TorturedJester
12-28-2003, 06:37 AM
How many times have I gone against my own better judgment, in spite of the repercussions? I tell you, some lessons I just don't learn, but I think I'm getting wiser.
Take this last time for example. Before my world turned a hazy shade of pinkened images, and I turned victim to my own internal insticts.I heard a voice shout from somewhere deep within. It screamed, "don't do it, just walk away"
It seemed to rise from the darkest chambers of my spirit. A voice like a shadow, searching for a way-out. Yes, this time I can say I knew better but sometimes I don't listen to my own advice.
Okay, by now you're probably convinced that whatever I did was my fault and that I deserve my jail sentence, right? Maybe you are sold solid that violence is never the solution to any of life's problems, correct? Well, I agree with you completely, except there's some things that blur the lines between you and I and the complimentary voice of reason that forewarns me quite clearly. Yet, I somehow manage to squeeze the life out of that voice of reason everytime.
I could blame society for creating this product. Afterall, I was practically raised by wolves while growing-up on the meanest of streets in Oakland, California. I could testify right now behind this chain-link fence to my detention on how my life has been an open jungle book for the world to read and ponder. I make no apologies for being who I am. For being a human being who despises rules altogether.
I say this even as I sit here in a dimly lit cell while feeding off Top Ramen noodles and bologna sandwiches. And listening to the rest of the jailcats complain about this so called invisible MAN who has had it in for them ever since they were born a handicapped-project of the inner-city projects. Where in the 'hood most of us are addicted to cheese in every form imaginable. Be it coke,weed,malt liquor or violence. Sometimes it really does feel like I'm an experimental rat trapped in a maze,and no matter how hard I try to escape, I only end up against another wall.
Which leads me to this lower bunk where I now write this letter. Under the distracting ambiance of dirty stares and the odor of feet and ass. As I sit here I ask myself how I could once again so whimsically toss caution to the wind, only to hoist the sails to another tragic shipwreck.
Case and point: wasn't it I who only last month was paying his dues by attending anger management class? This time, for fighting with the police in the streets of Berkeley? It sure was.
Now, I can 't even manage my own checkbook, let alone my temper or my life for that matter. But trust me,there's only so many times you can hear a man complain about his wife cheating on him and how "she pushes all his buttons until he loses it and has to teach her a lesson" before you want to jump-out of your chair and skin and slap somebody yourself.
So there I was in anger class getting angrier for having to listen to the token and generic rhetoric of "count to ten, it ain't worth it, let go and let god" or other pretty-sounding mantra's.
Yeah sure. Sometimes the writing's glowing in flouresecent scrawl, but you can't see it in when your nose is being shoved up against the wall that it's written on. I'm a perfect example. I rarely listen to advice unless that person who is giving it is also practicing it. Who am I kidding, rarely do I heed my own voice of reason.
Maybe I am incorrigible. A lost cause. There's no question that I'm defiant to my very core and make no apologies for being this way. Afterall, the last time I looked in the mirror, I saw my own image, not yours. And when the book of life and judgment day arrives, It'll be me standing before the pearly thrones, not you. Or are you going to represent me there too? Didn't think so.
I say this because the streets are my reality. I live what you only see on T.V. And in a territory where you probably wouldn't survive very long. It's on these streets where I chase my dreams while dodging demons; the one's in my head and the one's lurking on the block.
The streets are unforgiving. Over the years they have crafted me into it's cold and darkly defiant image. An angry poet and survivor who's always acting-out like a wounded animal.
Remember that saying you heard on the playgrounds about sticks and stones? I knew it was ******** the first time I heard it at age four and I certainly don't believe it now that I'm 25. In fact rarely have I had a bone broken in the ' hood from a stick or a stone. Yet those same, careless and maliciously strewn words have a way of turning into whistling bullets aimed at your temple. At least when you live where I do. In "lil" America. I call it that because we have China town, "lil" Italy,etc..but down here, this too is America. "lil" America, the place no one wants to see or talk about. The place I call home each day I'm above ground and free to make my choices.
Which leads me to the action that landed me here in the first place. Take it from me: a gentle slap across the face of a wealthy, well-groomed businessman in suit and tie can tie-up your own freedom for several months. Even if your motives were justified. Afterall, nobody deserves to be called a bum and streetpunk for accidentally spilling coffee on a stranger. Not at any level of society. But dammit if the businessman didn't call me that, and damn it if I didn't hand the man my power, even as I took part of that power back when I slapped him into tears a second later. I knew better but it felt so good.
I was already serving time to my own guilty conscience when the PoPo arrived to arrest me. I was shooting down cappucinos and writing poetry in a nice little local cafe. Reversing decisions then affirming actions that led to just another defiant presentation and vacation in this insane bed and breakfast.
So I'll conclude this letter amidst the aroma of ass and feet and the sounds of "bones" being slammed above my head. My head which I''ll firmly plant into a thinly-sliced mattress as my brain swirls with poems and jailmade Pruno.
I will close my eyes and drift to the noise of laughter and the occasional fist fight. It's then I will dream of someday holding self control in a soul that thrives on it's own freedom of expressions. Even while being held in a cell for a crime I can't endorse. I accept sole responsibility for my actions. I just can't control the so-called voice of reason. A voice like a shadow, I manage to suffocatte every time.
