Brave Coward: Collections of The Prison Experience

Collections of the Prison Experience
by
Brian H. Roundtree
BRAVE COWARD: Collections of the Prison Experience - 1
Copyright 2005, 2017 by Brian H. Roundtree
Foreward by Dennis Roundtree published by arrangement with the author
ISBN 978-1-387-30796-8
Published in the United States of America by Lulu.com
Cover designed by Brian H. Roundtree

BRAVE COWARD
Collections of the Prison Experience
To my family, for never giving up on me,
even when so often it was clear I was giving up on myself.
And to anyone else feeling so defeated that youre uncertain if you will ever find a
healthy way back to a positive, forward-thinking life...have faith, love yourself and
know that the only way you can find the path ahead is by keeping your head up
and continue moving forward. I promise its worth it.
Foreword
Looking into anothers soul is a dangerous undertaking. To the casual voyeur the
risk is smallthe possibility of being emotionally involved, perhaps a tear lost as
you close the window into anothers anguish and pain, or mild joy at the happy
ending. Then you move on. When you are looking at your own much-beloved
child, the view can be wrenching to the very depths of your existence. However, my
heartbreak, guilt and ultimate redemption are not all that interesting to the outside
world. Its like passing a car wreckyou crane your neck, look for the carnage, feel
a moment of excitement or compassion, and then drive on.
So why should YOU be interested in the journey of this intelligent but troubled
boy-becoming-a-man, who made his coming-of-age journey in a hellish web made
up of his own demons, drugs and, finally, the criminal justice system?
Like a photograph, your results will depend on the filter you choose and the length
of exposure.
You may filter the story through your own sense of righteousness. You will feel no
sympathy or empathyonly a sense of you reap what you sow. Make no mistake
he created his circumstances and, in the end, accepts that responsibility. Does that
mean that humanity is forgotten? Do we descend into a total punishment mentality
where those who enter this maze are never allowed to recapture their potential? Is
that the only route our sense of justice can take?
Perhaps you will view him as the proverbial societys childits not his fault, hes
a victim of circumstance, its his parents, his school, his village, the first love who
cheated on him, they are all to blame. Blame it on the drug dealers, the police, the
government, society. In so doing, do we not in truth disenfranchise the victim by
removing his power to create his life, even from the ashes of his own private hell?
Or maybe you just wont care that much. Maybe its just another storya diversion
from your own trials and challenges. Maybe you will even have a twinge of there,
but for the grace of God
Heres why you should care. There are over 16,000 people in the Colorado prison
system. There are millions more nationwide. 99.4% will get out someday, and
they will become your neighbors, coworkers or just the crazy-looking guy on the
bus. Some are irretrievably evil and will find their way back to prison through the
suffering of more victims. Some are crazy or institutionalized to the point that
they cant survive outside. They will commit some petty crime and go back to the
only home they can cope with. A few, like the author of this book, will find their
own way out of the cesspool relying on their own strength and the support of those
who love them. They will thumb their noses at a misnamed corrections system
that expands, grows and thrives on its very failure to accomplish its alleged mission.
Most, however, could go either way. They will all start out with good intentions.
A few, too few, will make it because the system actually helped them. More will give
up after the umpteenth we dont hire convicts, or maybe it will be due to a police
officer who never passes up an opportunity to harass an ex-con. It could be because
they are living in a crime-ridden tenement since no one else will rent to them.
Perhaps it will be the reproachful look from the wife who has suffered too long and
is used to her independence, even in poverty. Yes, they will make the decision and
it will be their responsibility, but another victim will suffer and all of us will lose.
Like a thunderstorm, the truest sense of what goes on in the prison system comes
from the inside, and the truest sense of the criminal mind comes from the same
vantage point. What looks innocuous or simple from far away is a complex raging
vortex when you are stuck in the middle of it. Dont expect a day in the life.
This is an insight into the psyche, not the events. It captures the sense of one day
running into another until time is no longer linear, but an occupied space where
the boundaries are miles away. It is in this empty space that the true character is
revealed and this becomes a story of hope and redemption. Sometimes you have to
fall in the river to see the shore.
I cant give the reader perspectiveI am too close. I cant give the reader a sense
of moral responsibilitythats not my place. I cant convince the reader to get
involvedwe all choose our own place and time to make a difference (or not). Most
of all, I cant make the reader care. This book will intrigue you, confuse you, enrage
you, enlighten you and, in the end, give you hope if you want to believe that sins are
truly forgiven and an upside-down life can be righted. It will allow the stubbornly
cynical to seek out the flaws and doubt the outcome. If you allow yourself to care, it
will break your heart and then make it whole again.
So read it. Its short.
Dennis Roundtree, the authors father
6 - BRAVE COWARD: Collections of the Prison Experience

