I guess in the last twenty five years, machines have taken over the world – like a bad science fiction move from the ‘80’s.  My movie is called, ‘The Telephone System That Ate My Lunch’.

My best friend in the whole world went out of her way to register her phone, so I could actually talk to someone from home, someone that cares and loves me, someone I actually want to talk to.

So, after receiving this spectacular news on Friday, I waited until Saturday to try and call her.

I started at 12:05 p.m., and I’ve been trying ever  since.  It’s now 9:07 p.m.

The problem is, the phone system is automated.  This is what you need to make a call:

1. A valid TDCJ number (I have that)
2. A number on your approved list (I have that)
3. The third and final hurdle in my phone Olympics – the system has to recognize your voice

Now, I haven’t made a telephone call in twenty-five calendar years – not that I haven’t desired to.  Some people, they make phone calls every day.  They go to the commissary and buy 100 phone minutes, like they’re nobody’s business.  I’m not mad at them.  I’m glad they have that opportunity.  Elated…

What about those who don’t have family?  Or, those who have family, but are unable to meet the financial requirement of being able to afford such a luxury?  What about me, who at the moment is fit to be tied because I am a voice print away from reaching my destination.

Home…

Just for five minutes.  To hear someone’s voice who means more to me than air.  I’ve dialed her number a thousand times today.  I have it memorized.  Heck, it’s memorialized for pete’s sake, yet the cold, lifeless, computerized operator keeps telling me, “I’m sorry, I cannot recognize your voice – goodbye.”   Click.

I know, I’m being silly but believe me when I say this – it’s the little things that mean the most in here, and to me, this little thing means the most right now.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’.   In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

He chases the high with his mouth open like it’s his last breath of life,
Running in circles like a lunatic, till he finds his next supply,
And never is he satisfied, even when his sweaty pockets go dry.
He’s the guy living under the bridge and doesn’t give a damn why.
My dad’s a dope fiend.

Like his oldest son who lies in the grave, he has no life.
He’s the slave to the demons, who submits without a fight.
There’s no remorse for his actions, he smoked those the other night.
And when he said he loved his kids, he was talking about his pipes.
My dad’s a dope fiend.

Though his body has hunger pains, it’s hard for him to choose.
Two needs, one addiction, the other is bound to lose.
He questions, “Should I buy a dime, or should I buy me some food?”
His thoughts are, ‘Eat for what? Get high, Dummy!’  My thoughts, ‘Yeah, I should have known.’
My dad’s a dope fiend.

When his veins scream and cry, he rocks his babies to sleep,
Puts the bottle to their mouth, till their stomachs can’t breathe.
To them, he’s an all-star father, seven days a week.
He even shows how he loves them by the wounds on his sleeve.
My dad’s a dope fiend.

He’s like the guy with the basket, picking up cans, looking lost and confused.
In his mind he has a plan, ‘Buy some beers and some smoke.
Man, fuck new shoes!’
What happened to the man who bought me presents, I think, when I was two?
My mom’s like, ‘Son, are you kidding!? That stuff was donated to you!’  Damn…
My dad’s a dope fiend.

Inspired by the father I never had who spent most of my life in prison and on drugs.

Dedicated to him and anyone who can relate.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Joel loves to write and is striving to be a legendary poet.  He can be contacted at:
Joel Orcasitas #01404226
McConnell Unit
3001 S. Emily Drive
Beeville, TX 78102

Doom and despair, agony and loneliness,
they were my days and my companions for years.
Rage consumed my soul.

My mind screamed for a way to be heard,
long days locked in a box.
The stigma of a convicted murder.

The case false, but conviction so true,
no one cared what I had to say.
The courts turned a cold shoulder.

I almost fell into the void of no return,
hope a word or just a thought?
No, it’s a way of life for me.

Walk in those shoes… who, what, where?
All light at the end of that dark tunnel.
My life started to change.

You gave me a voice to be heard,
I have a voice again.
People are listening now.

I am a person again, with a story to be told,
I write and cast off the clouds of darkness.
I am alive again, through my published words.

To write heals my soul,
patches my torn spirit.
Justice may again be within my grasp.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Reggie West is serving life without the possibility of parole.  He can be reached at:
Reggie West #FE-6643
1000 Follies Road
Dallas, PA 18612

Remember when you were seven years old?  Take a trip with me, humor me if you will. You’re seven.  You live in middle class America, and you’ve been strung along in the fantasy that Santa Claus exists.

