Sunday, March 27, 2022
Abounding for April
In lovely script,Christian sentiments--
profound or pablum--
on jouncy wall plaques.
Guards in Buchenwald,
and Auschwitz, in Philly's
Graterford “Experiment”*, still
celebrated Easter with
wives and
children.
*Many Graterford Prisoners, forced to speak to Jesus and never to each other: lonely, went insane.
Labels: Easter, Holocaust, PhiladelphiaExperiment, prison
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
When Mother Went to Prison
Was because the DA too down
in his quota of women.
Anyway, the teens hugged
the little ones and we became
a family. Headed by Super Charmer
Dad, who skated close to the flames,
of course.
Mom paroled after two years,
and she and the older children meet
at our kitchen table with the lawyers
to save Dad. However, Sheriff Fearing
appears at the door with paperwork.
Dad extracted from his fleecing
cyber programs in the den.
Sheriff put an arm around him, leaving.
The effect Dad had on everyone.
Labels: con man, criminal, criminal class, Justice, justice system., prison
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
“Bovine Ruth”
When the nickname came back to
her, she was displeased in her
special, and sweet, way.
"Intended to ridicule and diminish"
was the State's burden as it brought
charges without her asking.
Luncie's misfortune proved the very
rambling form of Maximum Maxine Rucks,
The Judge From Hell!
He'd have twenty-one years to think of
his motives in embarrassing pretty Ruth.
You'd think he'd spend them complaining
about Political Correctness to his fellow Righties.
Instead he became a scholar of cows, seeing the
docile Ruth as a sort of goddess.
The cult spread in Hixson Penetentiary,
culminating in three years with a special
invitation to the wronged Ruth to attend
a picnic of "The Bovine Worshipful Cult."
It so impressed her: the dappled men
reciting bovine facts as to digestion, that
she forgave Luncie. The Warden sent heavily-
iced Cinnamon Rolls!
Other wardens, especially of fractious prisons,
invited Luncie to start chapters of the cult.
Soon he was coordinating the Eastern United
States and Puerto Rico. Traveling with a guard,
then not.
When he was paroled eight years in, he wouldn't
leave. The Warden fitted out a studio apartment
and office in an abandoned cell block and
named him Social Director.
Many more prisons joined in now, the West and
difficult South being swept up. Nowhere that
the saintly Ruth--newly named The Bovine Virgin--
didn't travel that rose petals weren't strewn
in her path.
Bubba Hocks of the Georgia System: “That shit
he sells, he’s the fucking rehab genius!”
Labels: bovine, cow, cult, digestion, Political Correctness, prison, rehab, scholarship
Monday, October 05, 2015
Too Late To Escape
Smitty never got too far from the prison, the warden’s
brother in the next town putting him to work in his
hardware store.
Ten years had passed since his discharge, so he
became a good sport when the mayor of the prison
town asked him to join the celebration as it closed.
Actually, was to be the world’s largest pajama party, but
he signed on only for the interview on Good Morrow, Y’all.
There, Hoak and Betsy ran him through their conservative-liberal
shticks. Both wanted gloomy remembrances of the prison, but
he talked of the warden’s children playing hopscotch outside
his cell, and his wife bringing a comforter from the house when
Smitty got the flu.
Thereupon Hoak sneered of coddling, and Betsy launched into a
sermonette on rehabilitation.
At the break, Hoak whispered, “More Cagney, less Morgan Freeman.”
They showed pictures when back on the air of the last huge pajama
party at Edinburgh Castle. Dour Scots for the most part, but their
women charmingly swimming in men’s pajamas.
They had a clip, too, of a Guinness Man who wouldn’t commit, but
thought it was likely that their pajama party would edge out Edinburg’s.
When Betsy pressed Smitty about going, he told the pair he had to get
back to Cat Felix.
Thereupon, in the only spontaneous minute that show had ever seen,
he produced a snap of Felix from his wallet.
“White with the one black eye,” laughed Hoak.
Gushed Betsy “He’d be my cutie-patootie!”
Later, Spotlight columnist, See-All, commented “Cat steals show
from usual political squabblers!”
The mayor’s dithery man brought him to the bus, first showing
off the new, glitzy shopping center. The bright liquor store therein
had lousy security, so Smitty boosted a fifth of Seagram’s Seven.
Labels: cat, Conservative, liberal, prison, prisoner, rehabilitation, talk show, TV
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Happy Hogan's Motor Court
I lived with my sister, Crestview Apartments. No criminals there.
Or at Darsell Acres, or Melody Falls Condos.
But if you were to draw a rope around the three, you’d pretty
much gather all the folks not incarcerated in the city of Laurel Vista.
Prisons and jails being the main municipal feature.
I commuted to my job as Chicken Inspector, at the Cluck-Cluck
Farm in Bent Oak.
