Brother forgive me,
I find no pleasure in what I must do.
No joy. No pride.
No honor.
Though the deed that you’ve willed
Will never be,
The intent forever will.
Now the blood of a brother
Must be spilt
On the iron foundation
Of what we have built,
Though it is not for us to say whose,
It would seem that
With the words of a coward,
And the heart of a soldier,
That it is you whom fate has chosen
To mark as her own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet.
He can be reached at:
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
175 Progress Drive
Waynesburg, PA 15370
I grew up amongst the tribe of fatherless sons,
We are the true lost ones.
Finding thugs, killers and dope dealers
As role models for our future.
Our mothers strove from 8 to 5,
Tryin’ to keep hope alive
That our rebellion was just a phase,
One to pass in the coming of days,
But oh, how we were lost in our ways.
See, we longed for more than a mother’s love,
We looked tirelessly for a masculine image to clone.
Told to be ‘the man’ of the home,
But lost upon us, like gold’s shine covered in dust,
Was the meaning of being a ‘man’.
Our fathers were like gardeners
Who plant a seed as it were
And never came back to nurture,
Letting it spring up amongst weeds and insects
That on its innocence feed.
It’s not only that we have been forgotten,
We have been forsaken
By supposed men, of which we’re the next of kin.
So, I call out you cowardice swine,
Who left behind in your lustful wake,
Hearts and lives you thought not twice to break.
How do you answer for your crimes?
Does the anguish caused by you
Play upon your conscious mind?
For those of us who did not succumb,
To all that we had to overcome,
And even those still lost,
May our tribe die with us,
For a future without fatherless sons is a must!
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
My heart is crumbling into dust, not pieces.
There is no reconstructing the damage.
I’m bleeding.
I want redemption for my penance,
As the lost seek Divine forgiveness.
Hope is all I have,
And it’s a fine thread from heaven.
Despair is a razor rendering the cord unwoven.
I’m on borrowed time, with an impossible interest rate,
In fear of having the loan called in.
I grow weary from all this prison life,
So, I’m going to sleep.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll try again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Darrell has contributed several pieces to this site and continues to write. He wrote this piece not long ago, shortly after a friend of his lost his life inside his cell.
Darrell Sharpe #W80709
P.O. Box 43
Norfolk, MA 02056
I sympathize with the people of Flint, Michigan. Their water was contaminated because nobody gave much thought to the problems that could be created by switching from a water source that was proven reliable to the Flint River, which was known for its mercury poisoned waters.
Sometimes greed overcomes public welfare and safety. Or, as in our case, indifference.
When I arrived at this place in May of 1995, I immediately noticed one thing. The water wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just the way it tasted. If an inmate heats water for coffee, soups or anything else they might want to cook, they need a hot pot. The pot doesn’t get hot enough to ‘boil’ water, but it can get hot enough to ‘crock pot’ a meal if used correctly.
I’ve had two. I had the first one for almost six years and the second for ten. Both never leaked because I kept them dry while not in use, and I never left water in them for longer than an hour. Everyone who owns one and doesn’t dry it out immediately after use is plagued with the dilemma of replacing their pot. If a pot is left slightly wet or heats water for long periods of time, the water will begin to eat through the bottom plate of the pot.
Which brings us to the crux of the story. All of the water coolers here have filters – except for the ones in the male housing areas. The infirmary, the cannery, the areas where officers fill their bottles, the officers’ dining areas – all of those locations have filtered water. Everywhere – but where we live. There are even signs in some locations stating ‘non-potable water’.
The officers often buy bottled water from the commissary or bring in bottles by the dozens in the hotter months of June, July and August. Of course, I can hear my dad saying to me now, “Johnny, if water can eat through a hot pot, imagine what it’s doing to your stomach?” It regularly eats and corrodes the water pipes in the plumbing system.
So, what’s in the water? Being the resourceful person I am, I once sent a fellow inmate home with a water sample to find out. He was a plumber by trade so he had access to the type of testing and technology needed. A week after he got home and settled in, he had the sample tested. He never sent me the results, only told me, “You don’t wanna know.”
Before I came to prison in 1993, I never experienced any kind of skin irritation or sensitivity. I’ve battled all kinds of skin problems since I’ve been here. I’ve had athletes foot, jock itch, and scaling skin issues since my arrival. I seem to have developed an immunity over the years, but I continue to see things on a daily basis that, pardon the pun, would make your skin crawl.
The quality of life suffers when the water you drink and bathe in is at war with you. Sometimes there are notices to the inmates to boil the water we use. Remember our hot pots? They don’t boil – crazy, huh? Or is it by design?
