*Always different, always the same*
Which is to say, whatever the mood or shape of the cell—
whether hot and damp, or cold and windy—
what awaits you as they let you in, every time,
is an impartial light breeze of contingency.
A sense of your loneliness in action,
another moment of blending your solitude,
your mind, and your wretchedness together.
As you meander very gingerly through the minuscule billet,
you know nothing will ever vacillate;
the gravitational force makes you settle on your bunk,
and once again you start to scan the tiny room,
your eyes covering the same domain.
Being locked up makes you extremely industrious and tiny.
You clean up the mess every chance you get—
somehow the cell becomes your sanctuary.
Once they slam the door shut on you,
you feel a sense of assurance, safety—
you have made it through another labyrinth.
There’s no enigmatic cliché of allure in here,
no crispy sheets, no fancy decor.
The only mischiefs are narcotics
& self-indulgence of masturbatory fantasies.
Nothing has been done to create comfort,
the noises are unbearable,
and the only play happening next door
is the actual occurrence of a rape scene.
When you look at the window,
you see the yard, the other buildings,
the light which is just a puff—
an expression one might fail to register,
unless one knew that some few hundred men
you might move to another cell, another block,
even another institution.
Hell, like the Eagles’ song:
“…you can check out anytime you want,
but you can never leave.”
So this place is as real or as imagined,
here, there, or whenever I choose it to be—