Well, Sis and I called it that, the job. Anyway, Foreman of an
operation it’s needless to go into. Think feathers.
One day I was tried, arrested, and sent to Daryl Bell Hoxey
Private Prison.
The work of Judge Streamline Carter! Actually, the trial had been
held without my knowledge. Then, they sent the officers to take
me into custody.
“Well, it’s only two years, and I’ll get out in one,” I counseled Sis
while we read the order as the cops fidgeted.
Lynne put up with nothing! And I had to be ripped from her grip.
They never named the charge, by the way. And haven’t yet.
But she was down every throat she could find! All authorities
insisted I had my day in court. But I hadn’t, of course.
But everybody she talked to believed it, and waved away facts.
Which is how you become one.
Her efforts did get me transferred from inelegant Hoxey to
a halfway house, the former Happy Hogan’s Motor Court.
A startling resort in the twenties and thirties, but now a
rustic ruin, more or less. But some cottages had been
partially refurbished, and I got one. A third of it Fifties style,
formica everything, and a twelve inch Motorola black and white.
Hey! Quite comfortable! The catering service brought the food
I ordered, and I cooked it myself.
Unfortunately, not much of a chef, which Lynne discovered
after a visit.
So, she moved in. After notifying the Hogans, who were fine
with it. Especially after telling them she was a bookkeeper, and
would straighten out their...uh, you couldn’t call them records,
since the motel part still secretly ran and got mixed up with
the inmates, who would frequently help with luggage for the tips.
Well, you couldn’t tell which from which, and a couple from Rhode
Island had been held a full week past their checkout date.
Courtesy of Bung Slater, who was the ostensible overall warden
over three such “arrangements.”
We’re awfully good friends with the Hogans, dinners at their place
or ours weekly.
Anyway, when my sentence due to end, they persuaded Bung we
tried escaping when we went to Lowes, which we did frequently.
He just winked, so we’re here indefinitely, I guess.
Lynne’s in a fury of remodeling, but kept the thirty-forty-fifty
flavor. Mostly thirty. She threw out the TV!
You’d expect John Dillinger to answer when the door chime
plays Prisoner of Love.
By the way, I’m no longer a prisoner, but as my fellows toasted
at the banquet, “An honored member of the Enforcement Community.”
Lynne married Chip Hogan, who took over when he finished grad
work at Syracuse. His parents moved to Indialantic, Florida.
Quite an age difference, Chip and Lynne, but he pipes that she’s a
dynamo in the office AND in the bedroom!
The three of us visit regularly and have seen rockets go off at
Cape Canaveral.
Believe it or not, the cons run the operation while we’re gone--
though we question the embezzlers politely upon return.
Labels: crime, Criminal Justice, jail, judge, law enforcement, motel, prison, private prison, privitization
Saturday, November 16, 2013
All in the wrist!
Various Cons
Wristy had real estate schemes we turned off on.
As everything he promoted, the Devil lurked in the
details. And he was the Devil.
We just knew he was flipping properties wholesale.
So effectively that he bought a special edition
Infinity. Only thirty made.
The “Wristy” came from his claim about golf, that it
was all in the wrist.
Our good player claimed that it wasn't and never
was, but such never deterring Wristy.
Oh well, loud nights at sports bars to help spend youth!
No foul no harm.
Comes the Crash and he's quickly underwater, with
a huge inventory. But, not to worry, he's sent to prison
before he's ruined.
Some non real estate pipedream he concocted with
a junior banker from the next town. Details so
complicated, the prosecution expected the entire jury
to fall asleep. But they toughed it out, and, in fact,
convicted.
“Got the quad,” Wristy emailed us. Four years in Danbury.
Where we imagine him telling others in an exercise yard
that it's all in the wrist.
The Infinity up on blocks, his attorney able to save it
and nothing else.
The bunch drives up next weekend. Can’t wait for
the next con he's dreamed up, with the collusion of
bent teachers there.
Labels: Danbury, Devil in details, flipping, golf, prison, Real Estate, sports bar, underwater
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Old Jail Karma
New Condo
Max didn’t like the karma of leaving a couple
of cells intact in the recreation wing.
The contractors had locked their tools in one.
Renata laughed it off. “I just know we got a beautiful
new apartment! So it was a prison, full of the stink
of desperate men. That was then! Now, Mickey
and Chippy can play like mad in the old walking
yard, if that’s what they called it."
But one of the King Charles Spaniels bit a teasing child,
and a law suit appeared in their mailbox.
Then Chippy started staggering and the vet thought
it was something he ate, or was fed him.
And after Mr Hogart, retired shop teacher, was mugged
in their apartment’s vicinity, they started staying in
more.
Renata’s Brother came and mounted a 60 inch TV on
the beige wall.
