It Couldn’t Possibly                                                                                                                 Be the same one as yesterday, could it? A forgetful gangster gliding around the general difference of jail cells and prison bars and had done been set themselves free.

“Free at Last!”

long last  (in forgetfulness)

in hazy fog (this bliss less stirring storm)


A mistake has been made,

What we’ve all been waiting for!

What we’ve all been waiting for, a sign of weakness on the front front door, we’ve waited (waited waited) long enough. We seen the crack, the crack in the wall, the veiny vain crack crackling down, starting to                                                                                                    drip.        drip.                    drip. We’ve seen the things you haven’t, the things that make you scared, they don’t phase us, we’re so gangster. Talk Real Loud, Yup. YUP. “Ya hear me bro?”

“Turn here…”


Ah yes! (of course!)

that foggy way (I never knew it even got that cold in California.)

You lost me. (You had me.)

You got me back and lost me again. And now, scribbling inside a cell, the separation like laundry:

whites, blacks, and others.

“They made me sit with others, but I’m really black,” he Speaks Proud when he talks, “and I got blonde hair and blue eyes, hhhyyyhhyueah.” It sounds like that, only he Speaks it so Loud and Limber that I get caught up and miss the turn. “Bro.” Got caught. “like red-handed?” I ask him, and he doesn’t reply. It Gets Quiet. But there is this crack. Thiscrackinthewall.