Long Jails Poems
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There are the few, then there are the
Rest of them.
Chatter boxes, bipolar manic woman, that men
Try to escape from.
Those that are men over here are of course put,
Into jails or prisons.
The magic of silence,
For the blessed few are able to dream any dream
Night or day
And prearrange the out come of what they dream, while
Wide awake before going to bed.
Without the preconceived notion of very hard work, to
Obtain the solution,
To each master piece, each work of art, even the words
That to most can't conceive.
For those few that have come they have not the ability,
To put up with the rest that make useless noise.
Precognition, remote viewing, complex math the writing of music,
The ability to master in a brief period of time
Most cerebral disciplines that take the rest forever to learn,
If they are blessed with that special genetic material.
Because for most that can travel into solitude, it creates within
Them that unnatural fear,
The fear that most have of living and dying alone.
James McLain Friday, October 13, 2017
The human being
(also referred throughout history
as 'long pig' and 'hairless goat'
in the case of younger specimens)
Observing the anatomy and skeleton,
one can see that the human animal
after death young tender meat.
The large central pelvis and broad shoulder blades
also interfere with achieving perfect cuts.
There are advantages to this however,
especially due to the fact that the specimen girl
will weigh between 100-200 pounds,
easily manipulated by one man with proper leverage.
Controlled environments like institutions or jails before.
Health and diet to outward appearances maintained.
Humans are not very kind to the dead here it is why you are.
You are an unknown to me
thus subject to an enormous range of diseases,
infections, chemical imbalances,
and poisonous bad habits, all typically decreasing with age.
I personally prefer calm firm caucasian females
in their early teens.
These are 'ripe'.
But the saw varies from cut to cut,
and again there it is a very large herd to choose from.
The M.E.)
Medical Examiner will need a fairly large room and sufficient space
in which to work (an interior location is suggested)
and a large table for a butcher's block.
A central overhead support will need to be chosen
or installed ahead of time to hang the young body from.
Large tubs or barrels for blood
and waste trimmings should be convenient,
and a water source close by.
Most of the work can be done with a few simple tools.
Sharp, clean short and long bladed knives,
a cleaver or hatchet, and a hacksaw and ribspreaders.
Body Preparation requires plenty of water.
This helps flush the system,
purging stored toxins and bodily wastes,
as well as making bleeding and cleaning easier.
This one I will call Jane doe 007
was found at a bar stunned into insensitivity.
Sharp unexpected blows to the head put her at rest
quite is best, tranquilizers being recommended
If this is not possible without exciting the body
and causing a longer struggle (which then pumps
a greater volume of blood
and secretions such as adrenaline throughout the body
A single bullet through the middle of the forehead
exiting the back of the skull here did nice.
For what ever reason her companion is here right beside her.
Is is called murder suicide I think it is two suicides.
Whom ever goes last gets the cellophane wrap.
Women of the early 1900’s should have been justifiably outraged
Owned like chattel by their men
Elections were held willy nilly
And if you did not have a willy, you were eliminated
The rare woman who thought she should be
a voter, was not even a contender for a listening ear.
Treated rather like a hog, pig, or a cow.
Ostracized by both men and other women.
Women who were given a glimpse of what
could be, by stand-up liberated women like
Susan B. Anthony did not automatically jump on the bandwagon of liberation. These loud obnoxious free-thinking women were no doubt annoying to socialized women whose February was filled with valentine chocolates and love notes rather than protests and marches. Why did the uppity women insist on equal rights and the right to vote?
Many of the well-behaved women were irritated and outraged
by the uppity attitude of these liberated women, encouraging their men
to throw these loud vulgar rabble rousers into jails.
They strongly encouraged the punitive efforts enforced on these troublemakers. Glaringly on board and fearful of change, many women were not yet ready to admit they were equal in wisdom or feelings of their men.
Sadly they did not recognize their worth or take a stand against oppression and did not insist on the right to vote for many years. Adding to the confusion of our masochistic society which even today has not allowed a woman to be President.
