writing from
Scars Publications

Audio/Video chapbooks cc&d magazine Down in the Dirt magazine books

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the
108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book

Forbidden
cc&d, v276
(the October 2017 issue)

Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:
order ISBN# book


Forbidden

Order this writing
in the issue book
Language of
Untamed Spirit

the cc&d
Sept.-Dec.2017
collection book
Language of Untamed Spirit cc&d collectoin book get the 4 page
May-August 2017
cc&d magazine
issue collection
6" x 9" ISBN#
paperback book:

order ISBN# book

The Yard:

Greg G. Zaino

11:00 pm- Light’s out on E block.

Sour judgment and slanted jurisprudence,
like an impound dog, the recycled felon, held captive.

Behind ancient granite and iron forged the previous century,
a medieval tutorial to quiet his defective mind,
halt criminal conduct- confiscate time.

Beyond barred windows and steel doors,
the impossible stockade, its dank compound walls,
sky high and elephant thick.
Confinement has a parched aspect to it.
Tastes dry- an aura of desolation, like eating sand.

2:11am,
The yellow stink of corruption assails his senses,
ripping the side of his face.
Depression, anxiety, worry- his niggling companions.
Another sleepless night with uninvited guests
who refuse to vacate the premises,
latching on like barbed hooks.

Silent masturbation, up and down the aisle.
Cancerous coughing, gas ejection,
an echo chamber after lights out.
The neighborhood, floor to ceiling,
a vile place, an ominous- living thing.

He stares overhead- spirals inward
to the core of his troubled mind.
Alone in the dark,
the mask of rigid severity dissolves to nakedness,
replaced by despair and uncertainty.
He screams inside his head
at the mother fucker two cells down,
a mobbed up, heavy hitter with sleep apnea
The bastard at it again...

He boils with anger, brutality on his mind.
The snoring fills his head, trashes his sleep,
the pattern fixed in his brain...

Over and again- the predator’s jagged inhale,
his struggling exhale-
followed by a 3 second pause,
then gulp and gasp,
only to resume like an insufferable rerun.


But none dare disturb Rocco.

Two weeks to go
until the classification board meets
and assigns him to a different facility.
Can’t happen soon enough.
...

Daybreak- 6:00am- lights on,
like a dormant beast come to life.
Khaki covered flesh and walls of voices,
raucous- like some strange birthday party,
of unwell children.

The schizophrenic in the tier below yells himself hoarse,
screaming to the cops to let him out for med call.
...

Breakfast, followed by early Rec in the yard.
A playground of weeds and black flies
where crabgrass doesn’t do well.

He kicks a dead pigeon from the gravel track,
its entrails missing.
Hawks thrive close at hand
on a diet of fattened, lice ridden cousins.


The yard; illusory- devours pleasure.
Route 95- a short distance away,
the sound of rush hour traffic- a terrible thing to hear.
He accepts that escape from this place,
to freedom... is years away.
The price of addiction- wielding a gun,
and participating in conspiracies.

On the breeze- under the guard tower
the stench of piss hits him in the face.
Reminds him of the old train station
at Kennedy Plaza in downtown Providence.
...

Shouldering the state towel, he taps his shirt pocket.
A pathetic bar of motel thin, Ivory soap beneath.
He gazed out over the playground of anarchy,
then up to the sky.
A silver air bus of travelers- the law abiding free,
has taken off from the airport in Warwick.
Soon to be long gone... the exhaust trail of a jet
breaking up as it ascends.

“To where,” he ponders...
“West” he blurts out- then continues around the track.

The undead walking, an army of uniforms,
doing laps in groups and alone.
White, black, and brown ones,
in varying shades of cruelty, distrust,
and “Stay the fuck away!”
... Some are yellow, sick with hepatitis,
the color of school paste and the flu.


Contained, controlled, programmed,
all are motivated by fear, pain, and ugly.

At the outside shower stalls, like unruly adolescents,
a crowd of near stripped inmates
stand waiting for the water to be turned on.
He thought to himself that blacks, have a habit of
grabbing at their dicks,
like a reassurance their manhood is intact.

Puffed up in false bravado
he overhears their bragging.
Talking about all that pussy they be fuckin’ on the outside,
or the money they be makin’ on da street...

Spitting words of hatred, the language is cloned, counterfeit,
words of the coarse and illiterate.

Others, veterans like himself,
merely holding to reputations and guts,
the high performance tough.

A snarling voice, booms like a threat.
Six and a half feet of south side blackness,
‘Bumps’ is heated over the water that’s still turned off.

He shouts...
“Fuck this joint Man- and every cop in it!
Fuck all these mutha fuckin’ cock suckin’ bitches!”


Towards the end of the line,
a young kid argues with his partner.

“Oh, man- don’t hand me dat- I was there!
Dat’s jus mutha fuckin’ booshit!
You just comin’ out your ass now!


On it goes and seemed everybody
is someone else’s personal bitch...
...

He wished he could silence it all,
put it to sleep, kill it all with some kind of poison,
murder them all in their sleep...


He wasn’t street stupid, far from it.
Knew the language and balls it took to survive.
If he had to, his fists would do the talking.
If things got desperate, he had the shank.

Prison is no place for the meek or fragile.
They gather in the prison yard, walk the track,
all part of the mix.

Violent felons welcome,
homicide, rape, robbery, heroin and coke dealers,
assault with a deadly,
unsympathetic beatings with bats, smoking 9mm’s,
mutilations...

But no skinners allowed in population.
PC- protective custody, for baby fuckers.


