“The Door Miser” and Other New Poems by Conway

My pen pal “Conway”, who is serving 25-to-life under California’s “three-strikes” law for receiving stolen goods, has sent me an abundance of exciting new poems this month, some of which I share below. He has also been writing dark-humored stories about prison life, which I have encouraged him to submit to the PEN Prison Writers contest. If my readers know of other publication opportunities for incarcerated writers, please leave me a comment below.

The Door Miser

Sleeping ice
        walked the pregnant rain
    with mud.
                Lighting barbed steeples
dragged shattered guitar strings
    while a Horn bled my breath…
                Clay eyes, blunt lips
            growling voices
                    that died
                        howling like the wind
in search of Ozone…
               Chase this dim-witted drunkenness
overcome by the ages
                locked inside an hourglass
            when a spider webs knots
                    yanked the darkness out
        from under freeform footsteps…
                    Breaking down again
                        in the voice of bruises.
                    But they never belched
like: an Orphans sin
        in the way-layed wilderness
                    or a maniac on the freeway
        speeding through stopped traffic
                at Rush hour…
        This interminable Toilet of
                a sacred food stop
                    right between you and I
inside this Homeless broken sky, or
                doomed door of denial…
    Glass days visions
                just offer an Iron failure
        while tears lonely language
                    can only desire
                        the world…
        Think hard about testing
                a terrified dictation.
    Arresting these wheels
                for too many years
                    as even the moon
                        considers my prison
                while shivering…
When the Door miser
        crawls up my spine
            again, to suck on
                        my nerves…


Poker After Dark

The Blood & Tears of life
fell, into the ashes burned
when remains of my father
were turned to mud in a day

Kabashed his world into an ashtray
then washed that mother fucker away
lost, corroding through the pain
bereft and rusting in the rain

on the wrong side of right
from six feet under this grass
left to wonderful blunders
while sucked inside a riptide

the absence of fear
in here, does not prove courage
or discourage the deer
caught in the headlights

when a deck is shuffled
those cards are dealt, but
it’s how you play the cut
or gamble on, a “Supposed” losing hand…


Gag Order 

How do I make my tongue tell it?
Choking in this bitter dungeon
now, can you smell it?

Desperately desiring to describe

a moment to share

gagging like a dog in a fight

(mouth full of hair)

Boundaries eternal, are forced inward
further in strife
constricting our death
out of breath for life

Screaming the whispers
below this cold sweat

Spilling those empty jars of regret

saving that craving, of nothing

One comment on ““The Door Miser” and Other New Poems by Conway

  1. Margie says:

    Now we know who the senbsile one is here. Great post!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.