Splendor of soft shoulders
caressed by sinking sun
Out my window the western slope
of the thick coated Rocky Mountains
Once upon a clear cold Colorado Chrstmas
purple brushed horizon flecked with gold
filled my picture window
Mesmerized I stood staring
at this huge canvas hung in the Louver
God's and goddesses swirling about
in a swath of psychedelic clouds
refracting the colors of slow dimming light
Mt. Olympus in my living room
I was seventeen living in a dream
high up in the sandstone cliffs
carved out by the west's Mississippi
Nature, sweet mother of mine, purging
my childhood nightmare with sunsets
mountains, rivers and springs
On the banks of that fat river below
I listened to nothing but hope
Even in the echo of crackling ice
Even when she froze everything still
she made life beautiful
Never ever did she
punish my anger
but kissed it away with her love
with forests, flowers, birds and trees
She gentled my soul when I held her hand
and took me back from the jails and hospitals
every time I ran
Seventeen, fresh from my last disaster
Christmas Eve eight hundred miles
from expulsion and friends I missed
my dreaded return to the last place I left
There she was…
… arms spread clear across the valley
to hug me… her renegade child
My mother, bless her heart--
--wasn't happy to see her headache return
But my "other" mother was.. yeah
I took refuge in the painted cliffs and canyons that surrounded me
and when I came down to the valley floor
I would stop before the bridge
and walk down to listen to the big water's mighty roar…
It never stopped rolling and never ran dry
despite all obstacles
and neither did I
My savior doesn't have a birthday
but I will celebrate my hope in "His"
Just that warm sun
slinking like a coyote
over the western horizon
that Christmas Eve
is all the hope I'll ever need
by Bob Moore (c) 2/4/2020)
The world was collapsing, and we ran away
to hide in our homes, both night and day
forsake our friends, and family too
when we were ordered, and told what to do
no choice, or question, just do this when
we were told, not by gods but by men
they have left the field, their banners furled
and we scurried away, and at home we curled
no call to arms, no battle cry,
social distance, or you will die
no talk, no question, just do what your told
and denigrate anyone who acts too bold
to not believe will be a sin
we will open the jails, and throw you in
we know best, and we’ll have our way
but you’re the one who will have to pay
and in the end, when the virus has gone
they will pat their backs, and say “well done”
but what they have accomplished we will see
is a devastated land, once rich and free
this has happened to mankind before
pestilence, famine, destruction and war
but the human spirit has not been cowed
as we are now, just a milling crowd
no one is sure what to do or say
directions changing every day
the old may die, and the young carry on
but the world is still here though we are gone
now when this ends, and we know it will
if I was wrong, and I’m not here still
then sit by my grave, say “I told you so”
but I will not hear you, so I will not know
Here in this village standing schools three like a stove,teaching free.Boys and girls on their backs bag load of books to carry.Many walk on foot,some taking up and down routes.Teachers from this village most learned from same village.Some trained,some gained degrees and few in between.Pupils smart in bodies but studies.Many drop on the
way,some carry in hope of a shining day.All schools in a mess beyond any body’s guess.Principal and teachers like cats and dogs.Divisions peeping over the unity walls when the core thing falling day by day.Innocent these pupils in joy unknowing who and who are their real woes.Teachers doing home work at schools forgetting school work at their homes.Pass rates at schools falling fast in
days pass.Many failing exams at O’level others A’level as schools are not in the right levels.Teachers in pay rolls even pupils not reaching their goals.Destructions curtained by construction of mere walls.Schools aimed to closing jails here schools like jails
baring pupils right to reaching knowledge.When it rains there get wet all.I have a fear in me for some reasons,whether I myself in the hit list of God to punish for not making use of my hand first,my tongue next against and for not hating this by heart at least!
