I done wrotted a pome

I had an ultrasound the other day. I was not expecting it to be an *inside* ultrasound, which was good and bad. Good cuz I didn’t spend the entire week fretting about it and bad cuz I think I made the ultrasound tech feel bad with the look on my face when she said it was an inside one, lol. It wasn’t awful, tho it did hurt a tad. First time I’ve ever used a condom for anything, lol. I go back this week to discuss the results.

I know, I know, I’ve been all TMI with my vajayjay health lately. Sorry.

So, late nite I decided to experiment and see if I could write poetry on my Kindle Fire. I have Evernote installed on it, which I use for to-do lists and such, but I’d never written anything extensive on it, as I thought I’d get too frustrated with the slowness of pecking out words. However, it turns out that it works out ok for poetry since it’s a thinking process…or…I think chunkier when I’m writing poetry? It’s still usually stream of consciousness like a diary entry but it’s slowed down in order to get it in to stanzas or whatnot. I dunno that I’m explaining it very well, except to say I am pleased with being able to write a long piece on the kindle. Not that I mind pen and paper. But this way I can write it on the Kindle and then just cut and paste to here when I get home. (I think. I haven’t tried the cutting and pasting yet. Chances are it’ll fuck up the format and I’ll have to spend half an hour remaking the stanza format….)

Here goes…(heh…only took 20 mins. But if I figured out how to make it work quickly from now on, yay!)

Notes From MAYS’ Cycle

Part I

Every sound is magnified
in an empty room. My coffee
cup clatters no matter how
softly I set it on the faux
Formica tabletop. Faucets
drip, fluorescent lights buzz
in my ears. Startled by the clunk,
I shiver as swiftly blowing air
howls above me. I listen to twelve
bodies in the night. Sleep is not
a silent endeavor; it is louder than
you’d imagine it to be; flatulence,
snores, shifting limbs. Colorless
walls and high, barred windows
numb my eyes with monotony as I
make my rounds. Eight hours equals
forty trips, each orbit seeming smaller
than the last. The symmetry dazzles
my brain: blue chairs, Bob Barker shoes,
black binders lined beside every brown
door. Chaos is a folder flopped open.
Rain suddenly slaps at the windows
sounding like a tarp flapped by wind.
I am grateful for this breach of nature,
this reminder of a world outside my
oblong encasement. But it stops as
suddenly as it started, leaving a
sizzling silence in its passing.

Part II

I speak of this place as a claustrophobic’s closet,
yet what of the youth who must live here?
Are they soothed by the symmetry or does
the similarity start whittling away at their
sanity? Do they even notice it, amidst internal
struggles and the ever present mantra of
"Get out, get out, get out"? Do they seek the
structure, for some is it all that they know?
How many are being treated and how many
just treat it as time until the next facility
swallows them up? I wonder if the number
on the wall elicits shame/pride or if it’s just
another poster to be ignored. Today’s count
is twenty-seven. One day short of four weeks
wherein nobody on this unit was involved in a
physical restraint. The wall on dorm A reads 00.
What a way to hash the days. I wonder if they
pass as slowly as the nights, unraveling into a
stagnant sameness that cajoles its participants
into complacency or if it agitates them towards
aggression. How do they cope, when so far
removed from so many useful mechanisms?
Even the simple act of going for a walk is
denied. They’ve committed the crime and must
pay the time, this I understand. But still I
wonder how they survive in here, what gets
them through each day while locked in a cage,
with barely even a chance to see the sun…
6.2.13/5.56am

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bodies in the night. Sleep is not
a silent endeavor; it is louder than
you’d imagine it to be; flatulence,
snores, shifting limbs. Colorless
walls and high, barred windows
numb my eyes with monotony as I
make my rounds. Eight hours equals
forty trips, each orbit seeming smaller
than the last. The symmetry dazzles
my brain: blue chairs, Bob Barker shoes,
black binders lined beside every brown
door. Chaos is a folder flopped open.
Rain suddenly slaps at the windows
sounding like a tarp flapped by wind.
<span style="text-indent:0px;letter-spacing:normal;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;display:inline!important;font-weight:normal;float:none;line-height:normal;text-transform:none;font-size:medium;white-space:normal;font-family:Tahoma;word-spacing:0px”>I am grateful for this breach of nature,
this reminder of a world outside my
oblong encasement. But it stops as
suddenly as it started, leaving a
sizzling silence in its passing.
 
Part II
 

I speak of this place as a claustrophobic’s closet,
yet what of the youth who must live here?
Are they soothed by the symmetry or does
the similarity start whittling away at their
sanity? Do they even notice it, amidst internal
struggles and the ever present mantra of
"Get out, get out, get out"? Do they seek the
structure, for some is it all that they know?
<span style="text-indent:0px;letter-spacing:normal;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;display:inline!important;font-weight:normal;float:none;line-height:normal;text-transform:none;font-size:medium;white-space:normal;font-family:Tahoma;word-spacing:0px”>How many are being treated and how many
just treat it as time until the next facility
swallows them up? I wonder if the number
on the wall elicits shame/pride or if it’s just
another poster to be ignored. Today’s count
is twenty-seven. One day short of four weeks
wherein nobody on this unit was involved in a
physical restraint. The wall on dorm A reads 00.
What a way to hash the days. I wonder if they
pass as slowly as the nights, unraveling into a
stagnant sameness that cajoles its participants
into complacency or if it agitates them towards
aggression. How do they cope, when so far
removed from so many useful mechanisms?
Even the simple act of going for a walk is<br style="li