CHRIS COE

 POEM FROM JAIL

Freedom rings orange for recidivist stints

in gunmetal jumpsuit militant-issue print

regales with tales of San Quentin initiates

parolee said his souls' owned by police ever since.

nonchalant, with the knowledge of slobbin and where it gets him

chalks it up to sidewalk jive-talk he's scared of spittin'

'cause cops flex, all obsessed with makin him a victim

inchin toward a probable cause- said they caught him flinchin'

societal flaws keep us dumb as Golgafrincham

telephone sanitizers and mizers called wisdom

makes $ makes sense, desensitized to lives in prison lost

to purify a world with steel bars built up with driven costs

a world of locked doors and windows, where freedoms never lost

never really had it, when they outlawed the river-walkers

Ferrymen, and Aryan becomes a term for what its not

warriors in search of forefathers among the demigods.