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
Robert Booker on Right, with his son and granddaughter.
As Grandpa gets down to her level, smiling for the photo, he knows it may be the last time he sees her for a while. Not long after this photograph was taken, Robert Booker made the fifteen hour move west from Michigan, through Indiana, Illinois and Iowa – all the way to Yankton, South Dakota, where he settled into his new home on what was once a college campus, but is now known as Yankton Federal Prison Camp. We have so many prisoners, we really do turn schools into prisons.
Booker talks of how beautiful the place is, the skies filled with hundreds of geese travelling in one direction one day and in the opposite the next, searching for something. The trees hold nests too numerous to count. The food’s better than where he was before. The people are respectful.
To his friends, he’s Gino, or Bob, or Bobby. To some he is Robert. To the littlest ones, he is Grandpa. Regardless of who he is to them – he is currently far away. But, no matter where he has been geographically for the last two decades, he has been ‘removed’ from them all, cut off by concrete and fences, phone rules, mail restrictions and visitation room requirements.
Robert Booker has been without his family for nearly twenty-five years. He missed dinners, holidays, graduations and funerals. He missed watching his children grow and seeing his parents buried. Currently, he’s missing taking his grandkids to the park, telling them tall tales, and holding their tiny hands in his while they cross the street. He’s missing every single one of their ‘firsts’. He lost one generation and he is currently losing another.
Robert Booker, after the publication of his first novel, Push.
Booker isn’t a danger to himself or anyone, that is why he is housed in a ‘camp’. He’s proven he is not a security threat and has spent the last two and a half decades writing. Not just writing, but achieving goals many writers only dream of. He’s worked hard, authoring six published books, with another fifty manuscripts in storage.
In spite of that, the federal government spends over $30,000 a year to keep him far removed from his family and housed in Yankton, South Dakota. That figure becomes three quarters of a million dollars if multiplied by twenty five, the approximate number of years that Booker has been incarcerated. That’s a lot of money to keep a man that is no threat to anyone from going home.
Detroit Free Press, March 21, 1994, just prior to Booker’s arrest.
The housing costs do not include the money the government has spent to fight the legal battle to keep him behind bars. Mr. Booker was arrested June 29, 1994 on charges that included possession with intent to distribute crack cocaine, conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute crack cocaine and operating a ‘crack distribution house’.
On April 13, 1995, Booker was sentenced to twenty years in federal prison. That wasn’t enough, and in July of 1996 he was sentenced again and given thirty years. A year later – Booker was again resentenced, this time getting Life. It’s hard to understand why so much money would be invested to keep one nonviolent individual from ever being free again, and it would be difficult to calculate how many thousands of dollars were spent in order for the prosecution to achieve that goal. It seems the man hours and funds could be spent on something much less destructive and more productive. It defies logic, really.
Today, nearly twenty five years after his conviction, Robert Booker is a loving father, an adoring grandfather, an author, and friend to many. There was a war started decades ago that has not improved the drug situation in this country, but rather continues to feed the hunger of the largest mass incarceration problem in the world – the overpopulation of the prisons in the United States. This destructive pattern is not only filling our prisons to overflowing, but also destroying families, leaving large sections ofsociety feeling hopeless, helpless and targeted – with good reason.
Twenty years into Booker’s life sentence, the sentencing guidelines changed, reducing Life to 38 years. Then, before he left office, Obama granted him clemency, once again reducing the sentence, this time to thirty years.
Yet, Robert Booker remains in prison to this day. He is serving his time as a trusted inmate, walking the halls of what used to be a college campus in Yankton and watching the geese fly by. He continues to miss all of the ‘firsts’ with his grandkids, walking in endless circles around a track, and writing. And the government continues to fund his incarceration in order to punish a man who has already been punished, reform a man who has already been reformed, and keep a man they know is not a threat to anyone far removed from those who love him. For what? Robert Booker is the face of the fallout of the failed war on drugs.
AUTHOR’S NOTE. Robert Booker loves to hear from people and readers of his books. He can be contacted at:
Robert Booker #19040039
Federal Prison Camp Yankton
P.O. Box 700
Yankton, SD 57078
Booker’s books can be purchased at his Author Page on Amazon.
I’ve spent ninety-two weeks plus, cooped up at The People’s Zoo. This is where they place all of the untrustworthy incorrigibles to be petted, groomed and most importantly – watched.
In my observation of ‘them’, we seem to be comfortable. Well, unbearably content, in our one-man cubicles. All that is at the convenience of the occupant is a sink, commode and bed. Ironically, it’s peaceful in the Gates of Hell when the ‘minders’ take breaks from assessing the great threats to maximum security overflow. Quiet… but not for long, only while they smoke.
