"Beware the centrist."
- Willem van Spronsen, last note, 2019
the second time I was in jail they took our underwear and socks, too. there is nothing to do in solitary confinement
except think about everyone that got you there. my lawyer fucks up the three-way call and the jail warden locks the
door to ask me if I'm planning on rolling turd-rockets under my cell-gate. no sir. are you going to be a
problem? no sir. he asks me if I knew why he'd Googled me like I hadn't been on this bad first date before.
because you got me confused with some other bluecollar mulletjew. because you want to ask me about my thesis.
because you think I'm lying. because you wanted to see if I’d write this poem. I found the only book in the
cell-rentals that wasn't a variation of the Bible during the one un-solitary hour. it was the slowest I'd ever read
a book on purpose. the thing about one's body is that's all it is. bones gummed together. monstrous etymology. I
pulled Yorick's skull out of my mouth every hour I wasn't nightmaring my release. I memorized the names of everyone
I loved and. I said them over and over until they swallowed each other. the irony of not being allowed a writing
implement because it could be used as a weapon is not lost on me, so. I design found-poems with my hands. fingers
splayed over each annotated monologue. somewhere in the script the words I'm and not and here
live on the same page and. I find them and live there too.