Day 1:
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