You’ve spent twelve months cleaning your room, brushing your teeth and combing your hair.  You’ve refrained from pulling girls’ pigtails and throwing pebbles at them – or spit balls.  You’ve eaten your vegetables, even broccoli, and you’ve been as invisible as a seven year old boy can be – because you’ve been told, if you’re good, Santa Claus might bring you that new bike you’ve been asking – no, begging – for.

Then Christmas morning comes – you run down the stairs and look under the tree – no bike.  You run to the garage and look where your old bike still sits, just to check.   Your old bike…

By now, you’re frantic.  You’ve been good for a year – a whole year!  You not only deserve a new bike, you earned it – so where is it?

I’ve been ‘good’ for the last five years, twenty-five if truth be told.  I’ve brushed my teeth, combed my hair, cleaned my room.  I’ve done every conceivable thing I’ve been told to do by my handlers.  I was told that if I did these things – which I would have done anyway – I’d be released on parole.

Simple enough, right?

No bike.  No bike for another two years – January, 2020.

After seventeen years of being on my best behavior (no problem with me), I’m set off from going home.  Now, in the grand scheme of things, 730 days isn’t a long period of time, when you’ve already done 9,125 days, 720 is a drop in the bucket.

However, I’m not well.  As a matter of fact, my health is declining at an accelerated rate.  I’m 57 years old, not seven.  There are days when I barely have the energy, the strength, the will power to get out of my bunk, yet I still do.

There are days when I don’t feel like putting all my stuff away, and playing the compliance game.  For years, I’d run a tab.  Then I’d get $20 and make a list out to go and buy hygiene products, stamps, maybe a snack or two and a diet coke for my dog, Sparky.

I’d get the Diet Coke – $.40.  $19.60 was owed to the state.

I lived like that for years – until Evelyn found me, inspired me, nurtured me and blessed me a thousand times over.  So, for the last two years, I haven’t had to play ‘The Company Store’ game.  But, time marches on, people get tired, tired of waiting for you to come home.  They sometimes forget about you.  I understand this all too well.  I’ve been waiting for that bike since I was 48.

Next parole date is two years from now.  Nothing has changed.  I’m still the same good humored, good hearted person I’ve been all my life – except for that five minute period where I lost control.  I’m not going to change these things – ever…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, Misunderstood’, but he still has the things his father instilled in him – humility, respect and love.  In spite of 25 years behind bars, he continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

There is nothing I can imagine more terrifying than a parole interview.  All the time under your belt means nothing in those brief moments.  Your entire life depends upon how you present yourself, how you project, body language. It’s all on the line, and you might not get a chance to see the review process again for God knows how long.

I’ve waited five long years for each of the last two.  That’s 1,825 days between each, or 43,800 hours.   It is 2,628,000 minutes – or, yes, 159,680,000 seconds.  But, who’s counting?  I certainly have been…

At the interview, you are in an awkward situation if you have amassed an impressive resume that includes certificates of completion in areas of Bible Study, Vocational Classes, Self Improvement, and Educational or Rehabilitation Programs, such as Substance Abuse and Anger Management.  With that approach, you risk looking so desperate to go home, that you’ll do anything to get there, like an actor in a movie playing the perfect part.  When the cameras go off, will you go back to being the criminal they perceive you to be?

If you sit in your chair and do nothing, you might appear as if you don’t care about your future and you do not wish to go home.  You’re seen as being comfortable in your little space.

If you appear calm, cool, and collected, does that mean you are unremorseful, cold and calculated…

If you pour your heart out, you’re seen as over emotional, not in control, capable of doing something similar to what brought you there in the first place.

Put simply, you’re damned if you do, and you’re damned if you don’t.

All I’ve ever had was the truth.  All I’ve ever shared was the truth.

There’s no way to sugar coat the worst three minutes of your life.  Those three minutes that affected the last 25 years, not only for yourself but your family and friends – those you hold dear.

It is said that regret is such a waste of time.  That you cannot change the past and therefore to spend hours, months and years regretting something you can’t change is fruitless.  I disagree.

To forget the past is to chance repeating it. That isn’t an option for me.  I made the worst mistake anyone can make, to ever consider forgetting it, is to chance repeating it.  I will hold tight to these regrets until the day I die.  But, what has bound me to these emotions will not affect the way I feel, think or react.  My lesson, bad or good, must be maintained as a reference.

I’m just a man.  Men make mistakes.  Good men make bad mistakes.  Good men know how important it is to not make the same mistakes again.  That’s what I told them, from my heart.  And if they set me off again, for however long they determine – that’s what I’ll tell them again – from the heart.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, Misunderstood’, but he still has the things his father instilled in him – humility, respect and love.  In spite of 25 years behind bars, he continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583