Here you can enjoy four of Rob´s poems
This system hates Love
They’d ban Love if they could
Make a rule against it
Bar Love from entering the prison
Put it on the list of contraband
next to weapons and drugs
But they can’t because Love,
real Love is unwavering
A Reality that shatters plexiglass
A blade that slices through bars
and cracks concrete
Love, is the Essence of the Struggle
in pure form
And if they do find a
way to ban Love?
Then we’ll become co-conspirators
Shouting and screaming Love
In picket lines and protests
Inventing new ways
to smuggle Love
through both sides of the fence
At the risk of sounding ridiculous let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by great feelings of Love. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality.
– Che Guevara, in a letter to Carlos Quijano, 1965
What makes you feel free? – Lily
The Prelude: Young Freedom In Chains
Many times freedom wears a mask and under that mask lays the face of death.
We recognize its face yet we kiss its lips.
The taste is sweet, so sweet it hurts.
I left home wading through pill bottles
And generations of built up hatred
Dodging corvette red talons
You little no good bastard, you are nothing!
You’re no good! You are never ever going to amount to anything!
You’re just like your father! You’re just like your fucking father!
You’re no fucking good! You’re just like….Just, just…
Just like…Your father.
And the venom trailed off
Violent crying replaced
By a childlike whimper
I wish you would just talk to me.
That’s all I want. I love you mom. I just want you to talk to me.
Black and grey backpack stuffed full and bulging with ambition
Screw tapes laced with ‘Pac, clothes and Ziplocs. Three pounds of weed
And a triple-beam Beretta 92f I got from Billy M. Before he was killed.
Heat on my waist and city lights in my eyes.
Fuck, It wasn’t my fault that little punk snitched on me
And that asshole school cop, who thinks he’s still in Vietnam, found weed on me.
I mean, Shit, Weed should be legal and uncle gave it to me anyway.
Plus, How the hell was I supposed to get school clothes?
Northside hotel room
Wallpaper yellow from
Years of weed, crack, and cigarette smoke.
The dull piss yellow
Of a dope fiends smile.
Hey whiteboy! Hey, Say, say, Let me holla atcha’ fo a minute.
See, peep game young playa! I ain’t like them ole stupid ass niggas.
See, Nigga like me got some sense! I’m cool with them white folks man.
I like white-folks, Led Zeppelin and them, Pink Floyd and them.
Shit, all them white folks cool! Now, I see you, A young hustler, A playa, You about your paper. Go on and let a fellow playa get 10 dollars and a couple them blunts you be sellin? Cool man, I’m cool with them white folks! These lil punk ass niggas ain’t about shit! Just let a playa get a lil somethin’ man!
Fully auto street game
Spit clean in 60 seconds.
Shit, man, just let me get 50 dollars then and one of them blunts you be sellin.
My momma’s sick man! Come on man, Help a playa out. I’m doin bad right now.
Led Zeppelin and them man! I’m cool with them white folks! Come on , don’t do me like that man! Shit, hell with you then! I ain’t never liked no goddamn honkies anyway!
Sad white spots
Struggling to free themselves
From their yellow coating
40 ounce bottles lie
Empty on the floor
Little transparent dreams
Turned to nightmares
Waiting to be forgotten
(Because Everlast from house of pain drinks mickies)
Everyone else is passed out
Young bodies on twin beds
More on the floor
Young male minds
“Pussy, weed and alcohol”
“Money, hoes, and clothes”
Young female minds
Dreaming of love
My beeper beeps
Tito wants a quarter pound.
I hang up the phone
Past the chain-smoking Pakistani at the front desk
Always sweating through his polyester shirt.
My freend, My freend, Do not forget my freend!
Tommorrow Saturday, Pay one more week my freend.
Maybe one the sexy girl for me one night?
Hmm, My freend? Hmm?
No pay for you two weeks my freend, If for me one night the sexy girl?
Good, good, My friend?
Two dirt-faced franklins
On the desk
Polyester stretching tight
Across an overfed stomach
Buttons crying out for help
Black chest hair
With grey highlights
Thin tentacles reaching out
For the American dream.
Ok, ok, My freend.
Maybe next time one the sexy girl for me my freend!
Ha, ha, ha, haaaaa!!…..
I hop in the Honda accord
Light up a blunt
Screwdriver in the ignition
Crank the ride
Tape in the deck
Screwed and chopped ‘Pac
Blazin’ out the speakers.
