, he stood looking at what was said he never mentioned the contents of the torn up mail, but I knew that was a goodbye from someone he’d hoped for. .Rolled a bugle, laid down, prone for three days unmoving. .He sat up and stared thru the bars of his fingers holding his head. We spent time in that house, but he never went to mail again, no reason to, time, at times is an enemy to a loved one, outside when the unknown looms menacingly, fear rises above all reason not to know, touch, share a stare deeply, the human bond of love . . . Minds rage, turmoil reaches all stages of doubt, uncertainty. . I did my time, years with my cellie, but he never spoke again, I never knew, never will, it’s got to be this way, I didn’t say bye . . .I figured he had one too many for a lifetime….to go.

Wiyaka Ska

ALONE IN #1135

No one in cell 1135 but the lone shouting black man

I aint no stupid nigga, I feel like I’m smarta

The whole world is crewed up, why you lock me up, Suh. I did my time and you aint tryin me no mo, got it

You know who I am full time some evidence gotta show how do you do it punchin all my buttons I gonna kill you

Try’n to give me some shittin pills keeps me fucked up. I’ll kill yo mutha fuckin ass, what’d you take me for

Aint no ignified nigga that what my Pappy sez to me.

Aint nobody can be agin me that’s what I’m sayin

Since my arrest, you been doing me nuthin but wrong. Won’t tell me where I’m at and what you got me fo

Tired of this fucking place, he throws food tray at door. Slowly pacing, asks, is somebody going to wash my clothes

Sex, what a bunch of dumb fucks, really fuckin dumb, stupids. Don’t try to hide, you fuckin dope, hey baldy, call me Doc.

Fuck you retard, don’t call den, get outta my fuckin face. Hey Bitch, you unner stand anything I’m sayin punk

Oh God! I wanna see my son, yeah! You fuckin stupid.

COMING DOWN

Gimme some crack, getting cottonmouth

Hurry bitch, you Baboon bitch Baboon stick

Throw all the food away don’t do the laundry cunt

I wanna pimp your cunt and your crack

She’s the one, the colored Black woman yeah stupid fuck, yeah you fuckin blonde bitch, yeah you snappy cunt

Turn on my fuckin water you dumb cunt

Hey chump get um’s soup offa me turn it on

Wash my balls my ass with this shit you’re tuck

Gimme some crack Baboon Bitch, turn on the water

Yeah stoopid bitch, I having a heart attack, Bitch

Yeah you ass-wipe yeah oxcycotton, you jackoff

Turn the fuckin water on it’s already peelin off

Sometimes it’s summer time yeah you boy you lazy shit

Don’t worry about your lip crazy boy wash off, fuck

You want me to turn up in the shower, bring some crank

You know cold crank, counterfeit business, paint, paint. Yeah do the laundry you fuckin bitch, roll bitch, roll

That’s all you are a fuckin ink factory a pussy. With one eye closed you fuckin crack pimp

THREE CALENDARS ON WALL

He stood looking at his penciled calendars on wall

Months of July, August, September, up to fall

Lotsa blocks and numbers, some blocks empty

Short, balding shiney head, seemed to have thoughts plenty

Nurse offers medication, he asked for specifics of each first

Can’t be too careful around Satan worshippers under curse

What are you talking about, what blocks aren’t filled

They said it was seizure, a pill, a thrill till I’m killed

Last seizure I had in Pittsburg, woke up in Virginia

Holy Ghost is with me so don’t worry about my dementia

Couldn’t remember what happened on those blank spots

Stood staring, shouted, Hey! I never fired no shots

I’m just a little Bank Robber, nothing like al Capone

Started pacing, a smile, I acted all alone

Stupid Devil worshippers, they said I couldn’t do nothing

When the Power of God comes and find me I’ll have everything

Sat on iron bunk talking to self staring at calendar

Kept talking to self about something, just couldn’t remember

A HAWK PERCHED ON A POST

A human scurrying away the way we go…………….

