I come from a fractured blacktop
scattered with butts, blunt guts and broken
butterfly jars.
I come from broke and broken families
where broken window theories clip wings early.
I come from No Child Left Behind and Just Say “No”
to three-for-tens and five-for-twenties,
ten-ten skinnys and one-twenty-five by fives.
I come from penny candies and two-for-a-dollar wings,
fifty-cent hugs and dollar dutches –
blocks where boys slapbox
while the girls double-dutch.
I come from humble homes where grandmothers
are saints and every kid’s got a father
they don’t know named John Doe.
I come from late nights looking for my mother
in the back-alley of a bar
peeking through the crack in the backdoor.
I come from where crack is king
where the crack of dawn brings crack
head neighbors to steal our newspaper.
I come from crockpot dinners that simmer
while our grandmother works
seven days a week with a weak
heart, gnarled hands and swollen feet.
I come from hunger –
from rumbling stomachs in the classroom
to cutting class and rumbling in the bathroom.
I come from redbrick rowhomes with glass ceilings,
smoke-stained walls and tear-stained sheets.
I come from big iced teas and big white tees,
dirty Dickies and dicked sneaks that talk while you walk.
I come from coupons and food stamps.
I come from group homes and boot camps.
I come from false prophets
who sold me money-green dreams
who never told me that God
is dead and life is hell.
I come from the otherside
where trying to survive is a waste of time – 
I come from the end of the line.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, whose first submissions were a joy to read, and he has only gotten better over the years. I don’t know if we will hear from him again, as he will be starting a new life in the not too distant future. He has spent nearly a decade in isolation. I wish him the very best in all that he does.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Fayette
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

It’s the winter of ’05. Christmas Eve.
With a pillowcase full of Kudos bars
and a half-eaten birthday cake, we run.
Time escapes with us. We follow the half-
frozen creek, the winds whipping through the trees
cracking our cheeks and burning our banished
faces. Dawn finds us first: her sun shining
like a search light. Hunger, regret, fatigue
and fear quickly follow. One slow stumble-
step at a time, we argue and cry through
the thigh-high snow. Refuge comes as a small
cobble-stone bridge curved over the crooked
creek. Finding a tiny alcove below,
we pack in side-by-side and back-to-back.
Too exhausted to eat, we fall asleep:
a bunched-up bundle of lost boys. Men are
laughing in my dreams. Dogs bark. We awake
to state troopers and staff on ATV’s.
Once back at our cottage, I ask a nurse
how they found us. She smiles and says that
they just followed the footprints in the snow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and I’ve enjoyed everything he has sent us over the years. I don’t know if we will hear from him again, as he will be starting a new life in the not too distant future. He has spent nearly a decade in isolation. I wish him the very best in all that he does.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

I need you to know
I can’t see past tomorrow,
That I’ve been surviving these last five years
On nothing but blood and tears,
That I’m withering under the weight
Of me.

I need you to know
The more I fight my yoke
The more it chokes me,
The more of my burden I share
The harder it becomes to bear,
But my pen rebels –                        Stop!

I need you to know
I am dying,
That this is the midnight hour
Of a squandered life
And I’m struggling for recognition
Of my struggle.

That these crudely woven words
Are my last desperate attempt
At preserving a tiny piece
Of what could have been.

I need you to know
That I’m sorry.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, with the ability to paint a picture and stir emotion with so few words. I’m always excited to recieve his work, and have a few more pieces I hope to post soon. I hope he someday puts his collection together in book form.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

She was four foot eleven, Italian,
And the biggest liar I’ve ever known.
She drank Burnett’s Pink Lemonade Vodka
And liked to be choked during sex.
At sixteen she’d slit her wrists
When she found her mother’s body
On the kitchen floor. It was blue
And as cold as ice, she said.
She was  liar and a whore
Who had no respect for herself,
Or anyone else, and hadn’t a
Single principle or moral to her name
But I loved her,
And I miss her
A lot.
She was only twenty-two
When she died.
I keep her picture on the wall
Of my cell
And tell her every morning
That I love her.
I know if I had been out there
That I could have saved her.
I also know that if I had been out there
I wouldn’t have.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, with the ability to paint a picture and stir emotion with so few words. Although he doesn’t send in his work often, I always look forward to reading his mail. He recently mentioned trying his hand at songwriting, and I have no doubt he will succeed.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

I had come home late after a long weekend of
drinking and wondering the streets.  The house was dark.
I looked in on you and you were in bed
so I went to bed as well.  Deep in a dream
I could hear the phone ringing on the end table.
I didn’t remember there being a phone on
the end table.  But there was, and it was ringing.
With my eyes still shut, I felt around until
I found the phone and put it to my ear:
“Robby… Robby, is that you?” you asked,
in a quick, hushed voice.  You sounded far away.
“Robby, help me,” you whispered into the phone.
I could hear the fear and desperation
in your voice.  I was confused and scared,
I asked you where you were and you said that
you didn’t know.  You started to cry.
I told you to look around you and tell me
what you saw.  You said that it was dark and
you couldn’t see anything.  I didn’t
understand.  I thought to ask you whose phone
you were using, but you cut me off, and,
all of these years later, I can still hear
you say, “I’m so cold…” as your voice fades away.
When I awoke it was still dark outside and
as I walked down the hall to check on you
again, I knew.  Your room was pitch black, and I
was afraid to turn on the light because I knew
that you were there, in the dark, and I didn’t want
you to go. I walked over to your bedside and
gently touched your face.  It was cold.  You’d been
gone for hours, but were still there.  Did you not know
that you’d passed?  Were you waiting for me
to come home? Did you lose your way?  Or,
is that really all that awaits us?  I’ve heard
others talk of heaven, hell, bright lights and judgment;
of warmth and weightlessness and hovering above
your body as your entire life replays
itself before you; of deceased loved ones,
gathered around, telling you to go back,
that there’s still work to be done amongst the living.
I hope that these things prove true, for them,
but for me, I know in  my heart that when I die
it’s going to be dark and it’s going to be
cold.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and although we don’t hear from him often, I always look forward to posting his work.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733