“Back in Back in elementary, I thrived on misery
Left me alone, I grew up amongst a dyin breed
Inside my mind couldn’t find a place to rest
Until I got that Thug Life tatted on my chest”
All black hat
Coked to the side
9 in my lap
On blue jean dickies
Quarter pound under the seat
Air max on the pedal
On the Highway
Wind in my face
No school cops harassing me
No teachers or preachers
No drunken uncles talking shit
No condemnation or hate
Weed smoke in my lungs
A kiss so sweet
That it hurts
Young freedom, in chains.
“What is it to be born free and not live free”
Life without principal (1863)
I feel as if I’ve been alone my entire life,
with no one to share my deepest feelings.
A solitary being.
Searching, for one true friend.
Another deep soul whose words would be a reflection of my own.
I read Nietzsche for a sense of companionship.
he would be the only one who could understand me.
Though he would probably call me a wretched fool
perhaps at best,
an exceptional man who missed his way and deteriorated.
I try to release my pain through writing and poetry,
Though, I’m not a good poet or writer.
I look around my cell and I have nothing
My world is a barren concrete wasteland.
I haven’t see my son in four years.
I was with him everyday before I got locked up.
No one to talk to,
No friend to turn to when I’m sad.
No one to cry to when I’m lonely.
I say to myself that I’m not one of the herd
No one can possible understand me.
It’s just that no one wants to understand me.
I think about God.
Then, I think about God.
And my mind drifts to the gods.
I think of death.
If I’m executed, will anyone claim my body?
Who will decide if my glasses are left on or off?
I’d like to live until age 65,
or maybe 73.
My son would be 51 then.
We could both laugh about how we’ve grown to be old men.
I’d want to be buried in Switzerland.
Close to ma dềese Suisse.
My ashes tossed into the wind . . .
The breeze that blows through Sils Maria,
Where Nietzsche met Zarathustra.
I would then carry myself to Montagnola,
to discuss life, love, freedom, and death.
Despair . . .
I gain no comfort from religion or dogma.
Demian and Siddhartha only bring temporary peace
to my troubled and tortured soul.
Sleep is my only sanctuary.
In sleep I soar through the night,
with Freedom as my companion.
Twisting, whirling, kissing the clouds.
Then, I’m awakened by the Beast.
I stand on the edge of a cliff.
into the cold, black abyss.
The Beast beckons, “Come forth,
I am your only friend.
I am your Master, your god.
Worship me, give me your soul!”
The rocks crumble,
the night wind blows,
I slip . . .
Away from the abyss I fall,
away from the Beast’s embrace.
The Lord of the Runes has saved me.
His voice comes with the wind,
“Know pain and suffer as I suffered,
on the great World Ash.
But, do not let solitude be your demise.”
All is silent.
No longer any voice to comfort me.
No longer any guidance for my pain.
Abandoned and helpless.
I don’t know what else to do.
and I feel terribly, horribly and completely
Old School Convict
If I had to pick
some theme music for Steve
I’d pick some of that
bad old Southern Blues
Or maybe some ZZ Top
Not the radio singles
but the deep album cuts
Northside Steve Moody
Once told me about
a dude here
who he did time with
back in the late 70’s
Told me about how
he let the dude
his brand new
shined up Stacy Adams
to go on furlough
See, back then the chicks digged
the Stacy Adams. Man, I don’t know
what the hell he did but he
sure as hell wasn’t picking up
any chicks. My shoes came back
with dirt all over ‘em and unshined!
Thirty years later
Steve was still
mad at the dude
behind those Stacy’s
H-Town Steve Moody
Old School Gangster
And when I say Gangster
I don’t mean Gangsta’
I’m talkin’ John Dillinger
Smoke-filled pool hall
Southern Comfort Whiskey
Pullin’ on a cigarette
real cool like
Stacy’s shined up
Heart of a warrior
by prison riots
Dodging Knife thrusts
Fully sleeved out
with decades old
faded prison tatts
Old school Steve Moody
52 years old
Hit the dayroom
and work out harder
than dudes half
Fade the riot team
Face to face
Give ‘em hell
before they cuffed him
Northside Steve Moody
Once got gassed so much
he was blind
for four days
went on a hunger strike
Putting his body
on the line
Steve sent me a picture
of himself before he died
On the back it read:
Well man, this is it until we
meet again. Hang tough and
I hope things turn out
for you just the way
you want them to, whatever
way that may be. Journey
well and stay strong good
Friend. Lace Ace.
Love and Respect,
Old School Steve Moody