necromancy
poetry reading - audio & text
As if being a writer in prison isn’t hard enough,
I often return to my cell, after college classes,
to find my things in disarray. All. My. Shit.
Books, shoes, clothes, papers, bedding & foodstuff
in a not-so tidy pile on the floor. I curse the cops
under my breath, my heart too exhausted to immolate,
&, faceplanting on the mattress, I fall fast asleep
praying Hypnos is more hospitable. //
When I wake in the midst of yesterday’s chaos, I tell myself
I won’t make it through the day. Yet, somehow, I always do.
The dreamer in me doesn’t believe in the impossible.
Ink is a prisoner’s unction; it seeps into the page //
like the sun in a field of daffodils. (Pardon
the symbolism. Nobody knows
the ritual disembowelment of the poet
like his fountain pen…) So I yearn for days without
a thought of home; & though I think it natural
to recall through tears the sweet years
prior to this self-imposed exile, I know, without a doubt, //
I’ve been buried alive—no roses, no candles,
no purple velvet to adorn my grave—
but then the feeling fades,
dissipates, as if consigned to clouds, & I drift further //
along perdition’s lonely corridors, its restless inhabitants
watching me with shattered wonder,
while praying to a faceless, unrequited miser
to exonerate whatever’s left of their souls.
Tell them the truth. The truth? You’re not a hero.
There’s no redemption, brother. Whatever you do
do with a finesse. & only if it moves you.
Fuck the world. Fuck what anyone thinks. //
Imagine the best version of yourself.
Let the universe handle the rest.
Everyone deserves peace & freedom.
Those were my victim’s exact words,
in a dream, early on in my bid.
Back when I was devising ingenious ways to die
& my suicide notes had really bad grammar,
so please, please, don’t judge me:
I only raise the dead when I’m honoring life.


Powerful, felt
revision. and in the prison/my funeral was celebrated in my sleep/as I woke to madness and no room to roam/my home was concrete and shame