Constant illumination, sensory deprivation and the excessive noise coming from the cage doors being rattled – the mammals want out.
Some’ll settle for meaningful conversation, others mental stimulation. Most, sexual gratification for some of the lowliest beings on the planet: voyeurs in lust. ‘Where’s the dignity in smiling when the manacled man sings?’ Tell me this. I have yet to grasp the humor. But, this is the infamous People’s Zoo. We are here for entertainment purposes. No matter how malicious, sadistic, and plain sick they seem to be.
We can’t exist… or so I think we can’t. This is what their actions have shown, our handlers I write of.
As I sit on my two-inch mat covered with thin sheets, I’m enshrouded in a wool overcoat, my blanket, under garments and some semi-comfortable slide-ins. The stillness reminds me of the inside of a monastery and my appearance, a monk. However, my mind is an endless pit of no-thingness. Free to roam outside of the boxcar doors that hold me. Even the loud rumble from the exhaust vent can’t distract me. My Zen isn’t compromised while smelling the vile sweat, putrid breath and bile of men who are no longer men. Shells of their old selves. Hollow. Broken beyond mending. So, I sit.
I hear the jingle of keys and the squeak of bald rubber on uneven concrete. Food – if that’s what they call it.
The ‘chuck hole’ bangs open abruptly, disturbing my peace.
Clack, Boom, Boom, Boom – my nose is filled with the most noxious of smells. Pigs entrails?! The gods have sent me a message to read on earth. So, why eat? I stare at this filth and discard it into my toilet with passion. I understand, so I sacrifice. When I flush, my toilet swallows the entire portion hungrily in one gulp. I hope he doesn’t, oh… vomit it back to the surface, presenting it as a ‘peace offering’ – guilt for all of the meals I’ve fed him, quelling the hunger pains and the gurgles and growls deep inside his bowels. A gift…??? It whines, so I accept approvingly. It’s okay, Ol’ Boy.
Day 2:
I awake the following morning to the same familiar stillness. The warm sun cascading through the cracks of the metal window shudder that I can’t remove. Beautiful. I’m so glad that was nothing more than a nightmare. Whew!
Jingle. Clack. Boom. Boom. Boom.
It wasn’t. This is my reality. Our proverbial Black Hole of existence.
It replays the same as yesterday, but I numbly chew the moldy bread and sour grapes. ‘The gods are good, Amen’ – as I pull out the sword that I’ve hidden under my loin cloth. I’m going to whet the edges against the yellow rock that’s in plain sight. It doesn’t matter if I’m seen. I’m always seen, watched, observed, lusted after and hated. Besides, I’ve grown accustomed to the raps on my cage perturbing my Peace. Testing my patience as another ‘tour’ is brought through.
“See, this one is quiet but deadly. He doesn’t have too much to say,” in a hushed tone. “Folks, he’s the most serious of them all.” I can hear the exited murmurs as he looks in and knocks lightly, nearly respectful, and coo’s like I’m the pet circus lion he loves to be scared of at night. “How’re you holding up in there? Can I help you with anything?” I go back to whetting the edges of my sword while cool blue eyes in pale faces covered in blond hair gawk in awe. “I guess he’s moody right now. I know you wanted him to do something, Hon. Maybe next time,” as he walks away disappointed. They wanted me to display what, Anger? It figures.
‘Where’s the dignity?’ This is what the voice keeps asking me. I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I look, but nobody is there. Funny. I know some-thing, some-body was there. I don’t feel alone. He’s here… again. I mustn’t fight it. I must sleep.
Jingle. Clack. Boom. Boom. Boom. The hatch snatches me out of my dreamless slumber. I roll back over and look at the steel shutters that I call a window.
Boom. Clack!
“Well, starve then, suits you best, punk.” The chorus of the pig’s keys chiming helps me drift off to…
Day 3:
I pace my floor in slow, calculated strides. Like a feline, the King of All Cats – The Lion. Yet, I dare roar. It’ll expose my hand and allow them to see me in the light that I’ve worked so hard to distract them from. I’m now the ‘Quiet One’. I smile quietly to myself as I unsheathe my sword. I admire the elegance of my work. She’s been with me for as long as I can remember. Flexible, yet firm. Molding to my hand. It belongs there. So, I write,
Life is pointless if I cannot make a point.
So I will live doing or die trying.
THEY…
give me no choice.
Hatred isn’t a strong enough word.
What I feel has yet to be
invented, spoke, felt or heard;
Etymologically, it’s a verb.
Obliteration is most fitting.