Inroduction to the Reissued Edition
The poems and journal entries found in this book were written in the concrete
jungles of Colorado jails and prisons during my incarceration for aggravated
robbery between March 28, 1994 and November 24, 1998.
In 2005, after quite a few years of being released, and functioning as a contributing
member of society back in the real world, I gathered these writings together and
reflected on many of the lessons I learned from my time inside and felt it was
important to pass on those lessons. Many of the early, angrier poems are the only
ones I share those reflections on as halfway through my prison experience I found
myself enlightened and evolving, and much of the second half of this book didnt
need commentary as the transformation is apparent in the writings themselves.
I never officially published this book in 2005, but I did share it with a few friends
and family then forgot all about it and went on with life void of ever feeling it
warranted a place in the vast library of far more important American literature.
However, Im reissuing it officially now in 2017 as I feel the state of the world, our
conflicts within our high percentage of broken families, fractured communities and
failing governments are so busy focused on social media status and the need for
instant emotional gratification that weve forgotten life is a marathon, not a race.
This book serves as a reminder of how important it is to take the time to absorb the
true, fallible yet hopeful, substance of the human experience and transcend with
understanding and unconditional love intact.
Since this original writing, Ive managed to raise six children currently between
the ages of 11 and 16 (four of my own and two step-sons) with three different babies
mamas, Ive been married twice, have hit highs and lows in my career and personal
life, often overcoming some of the same internal battles that brought me to, and
helped me survive, prison two decades earlier. In fact, at the release of this book,
Im currently going through a divorce that found me accessing some eerily similar
depression and angry reactions that threatened to mirror what landed me in prison
decades earlier.
Fortunately, after a near-death experience, as a result of improperly coping with
the depression overwhelming me during the divorce process, I eventually managed
to access the healthy coping mechanisms that propelled me from paralyzing anger
towards a more peaceful, positive direction akin to that which helped me evolve
through my incarceration. Ive since been able to release myself from the personal
prison of emotions that led to my failed marriage and am slowly rising above another
major life-altering challenge decades later.
Having continued to overcome seemingly never-ending diversity after prison, it
seemed only appropriate to share this process of human emotional and psychological

evolution again, and do my part to remind the world (and myself) that we are not
defined by our mistakes. Rather, how we respond and rise to the challenges placed
in front of us at any given moment is what ultimately defines our legacy.
The last twenty years proved to be even more interesting, sometimes painful, but
considerably more enjoyable and increasingly insightful, than the few years I spent
locked up. Subsequently, Im working on a sequel to Brave Coward to capture, and
pass on, those lessons as well. So, until I am ready to share it with the masses I hope
you find the content inside as useful and applicable to your own life (or someone
you know) as it has proven to be for mine again, even all these years later.
Brian Roundtree
October 2017

Between the covers of this book lies the evolution of a man.
March 28, 1994. I was 19 years old and had been living on the snow-littered streets
of Denver, Colorado, for a few weeks. A month earlier I resided in a three-bedroom
condo in Keystone, smoking an endless supply of weed, drinking gallons of booze
and skiing everyday. I gambled away my last dime on the hope the Buffalo Bills
would win the Super Bowl, only to watch the Dallas Cowboys kick the shit out of
them in the second half. I lost my place to live. I lost my money. And I lost a good
deal of pride.
Desperation can cause a man to do many a sordid thing. A fellow vagabond knew
of a girl with a gun. I mentioned robbing an ex-employer. I lifted a cherry-red 94
Dodge Ram pickup truck. We hopped in for the ride and drove to our destiny.
I went in to a pizza joint alone. Held a .22 caliber to the owners temple and
explained that I wasnt joking. He gave me the only $3 he had on him. I drove down
the street and, with the bravado of a character from a Tarantino film, told a gas
station clerk, Give me all the money or Ill blow your fuckin head off! $97 emptied
the till.
Ten minutes later, seemingly every cop in Aurora had us surrounded at a 7-11.
Twenty minutes later I started what would become a twelve year residency with the
Colorado Department of Corrections.
Fortunately, I got out, in less than five, for good behavior.
Somewhere in between I found the time to write down a few things.