Take this last time for example. Before my world turned a hazy shade of pinkened images, and I turned victim to my own internal insticts.I heard a voice shout from somewhere deep within. It screamed, "don't do it, just walk away"
It seemed to rise from the darkest chambers of my spirit. A voice like a shadow, searching for a way-out. Yes, this time I can say I knew better but sometimes I don't listen to my own advice.
Okay, by now you're probably convinced that whatever I did was my fault and that I deserve my jail sentence, right? Maybe you are sold solid that violence is never the solution to any of life's problems, correct? Well, I agree with you completely, except there's some things that blur the lines between you and I and the complimentary voice of reason that forewarns me quite clearly. Yet, I somehow manage to squeeze the life out of that voice of reason everytime.
I could blame society for creating this product. Afterall, I was practically raised by wolves while growing-up on the meanest of streets in Oakland, California. I could testify right now behind this chain-link fence to my detention on how my life has been an open jungle book for the world to read and ponder. I make no apologies for being who I am. For being a human being who despises rules altogether.
I say this even as I sit here in a dimly lit cell while feeding off Top Ramen noodles and bologna sandwiches. And listening to the rest of the jailcats complain about this so called invisible MAN who has had it in for them ever since they were born a handicapped-project of the inner-city projects. Where in the 'hood most of us are addicted to cheese in every form imaginable. Be it coke,weed,malt liquor or violence. Sometimes it really does feel like I'm an experimental rat trapped in a maze,and no matter how hard I try to escape, I only end up against another wall.
Which leads me to this lower bunk where I now write this letter. Under the distracting ambiance of dirty stares and the odor of feet and ass. As I sit here I ask myself how I could once again so whimsically toss caution to the wind, only to hoist the sails to another tragic shipwreck.
Case and point: wasn't it I who only last month was paying his dues by attending anger management class? This time, for fighting with the police in the streets of Berkeley? It sure was.
Now, I can 't even manage my own checkbook, let alone my temper or my life for that matter. But trust me,there's only so many times you can hear a man complain about his wife cheating on him and how "she pushes all his buttons until he loses it and has to teach her a lesson" before you want to jump-out of your chair and skin and slap somebody yourself.
So there I was in anger class getting angrier for having to listen to the token and generic rhetoric of "count to ten, it ain't worth it, let go and let god" or other pretty-sounding mantra's.
Yeah sure. Sometimes the writing's glowing in flouresecent scrawl, but you can't see it in when your nose is being shoved up against the wall that it's written on. I'm a perfect example. I rarely listen to advice unless that person who is giving it is also practicing it. Who am I kidding, rarely do I heed my own voice of reason.
Maybe I am incorrigible. A lost cause. There's no question that I'm defiant to my very core and make no apologies for being this way. Afterall, the last time I looked in the mirror, I saw my own image, not yours. And when the book of life and judgment day arrives, It'll be me standing before the pearly thrones, not you. Or are you going to represent me there too? Didn't think so.
I say this because the streets are my reality. I live what you only see on T.V. And in a territory where you probably wouldn't survive very long. It's on these streets where I chase my dreams while dodging demons; the one's in my head and the one's lurking on the block.
The streets are unforgiving. Over the years they have crafted me into it's cold and darkly defiant image. An angry poet and survivor who's always acting-out like a wounded animal.
Remember that saying you heard on the playgrounds about sticks and stones? I knew it was ******** the first time I heard it at age four and I certainly don't believe it now that I'm 25. In fact rarely have I had a bone broken in the ' hood from a stick or a stone. Yet those same, careless and maliciously strewn words have a way of turning into whistling bullets aimed at your temple. At least when you live where I do. In "lil" America. I call it that because we have China town, "lil" Italy,etc..but down here, this too is America. "lil" America, the place no one wants to see or talk about. The place I call home each day I'm above ground and free to make my choices.
Which leads me to the action that landed me here in the first place. Take it from me: a gentle slap across the face of a wealthy, well-groomed businessman in suit and tie can tie-up your own freedom for several months. Even if your motives were justified. Afterall, nobody deserves to be called a bum and streetpunk for accidentally spilling coffee on a stranger. Not at any level of society. But dammit if the businessman didn't call me that, and damn it if I didn't hand the man my power, even as I took part of that power back when I slapped him into tears a second later. I knew better but it felt so good.
I was already serving time to my own guilty conscience when the PoPo arrived to arrest me. I was shooting down cappucinos and writing poetry in a nice little local cafe. Reversing decisions then affirming actions that led to just another defiant presentation and vacation in this insane bed and breakfast.
So I'll conclude this letter amidst the aroma of ass and feet and the sounds of "bones" being slammed above my head. My head which I''ll firmly plant into a thinly-sliced mattress as my brain swirls with poems and jailmade Pruno.
I will close my eyes and drift to the noise of laughter and the occasional fist fight. It's then I will dream of someday holding self control in a soul that thrives on it's own freedom of expressions. Even while being held in a cell for a crime I can't endorse. I accept sole responsibility for my actions. I just can't control the so-called voice of reason. A voice like a shadow, I manage to suffocatte every time.