If the soul is a passport, stamped to substantiate where a body’s been,
then I present to you; a man named Punky.
I met him in Red Onion State Prison.
One afternoon, they dragged him into solitary,
after exposing his dick to a female prison guard.
His cell was across from mine, and I saw him beat his head;
against the 24×10 slotted window.
But that window, was more than a window.
It was Punky’s personal note pad.
Often, he’d mix mustard and feces inside a cup with a little water,
till it met the consistency of ink.
Then he’d stick a finger in, and begin writing the most beautiful verses on that window.
If there was a mistake, he’d use his elbow as an eraser.
How could beauty emanate from such insanity?
All through the polyphonic noon he’d write and erase,
until a small masterpiece graced the tempered glass.
This is what’s missing from poetry today.
The unfiltered grit which circles humanity.
Poetry is best when it plops,
like a morning coffee shit you can no longer hold.
When it fizzes like hydrogen peroxide on a child’s scraped knee.
Literature has grown plump from the fluff,
and pap of political correctness.
Lose the safety net.
Learn to walk the wire
with nothing below,
but the singular dark.