Anger is a gift.
- Zack De La Rocha, Rage Against The Machine

Asif (My first victim)
Barred for life or so it seems
Ive got no place to go
While you sit outside, you laugh and cry
My pain youll never know
I say Im sorry, all apologies

But it wont make a difference
I need some help, some open ears
But all I get is a sentence
I should have aimed between your eyes

And saved myself this mess
But my conscience wouldnt let me
So here I sit completely stressed
You took my money so I took back

But Im the one whos wrong
Watch yourself, you sorry punk
Cause I wont be here for long
Reflection:
I worked for Asif at a pizzeria in Aurora, located on the corner of Hampden and
Tower. It was a simple job that only paid about $8 an hour but the staff on hand was
a fun bunch and I got to work with my brother while he was still in high school. Asif
and his brother liked to hire all teenagers to run the joint. We all happened to be in
to one drug or another and all the wait staff consisted of blonde 16 year olds with big
breasts and promiscuity running rampant in their genes (and their jeans).
At any given moment you could go out back for a smoke and someone on staff
would have a bowl of weed ready for you to get your toke on. It made dealing with the
lowly conditions of the place bearable. Most of the clientele in this place consisted of
high school dropouts looking to cop their poison on any given night. It was actually
a pretty sweet front for a bunch of simple-minded drug dealers to make some extra
cash while the owners made some profit off their product the legitimate product
being sold.
Asif was paying me under the table and one day he came up short on my pay. I
argued with him for awhile as he tried to convince me he was taking out for taxes,
although hed been paying me cash since I started and I had never so much as filled
a W-2 out. I ended up quitting that night and a few months later when I had hit my
low point to commit this robbery he was the first person I thought of to rob.
I remember walking through the back door. I still knew some of the staff and
actually believe my brother still worked there, although at this point I had been out
of touch with family for a couple months and just partying my ass off. I saw the head
cook and the dishwasher, both semi-acquaintances of mine, and showed them my
.22 caliber pistol. I explained quickly that I was gonna rob the place and that they
should head out. They grabbed their coats and headed to the liquor store. I later
heard they actually told the police the robber appeared to be a large black man
which I most certainly was not. It was nice of them to try and cover for me in case
I got away, but I had approached the entire robbery as if I had every intention of
getting caught.
I walked toward the front and saw Asif by himself now, as the place was past closing
hours, and he looked surprised to see me. He said hello and I kind of switched in to
fuck it mode and decided he was gonna be my first robbery victim. In retrospect
its difficult to think I was capable of such a horrific crime, but my insanity was in full
effect and nothing was gonna stop me once I started. As I brandished my weapon
and aptly told him I was robbing him his initial reaction was to push the gun away
from his face. I was stunned. Thats not how I had seen it done on so many movies
and television shows growing up. The victim never pushes the gun away from his
face. So I held it back up to him, right between his eyes, and told him I wasnt joking.
He pushed it away again. Not about to let him get away with calling my bluff on such
a night that I was somehow asserting my criminality on him I aimed for his foot and
fired a round in to the floor.
Im not sure who was more scared at this point. I realized I had just crossed the
line and there was no turning back. I was convinced before firing that I might be
up for killing someone tonight, but after firing that round in to the floor it came to
me pretty fast that I didnt want to go down for murder. Well, the round scared him
enough to empty his pockets and I grabbed his $3 and high-tailed it out the front
door and ran around back to my stolen truck. I headed to another part of Aurora
to rob a gas station with all the bravado of Geena Davis character in Thelma and
Louise. Ten minutes later I was surrounded by every cop in Arapahoe County and
my crime spree ended.
Asif never showed up at my sentencing. In fact, the only thing I ever heard about
his reaction to that night was that he called my brother, not the cops, to tell him
immediately what had happened. My night had actually been the last in a long
succession of robberies that pizzeria experienced in the year or so that it was open.
It closed down not long after March 28, 1994. Ive never had the opportunity to tell
Asif and his family how sorry I was for that evening. No one should ever have to be
put through what I put him through. Although, Asif was Pakistani and it seems to
me, after learning so much about the experiences of the people in his country, that
it may have paled in comparison to things he had seen in his home land. He and his
family likely came over here to free themselves from the horrors he grew up with
and the civil wars he survived and fled from.
To this day Ive never believed that Asif or his brother knew what the staff was
doing in that place. They never said anything to us about anything and ultimately
seemed to simply be foreigners trying to make it in America like so many others
have done. The night I stuck a gun to his head may have been just another horror
survived and made our countrys conditions no better than what he had grown up
with all his life. And for that I am truly ashamed.