Oppression
Exploitation
There’s no dignity
BUT
these people seem to turn a blind
eye to our humanity.
Give me a reason to show mercy
when the tables turn.
Pigs’ flesh clouds my cross hairs.
Deep Breath.
Trigger pulled.
Powder burn.
Peace,
Tranquility.
I smile quietly, hmmm, this’ll be a nightmare befitting of applause. BUT,
My room has no window a box devoid of cubic measurement. a thought, deemed to be illusion. a cell. a pit. a room. a tomb unfitting the confined, metaphorically, dead. us me them WE ARE HERE. this dismal crypt our rooms have no windows… none to see, but his WHIP, is this living????? I see no other way But OUT.
I must make it. I must be strong. I must, as tears sting my eyes, be… strong… I must.
To be continued…
Until THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Tracy Greer, Jr. has been in ‘the hole’ for two years. He is a gifted writer of poetry, fiction and essays.
Tracy Greer, Jr. 1153032
South Central Correctional Center
255 W. Hwy 32
Licking MO 65542
At my cell door, we have to stop. Two guards are on the other side, and I need to hand them all my clothes. I stand in my boxers as one searches through my thermal top, thermal bottom, two pairs of socks, shorts, t-shirt, jump suit and jacket. Once finished, the male guard hands all those items to the female guard standing next to him.
I then hand the man the last of my clothing, my boxer shorts and tennis shoes. Once he searches those, I’m made to do the strip search drill, lifting my testicles and turning around, before I’m allowed to put my boxers and tennis shoes back on. Turning my back to the door, I squat a bit to place my hands through the feeding slot so hand restraints can be placed on my wrists. Once locked in place, I stand up, and the guard motions for the cell to be opened.
“Back out the cell,” the guard states. You’re not supposed to turn around and walk out, but back out. Now we are escorted by the two guards to the recreation yard outside. Once through the door to the outside, the bitter cold instantly bites my flesh, sending goose bumps along my skin. As one guard holds me, the other walks the recreation yard, searching it – and holding my clothes.
Once she returns, I step in the yard and the door is closed behind me. I stoop once again to place my hands through the slot so the handcuffs can be removed. My clothes are then passed to me through the slot. I quickly begin putting them on and trying to get warm.
That was the easy part. After my time outside is up, the guards return to get me. Once again, I walk back to the gate door and begin to strip out in order to hand my clothes to the guard. Layer by layer, I hand them in as they are searched, piece by piece, until I am once again naked and outside. The last thing I hand in is my shoes, as I stand on the cold concrete, waiting. But, before they can be returned, I first have to raise my testicles, raise my arms, and turn around.
My body is shivering by the time I get my shoes and boxers back and turn around to once again put my shaking hands through the slot to get handcuffed. I then stand up before backing out the door and walking back into the building.
Thank you for walking with me. If you enjoyed this, we can do it again tomorrow. This is what every one of us does that wants to get outside our cell for two hours in the winter.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
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:
A valid TDCJ number (I have that)
A number on your approved list (I have that)
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
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Darrell has contributed several pieces to this site and continues to write. He wrote this piece not long ago, shortly after a friend of his lost his life inside his cell.
I sympathize with the people of Flint, Michigan. Their water was contaminated because nobody gave much thought to the problems that could be created by switching from a water source that was proven reliable to the Flint River, which was known for its mercury poisoned waters.
Yet, Robert Booker remains in prison to this day. He is serving his time as a trusted inmate, walking the halls of what used to be a college campus in Yankton and watching the geese fly by. He continues to miss all of the ‘firsts’ with his grandkids, walking in endless circles around a track, and writing. And the government continues to fund his incarceration in order to punish a man who has already been punished, reform a man who has already been reformed, and keep a man they know is not a threat to anyone far removed from those who love him. For what? Robert Booker is the face of the fallout of the failed war on drugs.
I’ve spent ninety-two weeks plus, cooped up at The People’s Zoo. This is where they place all of the untrustworthy incorrigibles to be petted, groomed and most importantly – watched.
I pace my floor in slow, calculated strides. Like a feline, the King of All Cats – The Lion. Yet, I dare roar. It’ll expose my hand and allow them to see me in the light that I’ve worked so hard to distract them from. I’m now the ‘Quiet One’. I smile quietly to myself as I unsheathe my sword. I admire the elegance of my work. She’s been with me for as long as I can remember. Flexible, yet firm. Molding to my hand. It belongs there. So, I write,
Once she returns, I step in the yard and the door is closed behind me. I stoop once again to place my hands through the slot so the handcuffs can be removed. My clothes are then passed to me through the slot. I quickly begin putting them on and trying to get warm.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
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