Hello readers. This is Alex Ross, Humans of San Quentin’s poetry director. Those of us in prison have all made mistakes that we cannot take back. We were prisoners to our ignorance. We cannot give you advice, but we can offer some food for thought from our own perspective. Before you pick up that gun, hit a person, or decide to use drugs, consider the outcome of our mistakes and ask yourself: do you really want prison to be your final destination?
Question
If I were four fingers,
A palm, and a thumb
Attached to a wrist
Who would I be attached to
Who would I work for
What would my mission be
Would I be just a limb
Or a boxer’s knockout hand
Would I be an audience’s clapping hand
Or a priest’s praying hand
Would I be a woman’s hand doing the job
Of a man’s hand
Or a woman’s hand rearing children
Again and again
Would I be a chief, a thief,
Police, or a creep?
A hand has no choice
You do.
Look back at the cold air floating around the child
who decides the world is unnurturing
Look back at the doors life drags us through
these gateways to beliefs that weren’t the truth
Look back at the sum of your choices
pretending everything happens for a reason
Look back at the prisons I built for myself
long before I even came to prison
Look back at that long night of tears
My conscience weeps over the faces I’ve harmed,
the faces I can’t remember
Look, back through the multiverse to the life I
could’ve built if those days never happened
Look back at the change the next minute offers on endorsement
LOOK. We can breathe again. We are perfectly
imperfect alchemists capable of turning our hard
things into gold
I’m much better for looking more repentant,
humble, wise,
knowing I have my own answer.
More Than Enuff?
Am I not a man?
If I am not,
Then what I am?
Can I not bend light
So as to be unseen,
Like a double-heliotroped,
Mirrored magazine?
Like condensation,
Slipping through walls?
Cannot I reconstitute
My nucleoid mass,
So that I may drift,
Like a vapored gas?
May I not twist time
Returning history,
Like a reimagined memory?
Cannot I bend reality
Travel through space,
Within Dark Void’s
Desperate face?
He has heard my plea
Beyond this place
Saying that I must yet flee
To truly be free
I dream through these walls,
Unseen, yet still me
Within memories’ halls,
My mind drifts away,
A macabre mystery
Life’s distorted play
Neglected history
Trying not to be annoyed
Still existing
Within this dark void
I am all powerful?
I am utterly helpless?
I am neither?
I am both?
Yes,
And No
Lord God
Thank you though
For Grace
Within this place
Trickle, Trick, Treacle, Trauma
Lusted,
A beautiful angel I mistook
Thrusted,
A hearty pebble under her brook
Busted,
A flying fish she did hook
Trusted,
Misbegotten pole
Encrusted,
My beleaguered soul
Trickle, Trick, Treacle, Trauma
Stomped,
Into roiling soil
Abused,
Navajo mud toy toil
Disused sock puppet,
On grass
Her hand,
Hear my love-song,
So crass
Trickle, Trick, Treacle, Trauma
Blue,
Phosphorescent specter
Taste,
Of love’s sweet nectar
I could only
But concur
Did not deter
Trickle, Trick, Treacle, Trauma
This was not
His blessing
A flight from above
Of God’s most merciful dove
No, twas a soulless succubus
For me to love
Trickle, Trick, Treacle, Trauma
Hidden, black mass
Heart breaking like glass
Lustful Fool
Fell into the deep end of the pool
Trickle, Trick, Treacle, Trauma
I could not break free
Of this terrible responsibility
Please release me
Trickle, Trick, Treacle, Trauma
Itch,
In my teeth,
Fear,
My feet,
The Abyss beneath
Myself,
I do hereby bequeath
Myself a funerary wreath
Trickle, Trick, Treacle, Trauma
A Sundance Woman
Like the Morning Star
Different, powerful
Equal partner
Mother Earth
Father Sky
Heart and mind
As one
They give us knowledge
Our ceremonies bear the best
Honor
Respect
Men
Women
Song
Dance
Family
Tribe
Children
Generation
Power and Beauty
Spirit and Heart
Mother earth
The Indian Woman