man attempts to go the other way thru science destiny, ever elusive as man denies trail marks we’ve been here before, our blood is on the wall as an eagle’s plume floating our spirit soars….ancient songs telling legends above the drum beat a painted horse, a face, piercing as the sun eagle wing flute sound coming from the east Wakan Tanka communicating through his creation…formation of geese flying south sounding preparation elders remind warriors old man winter has no relatives seasons of variation is law to the nomadic circle…to give generously advise without name calling to praise, to be generous to all creation

MAN, SELF-DESTRUCTS

A man stands exposed by the sun, so frail

Howling winds blow thru his jagged bones, causing him to wail

Eagle’s shrill screech pokes the camps fires aflame

In pain he stands misunderstood as there is no one to blame

He leered treacherously at the signs in the earth, sky

Tremors of women awaken senses of survival as an infant’s cry

Paps he once hungrily sucked have gone dry, lost

He stands wearily, his worth at no cost

His back bone as protruding Mt. Peaks he crawls

His bony face painted blends with the canyon walls

He hunts in vain, all that left are fossil’s, remains

He glances over crevices, canyons, into which he falls in pain

Gutted, exhausted, poisoned he breathes his last effort

Dry as the hellish desert he searches but finds no comfort

Out of one red eye he scans the horizon for any sign of life

A crow, a buzzard watch ready to cut into him like a knife

He lapses into a coma of a greed bony fingers clasp a bill

His touch isn’t gold but destruction, ready to kill

Buried in his own ashes as a lone coyote howls, and howls.

IT’S YOU I LOVE………

Never a day has gone by without you.

As dew on a rose petal, a tear on my cheek for you

I sense your strength and vibrant energy

I have given you all the love that I can give

Your sparkling smile, twinkle in your eye

Your exuberant laughter your hello and bye

The touch of your fingers, faint sweet savour of your breath

The soft hollow of your neck, your beautiful body to caress

Everything is you, my interest, music, love is all you

My love Baby, I wish I could send it by a dove

Tho the rage is great it’s increase gradually grows

You are my every need, want, please wait…

It’s all about you and my love for you

My Baby, my love, my wish is guess who? You….

FROM THE HOLE TO THE S.H.U.

I’ve been locked up for awhile

You don’t wanna walk in my moccasins a mile

Diesel therapy they call it, transfer here, there

Exposing you to some of the hardest lockups here

No special reason I’m sure maybe get you killed

From one prison to the next, seen lotz of blood spilled

Your crime can give you the death sentence

Hell is your next stop if not back there, no pittance

Hot boiling water mixed with baby oil will cause much pain

Padlock in a sock is lethal you never want it again

Brutality is one word with many definitions

From gangs of white Brothers, Afro-Americans, Indian Nations

Times have changed somewhat cruel and unusual punishment

The hot box, tiger cage, the Hole, became Special Housing Unit

Maintenance engineer is still a janitor

Human Resource Specialist is still a personnel director

Downsizing still means you are gonna get fired

So corrections facility is prison if you’re not there by being hired

NO BIBLES HERE

Young man peering out the iron door

half grin, seems amused, maybe a metaphor

Orange jumpsuit colorful, dismal, confining

stood listening to someone down the hall, whining

Stood peeking out wondering about something

folding hands prayfully perhaps to the King

Started pacing again mumbling to self smiling

Stops peeks out and proceeds to pacing

Seems he has a question for someone, who would listen

Guards, medical staff, no not them, keeps right on pacing

Hears keys jangling, stops and peers out the window

Seems he was looking for a worker for the King here below

Just another guard on duty checking for security

Seems he was waiting for words of comfort, some sanctity

Guard came by again, finally, you got a Bible

Guard replies, no son, ain’t no Bibles here

Young man laughs as if he already knew the answer

Another day in Prison just awaiting a transfer

PILL TIME!

I can hide under my shadow as I stand

Stuck inside this turmoil of flesh, mind and being damned

I need something more prevalent than these voices

In between swallowing and effect are no choices

Tho the lights are on, darkness yet envelops me

Iron door, food slot flops open, pill time! in cell three

I have no wits left for ends to be

Anguish is idesoluable if you can see me

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