Poetry

Loud trumpets of thunder and silent, scary whips of lightning are taking over the

Hudson valley.

A blanket of heavy clouds sprinkles its drops, piercing the dark puddle on the softball

field.

Water hitting water creates an illusion of flashing lights, instantly transforming the

puddle into a pool of raindrops to display their creativity. It’s a theatrical show put

on by Mother Nature, for my eyes to enjoy from the solitude of a prison cell. “Belle!”

I yell as each drop out does the other. Awakened.

The prison guard walks angrily towards my cell. “What the Hell is all the fuss

about?” He asks.

Joyfully, I reply, “sorry sir. I don’t kiss and tell.” Bemused by my response, he turns,

walks towards the window and says, “Go to sleep, it’s an ugly night out there.”

As if God is offended, lightning rends the darkness, chasing the guard back to his

post. The night and the show are all mines to enjoy.

Freedom visits me

Once or twice a day

In the gentlest of ways,

She comes with a friend,

Maybe a lover,

Maybe a sibling

Her gender doesn’t matter here,

Nor anywhere,

Freedom moves without such bounds,

Man has caged freedom

Since he first laid jealous eyes

On its capacity to roam.

Since then we have used privilege

To cage our imaginations

To keep us from daring to dream

But freedom slips through the bars

And dissolves their solid frame.

I bow to freedom

For stopping before my cage

Once or twice a day

In the form of sparrows.

I feed them grits because

It takes courage to visit a prisoner

And feed him humility

When I first walked into prison I was full of youth, physically strong with an empty

heart, clueless mind, and confused emotions. I began to notice the walls were

laughing at me every time I walked by.

I don’t know if it was the smell of the caustics used to mop the floor distorting my

normal brain behavior, but I’m telling you–these walls were laughing. But I was not

going to entertain them. Why should I pay attention to ignorant walls, whose only

purpose is to limit the sunlight and the life that comes with it from shining in here?

These walls keep all that goes on in here to themselves, binding our community in a

state of doubt, ignoring to the reality of what is going on behind them.

It saddens me to admit that these walls and my heart had a few things in common.

Just as the walls try to keep all that is good from coming, or going, my empty heart

kept the warmth of that other side, the good side of me, from reaching my soul.

But I was rocked by the reality of the endless nights and sounds of prisoners who by

day are as tough as the nasty biscuit we eat for lunch, but as soon as the gates close,

and the gallery lights dim, they transform into real human beings, coming together

in harmony. Like crickets chirping on their nightly stage, they all perform. A

weeping orchestra.

I have secretly and quietly performed with them. I’m talking about me, on bent

knees, with both arms stretched to the ebony sky, asking the gods to come together

and strike the smile out of these laughing walls.

If someone snooping around happens to walk by and catch me in that position, I play

it off, like I’m stretching or practicing yoga, but never ever weeping or pleading. I

have a biscuit image to maintain. But buried alive is how I feel. Like a fish out of

water, I’m gasping for another chance at the free world.

Like a pigeon caught in the talons of a hawk, these walls are holding me down,

ripping every bit of youth from me. Like a winter breeze, the sight of these walls

brings chills.

Tired of allowing these walls and their stench bully me, I’ve decided to give them a

piece of my mind. Now every time I walk the hallways, I flip my middle finger up

at these walls. Sometimes, I do it mentally. Other times, I just put my hands in my

pockets and secretly give them the finger. At times, I can’t control my emotions so

I go like this; here take this Laugh now!

Yes, you the green one, the beige one, and even you! All dressed in white like you’re

a freaking Saint. Who are you trying to kid? Come on guys, you can’t blame me for

losing control; these walls are some means sons of bitches. But who’s laughing now?

To live in prison is to be treated inhumanely

To be treated inhumanely is to eat where you shit, to shit where you sleep, to sleep

where for centuries another person like you and me did a bid.

To do a bid is to take my family and friends on a stressful, costly and selfish journey

To go on that journey might not be so damn bad if only I could return from it a

changed man.

To be a changed man would mean never forgetting the tears I shed inside a prison

cell countless miles from home, as my family shed theirs in secret from me.

To live in prison is to not only know my actions lead me to this place, but to take

full responsibility for them.

To live in prison is to force me to search within for the reasons o was so full of hate,

and wipe it from my soul’s core.

To live in prison is to be stigmatized a liar, a con artist, a rapist, a murderer, a low

life, regardless of the reasons that lead me here or what I have done to rehabilitate

myself.

To live in prison is to be a legitimate reason to rob the tax-payers off their money

and have nothing to show for but a high recidivism rate.

To live in prison is to be forgotten and not want to come into terms with the reality

of it.

To live in prison is to write poetry about my pain and struggles with the judicial

system and hope my words will touch your heart.

To live in prison is to be housed behind a huge wall, barb wire fences in a rural town

away from society’s sight and mind.

To live in prison is to wonder if one of the pine boxes made in industry has my name

and din number on them.

To live in prison is to entertain the thought of suicide as the only escape route.

When people dismiss graffiti as an illegitimate form of art, I am reminded of the Taino people of the Caribbean, who used images painted on rocks and cave walls as a means of expression. Throughout history, art has been a powerful tool for people to convey their thoughts and feelings, and this remains true today. Unfortunately, individuals from low-income communities are not afforded the same opportunities to express themselves through art as those who are more privileged. As a result, artists are forced to use public and private spaces as their canvas to create a platform to voice their ideas and opinions.

Art has been taken over by the elite who view it as another means of investing their capital and excluding anyone who does not fit their idea of what an artist should look like or the type of art they should produce. This form of colonization must come to an end. Critics who are unaware of the struggles that artists from poor communities face on a daily basis are quick to judge them and their methods of self-expression. Graffiti artists should receive the same level of recognition as any of the well-known European-based artists, and their culture should be respected just like any other.

Graffiti art is an expression that arises from pain, poverty, and a desire to be acknowledged. Graffiti artists, much like the Taino people of the Caribbean or the Egyptians, use symbols to tell their stories. Territorialism and competition are two important elements of street art culture. The majority of people in urban communities such as the Bronx lack the complexion or resources of artists like Banksy and Kaws. I am not advocating for the destruction of public or private property, but rather for people in low-wage communities to have a fair chance to display their art in galleries and be included in the elite art world.

As long as street artists are disregarded and denied the opportunity to express themselves, they will continue to tag walls. Graffiti costs New York City billions of dollars in its battle against graffiti. An artist's backstory can be moving and inspire us to learn more about them, turning us into fans of their work. Banksy uses his street art to draw attention to social issues, while Black Lives Matter street artists employ graffiti to draw attention to the record number of deaths caused by police brutality toward Black individuals. The Taino people, Egyptians, and other ancient civilizations utilized art for a variety of purposes, including recording their lives and communicating with others. With the exception of Banksy and Kaws, few graffiti artists are known worldwide. Ironically, these two artists are white and do not come from poor, broken-down communities, which is where graffiti originated.