Muscled, scarred- ugly- weak- fragile...
black, white, yellow, red, brown,
young, and old men- some dying with Aids.
None are innocent- most guilty of far more,
than their lock down conviction.

They all belonged there, even him, and he knew it,
didn’t cry about it, took it, hated it,
but didn’t whine about it or proclaim a bum deal.
This was home for 3 or more years,
depending on the leniency of the parole board.
The street was two weeks in the past.
His woman and freedom, all back there.

But booze was brewing in the plate shop
and a sleazy cop named Sully kept a lucrative sideline.
Weed, skin magazines, dope, needles and pills,
a 5th of liquor if you want...
Whatever your tastes- Sully was the man.
He delivered satisfaction.
The con’s people make the pay off outside the walls.
Inside, smokes and store orders are cash.
A carton of Marlboros- in return; four pencil lead thin joints.
But that’s how shit works...
...

Outside showers in the summer months
leave a guy open and vulnerable,
open to defective men, with cold stares.
Today’s Rec was surreal; a scene from a movie,
but he kept his mouth shut- stayed uninvolved,
safer that way.

He could smell his own ass.
His bunk mate bitched at him to get in the car wash.
The stink certainly needed attention.

The scene last week in the cell block showers
blew his mind, had him stepping back.
The most dangerous man on E block-
an Irish/Italian dude, dubbed, “The Bat”
was getting his dick sucked by the drag queen Marcel.
The Bat, warned him to step off,
and to keep his fucking mouth shut.

He did that and kept it to himself...

Sanding wary, he regarded the outdoor shower scene,
too many still in line- decided to wait,
and walked the track one more time.

He looked over to the group of dangerous faces.
A group of Italians were playing Bocce,
talking with their hands,
cigarettes hanging perfectly between narrowed lips.
Two of them he knew from Federal Hill.
Genuine heavy hitters, their voices carried,
rebounded off the stockade walls.
Nobody dare fuck with them.

An old friend, a mechanic turned arsonist,
did some work for the one named Rudy.
Stevie was found dead,
body dumped close HP Lovecraft’s grave...
at Swan Point cemetery.
After being shot in the head, his body was lit on fire.

The Italians were disputing the merits,
and individual preferences, of Caddys versus Lincolns.
They argued on- swearing on their mothers souls,
and their children’s eyes,
that the eggplant parmesan at Camille’s,
blew the The Old Canteen’s, Tortellini Alfredo, away.
“Like ya read about- Fo-gedda bout it!”

Calling out to the group of men, he smiled- waved, jerked his chin up,
kept moving.

A tight group of Spanish guys passed him on the right;
hustled on by, chattering at impossibly high speeds.
He wondered, if they actually understood one another.

It was time he headed for the showers
before the triggers on the wall blasted the horn,
gathered up the state’s errant children,
sending all of them back to their cages.

But he had time...
...

Brothers from the South Side, one like a mountain,
stood like purple blackness,
his eyes focused, taking in the situation.

He saw that they were watching a silly white boy
waiting his turn in the car wash,
who, standing there giggling- was oblivious to the threat.

They kept moving around the track...
but they’d be back.
...

Twenty minutes before Rec was over
a shower finally opened and he jumped in,
felt the cool water, cleanse and massage
closed his eyes, and reminisced...

For a moment he was somewhere else.
A lifetime ago...
The Green Mountains-16 summers past
and a young gal he once thought he loved.
In a deep hole below the falls he tread water,
felt the sparkling mist beading on his face.
Once again, he swam the river, teased his girl,
and made love in a shallow...

Memories his comfort, his only getaway.
...

The noise of scuffling brought him about.
A body hit hard with a “Smack!”
The sickening sound had a feel to it.
The silly young kid lay under the shower
on his back, blinking, bleeding,
face up and frightened.

The mountain that put him there
had him trapped- the kid curled fetal.
3 others, were keeping the peek,
turned their backs to the beating,
blocking the view of cops on the ground
and in the towers.
None to be seen- the light was green.

The shower floor ran red in seconds.
Rivulets of crimson sluicing off the tiled floor,
snot and blood raced to the drain.
... not a sound though- the kid didn’t cry out.

Gruesome stood over skinny white’s ruptured face-
reached down, cut him across the cheek with a blade,
then swung his fist one last time.

Retribution and ruin- blood and cartilage,
a broken spirit in absolute terror.
It was over in seconds- the attackers broke.

Amazed at the speed the attack occurred
the floored kid, was no longer giggling.
His lip split wide- mouth closed shut,
chin quivering, and right eye swelling fast.

Like an embarrassed, naked child,
the kid cowered there, on the blood splashed
white tiles obviously disorientated.
Curled in a ball for all to see, the kid lay motionless
The punks pointed, and yelled, laughed, some spit...

“Snitch!
Mutha Fuckin’ Snitch!
That’s What You Get!”


It was time to hit the bricks,
get the hell out of the way.
He wanted no part of this shit, wasn’t his fight.
He could do nothing anyway- too many of them,
and no support from the glee club.

In struck dumb fright the target shit itself,
puked its breakfast onto the tile
as blood surged under to his damaged face.
Next stop, the infirmary- then PC for the rest of his bid.
There he’d stay with the skinners and snitches.

The uninvolved, walker of tracks wanted only
to be far away from this place,
but didn’t want to go there.
Couldn’t do a fucking thing about it
and that was that!
After a hasty drying he dressed quickly.
One hundred fifty four weeks to go.

Or so he figured, anyway...



Scars Publications


Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.




Problems with this page? Then deal with it...