Diary New Folsom May 11

Good morning realness folks and Mother Earth. I'm still trying to make running and walking a habit again. It's good to keep my heart pumping. It's a quarter to six and the sky is beginning to glow. I'm looking forward to see the Gosling Five, perhaps they are only days from flying away. Yesterday I got a letter from my splendid friend and editor Anja, and I found out my new articles and blogs have not made it to Sweden yet. I sent them weeks ago. They should have arrived.
I hope these daily blogs are not too boring, but people kept asking me about my prison every day life. I can tell you I literally suffer every day. It's easy to say let go of most wants and desires, yet as a man each day I suffer and long for the hug of a woman or just to hear a woman's voice in conversations or just to sit and share space. Sex doesn't have to be involved, just yin and yang and sharing space and silence, sharing wisdom and realness. My listening to your stories of the day and week or whatever an your listening to mine. I think I have unique exiting stories to share. What prisoners who are human beings doesn't suffer for verbal or physical touch. We are still human beings who love and long to share space. I'm not a monk, or priest and have no inclination to be celibate, physically or verbally. It's an endlessly deep punishment to miss the magic of sharing intimate moments one human with another for a day, week, month, year, ten, twenty, thirty years. Can you imagine four cave walls and a tiny window as your view of the world and only dreams to be with the opposite sex, yin and yang. Hell, sometimes I long to just see a woman's feet and feel guilty and like a freak even though it is a natural occurrence for someone deprived of real beauty where most things natural and human are forbidden in prison. Where even a kiss is forbidden.

Karma Dept

What does it all mean
this life and my karma dept?

The boiler blew up
last night
Must have been like
a bomb
So loud it was silent.

Everyone ran but me
I heard later the whole
wall could have shattered.

I stood there watching
the panic, rolling
a cigarette
It didn't matter, it was
my karma dept.

Why aren't you writing?
I have nothing to write,
nothing to say. Over ten
years of this life
has been wasted.
My karma dept.

I want to tell someone,
some lady, I love her
not to get sex
but just because I do.

No reasons, no conditions
for there's just being
and natural love
My karma dept.

I came here today
to perhaps share a few
tears together, a poem
or two
but it didn't work out
so I just walked away
for it's my karma dept

Tonight I looked
at the sky and there was no moon
If there was I could not see it.

Once again I wonder where the moon
is hiding
when it's not glowing.

Once again this night, teardrops lie
just beneath the surface.
Water fills my eyes that have cried
a billion tears.

Once again sadness fills my heart
that has yet to share its full bloom.
Once again smiles lie beneath my frowns.

The vulture's back circling the core
of my heart
that cried a billion tears
that dreamed a billion dreams
that smiled a billion smiles.
© Spoon Jackson


Diary New Folsom May 10

My heart is still aching from hearing about my second mum in Sweden health problems, how heavy they are. Then my brother Marty left the yard and is gone from art room. So a heavy day and week.
Hard to get up these past few mornings. I went to bed early last night. Managed to sleep until 4:00 am. I got in my core work and hope to run the track today. I hope the yard don't go down with a fight or gun shots and tear gas. I'm feeling a bit stiff this morning from my run yesterday.
We have the R&B band this morning. There are singers, but only one musician, a bass player. We will see how it goes because they are changing this prison over for the worse. The rock and country bands are gone. The only true band we have left is the blues band when outside guests come in to gig. Perhaps it's fitting to have only the blues left at this time. Looking at Mother Earth theater, there is no breeze this morning. I see the weeds, wild flowers, tall grasses, the boulder tree and some tall flowered plants I can barely see the yellow colors of. I wonder what kind of plants they are. They all are engaging in the morning's warm up. I'm waiting to see what creature appears first. Probably the gobbler turkey parade. Yes, there goes the first turkey as I write this. There are also a couple of red-breasted finches on  the chain linked fence. One show boating turkey strolling down the outside prison dirt road, thinks he has the right way even when a truck's coming.

Back in the cave and the R&B group went well, a lot of bickering, but they did work on three songs, original songs. One of the songs inspired me to pick up my native flute and play jazz/blues style along with them. The group was shocked and didn't know I played that well and get with their flow. They wanted me to continue to play with them. I got in a nice jog today too before work. For three of my lapses around the track I ran with and talked with a young gangster and asked him how his studies for GED was going. He said he achieved his goal and received his GED. Now he wants to get his points down to go to a lower level prison and achieve visits from his family. Sounds real to me.


Diary New Folsom May 9

Sitting here looking out on Mother Earth's stage, my little window. I ponder something brilliant to say and I have nothing. I figure that's okay. So, I just say good morning Mother Earth. I have my poetry class today. I'll see what it brings.
Day's done and I wrote prompts on the board and handed out art pictures to inspire poetry as well. Then I had my students read what they wanted. I have a couple of students too stuck on being a gangster to take poetry class seriously and only see it as a means to get out of the cell. That's okay for a while, but I want people in my class to share their realness and I do my best to put forth things they can gain inspiration from and perhaps inspire them to walk in their own shoes. They will not be in my class forever, especially if they're not writing.
I had to go herd the Gosling Five back over to the small yard from the big yard that was crowded with prisoners, guards and free staff. People still stare at me puzzled as to how I get the geese family to walk through both gates enclosed in a corridor to the small yard. People look in awe and call me the Goose Whisperer. I pay no mind to that. I believe the Gosling Five will fly away next week.