Imprisoned patched in pumpkin parachute,
Detained up-high by paper-airplane trails;
Vines draw a line through dirt urging dispute,
Between emotions locked in playground jails;
An epic battle waged of see-sawed thoughts,
Hacked anger versus calm forgiving tone;
Where punches land upon still tender spots,
From childish rants this bailiff claims as own;
Yet resolution now demands a shift,
As sonnets do when octaves run in place ;
I’m neither swing-set nor a schizoid miffed,
But grown-adult per hair seen on my face -
Aware, at last, a patient mind unlocks,
An end to quicksand fights inside a box
10/6/2016
Submitted for: 'Sandbox' Contest
I walked in Draper Park
Saw a family at a table, heard a dog bark
"Ernie's friendly," said the Mommy, "he won't bite"
A large goofy dog came at me, seemed alright.
Ernie growled, maybe because I smelled of beer
Or maybe because I didn't let him sniff my rear
But in Ernie's genes, a wolf pack in the night
from pet to threat, he transformed in plain sight
I sprinted to my car, I could read Ernie's mind
But Ernie wasn't far behind
Like a cheetah on the chase, he covered the ground
Ernie became Cerberus of Hades, that mythical hound
I made it to the car, Ernie's owner looked aghast
She said "he can sense personality; did you have a criminal past?
I said "I volunteer at homeless shelters; I clean up hikers' trails
I donate to museums, never been in any jails."
The lady still looked at me as if I was to blame
Maybe people aren't rational, don't want to feel shame
It got me thinking, maybe all I've believed ain't true
Ernie really bites, maybe 4 ain't 2 and 2?
The told me in kindergarten that we can be any gender
And if we say we're not racist, we must be a pretender
Under Hamas rule, they assured, Palestine will be free
And under Kamala rule, we'll still have an economy
They warned we're in a patriarchy and must see the light.
Can I be sure that's all true, and that Ernie won't bite?
So now I live off the grid, on a houseboat,
I read what the great philosophers wrote
I prefer quiet waves, the seashore light
I left humans behind, because I got such a fright
The day that I found out that Ernie does bite.
Cats go out then cry to come in.
A runt-end of shade wilts.
We feel the pull of a Lunar tide,
sense the off-center mewing,
of a dissonant aria.
Trembling dogs hide their body-bones.
The air is strained through fisheyes.
A clammy light gnaws,
while white-faced mice scurry
on twilit paws.
There will be an end of sorts,
a draining away. First, there must be,
this ailing after-glow,
an infiltration that wounds
the tender skin of reason.
A mad moon had broken lose,
from the cellular jails of fitful thoughts.
A dead Siren rampaged,
in a cold rage of silence.
The day may heal, a new dawn,
defeating all spectral trails,
all night-walking fears.
Until then we must watch
a pall-bearing dusk
depart on crumbling stilts,
observe from a dwindling distance,
a naked crone wanes,
turns in ever narrowing circles,
as she seeks for her life.
In "The Shootist", J.B. Books is not feeling up to snuff.
He has cancer. What are the concerns
of a man dying.
To die
commensurate with the way he lived his life.
Books dies in a gunfight.
McIntosh dies in the desert, under a broken wagon,
fighting Indians.
Norman Thayer will die of heart failure
by the side of his wife, Ethel.
Two police officers
die investigating a stolen moped at a gas station
in the Bronx.
One buys it between the eyes, the other in the back.
The killer out on early parole
from a manslaughter rap.
The DA blames the judge, the judge blames the parole board,
and the board says the jails are overcrowded.
What should I be doing, old turtle.
Devote myself to re-order the world
or crawl off to a lonely spot and preserve myself.
We are trying
to educate everyone to their individual capacities
and see that all are fed, clothed and sheltered adequately.
Because the suffering of one citizen makes suffering
for another, the slow death of one sometimes makes
the sudden murder of another.
There is this
black rock we live on and its lovely mantle of green.
It is all that is perfect. And everything of it is
perfect that respects its integrity. On the subway
I was amused to find, hidden in the confused
mass of anonymous, bleak graffiti, unseen
by the studied, expressionless passengers,
in pink, delicate script, vertically written,
the word *****.
People are the element I live in.
The world is pushy, we are bone,
the numbers of us overwhelm.
It is going to be hot again soon
and the Bronx will actively resent it.
Books dies in Carson City,
only two or three people will miss him at all.
He died alone as he lived,
with his enemies.