onion skins

thoughts of suicide

are only thoughts of suicide

contemplating who’d serve the final spoken word

that would provoke nerves during your eulogy

cause truly,

no one really knows you anymore

i once heard,

said,

or read somewhere

that the age of maturity

remains forever frozen

the first year of your incarceration

like doing 20

then jumping out

still thinking you’re relevant

or back like retro kicks

i’m not being dramatic

it’s post-traumatic prison syndrome

still hitting that same spot,

sitting at the same bus stop

waiting on a bus that doesn’t even run that route anymore

then reality hits you in the chest

like when Pac was shot

but you shake that thought,

and continue to sit and wait

cause waiting

is what you’ve always done best

an every time a slight sun ray parts the everlasting gray skies

for a split second

you’re so quick to say,

“blessed”

fool

does a bottle of Zephyrhills water

make hell any less hotter?

hell no!

unfair

uncomfortable

unaccountable

when you fail,

they never fail to remind you

bind you

and wind you up with foolish hope

every time they play with your mind

toy with your time

kiss your eyelids with expectations venomous lips

extinguishing the wishes of family and friends

while increasing the governor’s dividends

while our people are forced to sign petitions to bring these life sentences to an end

these distinguished gentlemen,

contemporary Caesars ruling this modern day Rome

on the backs of those who have our backs

thou shall not judge and all that hypocritical jargon

i begged for a pardon

and still got slaughtered

my heart’s been hardened by these concrete walls

i sit still, stare, and study these solid cinder blocks, and recall

youthful hours

watching mom chopping onion on the kitchen counter with watered eyes as i begged and plead for a brand new freestyle bmx bike with the front-wheel pegs and she said,

“niño, eso está muy carro” she couldn’t afford it

months later she bought it

a month later they stole it

i walked home with my head down knowing she’d be disappointed

i understand now it wasn’t the layers of onion skins that made her cry

it was her humbled pride

the same thing that stings my innermost being

like the tattoo needle that inks the inkling

in the stitching of this costume i wear as if every day is Halloween

i mean,

don’t we all have many faces

hat we cover up like Maybelline

till the time comes when the foundation

smears

streaks

and runs

and the cold hard gaze is just another well-practiced look

but in the stain-tainted mirror

you dodge the truth

you avoid your stare

in order not to scare the rest of your day away

wrestling with the reality figuring

its figure four can be countered

with optimism

and unacceptance

although the locks on these cell doors don’t have key holes

just peepholes into your soul

watching it fight hard to grow

through the bullshit that fertilizes these instructions

do you really expect tulips

when you plant seeds in Hiroshima?

they’re starting a garden of Eden

where judicial serpents circumvent every branch of life

amputate every limb of freedom

it is demeaning

how are there no apologies

for the policies

prophecies

and philosophies

they’re engineering fallacies

i’m pioneering honesty

and honestly

it bothers me

that they think i belong here for the rest of my life

that shit don’t even sound right…

they’re all bias

they’re all liars

pharaohs in the courtroom castles

hassling the masses that don’t have it

why is peace… only found in the aftermath of… riots?

it’s pious

all pious

God is dead…

and i didn’t kill him

the justice system did… again and again…

no, i’m not atheist yet

and i’m not crazy

i know i’m not crazy

maybe my faith is

and lately i don’t know

so don’t ask

don’t probe

let’s just suppose there is still a place called home

the highs, the lows

the amping and ranting with each expectation that grows

the positive energy you spread

with memories left unhatched in your head

the work, support, and pure emotion

put behind every court motion, every appeal

the confidence, the sureness that speak into existence

nonsense like,

“this is it! this is the one. i know i won.”

consciously chanting “granted” as a mantra

to a rhythm of hopeful doubt

then the gravel slams BAM!

denied

God just died

memorable souvenirs put on hold

welcome home clothes collecting dust

perfect planned picnic sandwiches left

untouched

crucifix, kufis, rosaries, prayer beads, incense, candles, and rugs

all the dogma nutured

and cared for

cut open like a cesarean and removed

from the womb of prosperty

my tomorrow morning’s orphaned

my midnight’s left

to adopt a simple wishful and unwanted thoughts

and i think of mom again

peeling the onion

fighting the feeling

and i try not to cry

but a salty tear d

r

o

p

f

r

e

e

f

a

l

l

s

to the floor

cultivating the currencies of the poor

and imprisoned with burden and regret

nothing’s left

and i year for that long walk home again

but God is dead

i know that sound so blasphemous

but so is this overcrowded convicted cemetery

there’s no room for tombs

and i assume

that God is somewhere in here too

buried alive like the rest of us

and manybe

just maybe

i’ll find him again

cause faith

is the rusted nail

that pierces the calloused palms…

that pray so hard for a way up out this place