“This place is built!” he proclaimed. “What the hell, it was
a fortress.”
Max joined the newly formed Condo Watch Group,
“Though I’m nearly under indictment, or something.”
R. Rindle, the lawyer, settled, though, so that the problem
went away.
“The amount is reasonable, but I won’t tell you exactly
until the siege calms down. Medical look at the brat,
and not all that much more.”
The couple got caught up in their activities, so began to
get out quite a bit more. Max heading up the watch group
in their wing, and Renata taking Thai cooking lessons in the
beautiful kitchen next to the cells.
Max started playing pool with some of the watch guys
on the lovely red table outside the kitchen.
They both walked the spaniels and chatted with the
new move-ins and the relative veterans.
“Still bad karma, but everywhere is.”
“Karma-shmarma!” she answered. “We worked like dogs
to get here. I’m for enjoying life, and the hell with
everything else!”
Labels: condo, karma, prison, retirement
Friday, January 25, 2013
The Quiet Room
-I had visions of being raped by a vicious stud!
-No real reason to use this Quiet Room.
All other conference venues booked.
Do you recall your previous…?
-Only the words “We could go to prison!”
-It was panic mode.
-I had visions of being raped by a vicious stud!
-Overblown. They seek fresher meat. At any rate,
two wonderful groups have blocked incarceration.
-Senate and House! I’m amazed at the paltry amounts
they’re bought for.
-Shh! Even in the Quiet Room we avoid strong verbs.
Rather say patriotic
contributions of Banking.
Besides, these but symbols in a novel.
-And the novel itself?
-One! Thumping! Book!
Labels: banking, bribery, injustice, prison
Saturday, August 06, 2011
A Political Story
The Government places me with Crystal family, murky
yet patriotic. And walking distance to the prison where
I go monthly to see my parents.
Both incarcerated for attempting to overthrow, etc.
Mother with explosives, my father, vague tactics.
In less hysterical times, he's sent home with a scolding.
After each visit, daughter Jeanette asks me five questions,
recording my answers in a marbled composition book.
Since the answers are glaringly obvious, she stops
after a few months.
In Dickens, an attraction develops but she has no sex,
and shares the family trait of periodically exploding for
no reason.
After both parents die in prison, I get sent to a recently-discovered uncle in Montana. He proves pure gold!--
open, loving, fond of fart jokes. “Emotionally, I never
got out of the six grade,” he announces in his rusty pickup
as we bang over dirt roads on the way to fishing holes.
Yeah, it’s all too Norman Rockwell.
Saves my life.
He passes when I enter Missoula as an Art Education major,
a flight of flannel-shirted angels carrying him to St Peter,
who detains him until he hears every single fart joke.
Well, my fancy. I’ve others.
Strange to say, I now teach in the high school not far
from the prison. Jeanette warms up enough to marry the hardware store owner, who, noting a curt way with
customers, sets her up with an International Maids
Franchise where immigrant women clean houses.
Ostensibly in an old-world, scrubbing way.
I've got the best job in the world, teaching art to willing youngsters. And, blessedly, out of the political loop
run by a cabal of English and Shop teachers.
Being too “flighty.”
Live-in girlfriend considers me normal. We’re both,
of course, crazy.
The Government places me with Crystal family, murky
yet patriotic. And walking distance to the prison where
I go monthly to see my parents.
Both incarcerated for attempting to overthrow, etc.
Mother with explosives, my father, vague tactics.
In less hysterical times, he's sent home with a scolding.
After each visit, daughter Jeanette asks me five questions,
recording my answers in a marbled composition book.
Since the answers are glaringly obvious, she stops
after a few months.
In Dickens, an attraction develops but she has no sex,
and shares the family trait of periodically exploding for
no reason.
After both parents die in prison, I get sent to a recently-discovered uncle in Montana. He proves pure gold!--
open, loving, fond of fart jokes. “Emotionally, I never
got out of the six grade,” he announces in his rusty pickup
as we bang over dirt roads on the way to fishing holes.
Yeah, it’s all too Norman Rockwell.
Saves my life.
He passes when I enter Missoula as an Art Education major,
a flight of flannel-shirted angels carrying him to St Peter,
who detains him until he hears every single fart joke.
Well, my fancy. I’ve others.
Strange to say, I now teach in the high school not far
from the prison. Jeanette warms up enough to marry the hardware store owner, who, noting a curt way with
customers, sets her up with an International Maids
Franchise where immigrant women clean houses.
Ostensibly in an old-world, scrubbing way.
I've got the best job in the world, teaching art to willing youngsters. And, blessedly, out of the political loop
run by a cabal of English and Shop teachers.
Being too “flighty.”
Live-in girlfriend considers me normal. We’re both,
of course, crazy.
Labels: art, government overthrow, politics, prison
