“Then I saw that the wall had never been there, that the ‘Unheard of’ is here and this, not something and somewhere else, that the ‘offering’ is here and now, always and everywhere — ‘surrendered’ to be what, in me, God gives of Himself to Himself. So long as you abide in the ‘Unheard of’, you are beyond and above — to hold fast to this must be the first commandment in your spiritual discipline.”  –Dag Hammarskjold, Markings

My prison pen pal “Conway” shared this quote with me in his latest letter. Too well, he understands that the impulse to pin down and possess the sacred can fuel the self-righteousness of the oppressor. Hammarskjold suggests that God is a mystery that we abide in, with humility. Believing we can comprehend God is a short step away from believing that our group has the divine right of superiority over someone else who disagrees with us.

Conway also sent me a revised version of his poem “Screw”, which I published here here in May. Though I miss a few of the phrases from the original, I like this version’s tighter rhymes and slam-poetry energy, and the new title, which adds a dimension of political commentary.

Coliseum

Which bowl do I pick to torture me
I’ll choose one or two, but never three
that’s an unlucky number for me.

    All screw-ball;
Captured with fiction (false prevention)
for a warrant scored, law ignored
in turn arrested, past inspected
stuck in the county jail congested.
Forced to sleep on a nasty-ass floor,
as time passes by but never clicks
on phantom clocks (in our mind) that tick,
unless of course, someone pays for bail
cares enough perhaps, to spare those straps?

    Only then;
Can we be dragged, from beneath of it
this God-forsaken — bottomless pit
Where a pancake tastes like pigeon shit.

Jailbirds, bound against each other nude
then lewdly gagged with rude restraint
beseeching eyes express their complaint
scooching voiceless, along corridors.
Where chains, dragged in exploit (bragged about)
by infinite banes of committee —
sparing no scrap of humane pity.
Suffer the fools, this ruthless city
Controlled lies can never compromise.

    Show us when;
Take this summons they say “Come along”
It matters not, if you’ve done No wrong!
Blind’s the law, to an innocent’s song.

What is all of this, our time of day?
Without a window sun’s light to see
What would you say, if you had grown cold
while nakedly sold, then told “No way!”
you cannot wear their warm clothes today.
“Rue ice-cold talons of punishment”
chilled bones are part of this correction;
We must oppose (who chose) to strip skin
of warm clothes (like the fooled emperor).

    They say, while —
wearing a poison barbedwire smile:
“You’ll harm yourself for quite a long-while”
receive reprisal without god’ style.

Fool! pick your poison, get on inside
regardless if, you will not decide
to ever get caught-up on this ride
screaming so loud, to start a landslide,
where razor-wire, divides the road;
One, our ancestors surely have strolled,
built on fanatical persuasion —
on some poor fool’s screwed-up vision
sanctified rule of prohibition.

    Do you know?
To break free-spirit, is their main goal.
We only leave when we’ve paid that toll,
then, some lost soul just refills their bowl…

My prison pen pal “Conway” has been reading Shakespeare’s Henry VI plays. In his latest letter, he observed that the use of colored emblems, the red and white roses, to represent sides in the Wars of the Roses reminded him of gang colors. There must be something very primal about the human impulse to divide society along color lines (whether skin color or clothing) and then believe that those arbitrary differences represent real value judgments — the natural order, so to speak.

In this recent poem, Conway examines another way that clothing both symbolizes and creates a power imbalance.

Screw

Grab hold your notice, do come too
bring along a ticket, per chance for speeding?
We’ve seen a summons before
been charged through a specific door
for a fine ignored that went to warrant
finally arrested, in a county jail congested.

So, we’ll have to sleep on a dirty floor
where time passes by, that never clicks
on an imaginary clock that forever ticks,
unless of course, someone pays for your bail;
cares enough perhaps, to spare those straps.

Only then, can we be dragged from beneath–
of it, (our bottomless pit)
where pancakes taste, like pigeon shit.

Naked jailbirds, feebly rubbed against another
gagged with expressionless restraint
scooched along corridors with voiceless complaint
where chains dragged in, in exploit, then bragged about
are limitless banes of committee.
Uninformed, disregarding humanity
lying to become wards of a ruthless city.

Accept this summons, now come along
it matters not, if you’ve done no wrong
or argued any specific reason

What is this? The time of day,
without a window, sun’s light to see.
What would you say, if you were cold;
Nakedly sold, told No way!
“You may not wear warm clothes today.”
What could you say, if you would but say,
“Stay those icy cold fingers of punishment.”
But, this chill is devised for our bones to feel
No more “Monty Hall let’s make a deal”
with those insulated halters.

We must oppose the foes who choose
to make up rules–
to strip us of our clothes (like the fooled Emperor)

If not, then take a ticket
come inside; Regardless
if you care not to take this ride
swearing enough to start a landslide
where the razor wire divides the road
The one our ancestors must all have strolled.
Some poor soul struggled with a tyrannical law
or fanatical persuasion, sanctified definition
of someone else’s screwed up vision;
dynamic rule of indecision.
Which door do you have for me?
I’ll pick one or two, not three
That’s not a lucky number for me.

We only pick, if we can pay the toll,
only then; someone else must refill the bowl.

Then, pick up another summons
eventually take this ride, come inside
as this penalty takes its time
your time, our time, or
time to fall asleep.

Blindly justice suffers this
because it missed the truth
then stole away our youth
finding out we’re already in, and
way too deep, too late
to disturb this butchered fate.

Another broken promise
where money makes the rule
this sticks like super glue, yoked
bound in solitude, to a matchless shoe
under the turning of the screw…