Mary
There once was a judge named Mary
I told her, her chest was hairy
She grabbed her pen
And gave me ten
In an attempt to fuckin scare me
I saw her two years later

Good behavior, now parole
Went to her house
Hopped in her bed
And fucked that silly ho
Six months down the road

Shot a Pakistani Joe
Up for murder one and two
Found Marys gotta go
Brand new judge in court

Giving time his favorite sport
Looked in my file
Im in denial
And he tells me life is short
So here I sit a wonderin

Just where I might have been
Wishin I was fuckin Mary
On and on again
Reflection:
Judge Deanna Hickman was one mean bitch. Although to the system she was top
brass and did her job very well. In the first fifteen months I was in the county jail,
Judge Hickman sent more of my peers to prison than any other judge residing on
the bench at the time.
Upon my sentencing I had the entire left side of the courtroom filled with people
who wanted to speak on my behalf and beg for the court to have mercy on me,
give me a chance at probation or a halfway house. Hell, even after a very Christian
statement of forgiveness by the gentleman who was working the counter the night
I robbed his gas station after knocking over Asif s pizza joint, the District Attorney
was willing to offer me twelve years of probation. I wouldnt have seen a day of
prison. Judges inevitably go with the District Attorneys recommendations and
consider victims statements to be valued with extreme importance, but not Judge
Hickman. And certainly not after my dad had a final chance to say his peace about
my situation by addressing the court.
Dad was extremely emotional and had his hand on my back as he stood next to me.
This was the first time in six months that I had any physical contact with a member
of the outside world, much less my family. As I stood there with tears in my eyes and
listened to my dad plead for relief from the bench I stared at Judge Hickman and
didnt notice even an ounce of emotion. Then my dad finished his heartfelt speech
with one final blow. I dont remember what he said verbatim but it was somewhere
along the lines of, Judge I understand this is an election year and I could see how it
would be in your best interest to send my son to prisonblah, blah, blah. The rest
didnt matter. Judge Hickman had made up her mind, in my opinion, long before
my dad or the D.A. or the victim or my family members or multiple friends had put
in their two cents on my fate. She looked at the district attorney and explained why
she couldnt agree with his recommendation, looked at my dad and said Im not
up for reelection this year Mr. Roundtree, and then turned to me and exclaimed
I sentence you to eight years in the Colorado Department of Corrections. I wrote
this poem that night.
Im not sure how Judge Hickmans career ended up ultimately. Im sure she made the
bench proud, the system proud, and the taxpayers proud. I imagine she retired with
a nice government pension and is likely enjoying retirement somewhere. I will say
this though, she was right to sentence me to prison for this heinous crime. Everyday
Ive felt lucky that I didnt go in for attempted murder or worse yet might have shot
Asif between the eyes and never had the second chance at life that I was given just a
few years later upon my release. Deanna Hickman, wherever you are, thank you for
doing what the taxpaying citizens of this state paid you to do. I probably still got less
than what I deserved, but the time I did get has been an invaluable lesson.
Just because she was a mean bitch didnt make her wrong.

I Wanna Screw Drew
Semi-precious in a fucked-up state
Now I gotta somehow manage to clean my slate
Politicians stealing money while the groupies get paid
The only worry I got is the next time I get laid
Can you feel the pain inside your head?
Should I believe all the shit the tabloids said?
Put a clown like bozo in the throne of power
A blow job and a sack, hell be gone in an hour
Oh shit! I cant take it anymore
The shit hit the fan and then it covered the floor
Whats next? Will Nancy Reagan hit the pipe?
Id like to take a gun to the head of Michael Stipe
Its no wonder Im institutionalized
I got brainwashed by a burger and some dancing fries
Fuck that, fuck this
Country music sucks my dick
Im going crazy and I dont care
I just want in Drew Barrymores underwear!
I wanna screw that bitch til the cows come home

And then smoke a fat joint while shes sucking my dome
Lets run a train on her twat, invite all my friends
Then Ill pimp the silly ho, so I can make some ends
When I was a boy she started my fire
E.T. phoned home and shes my burning desire
On the hood of that car in Poison Ivy Id roll
I wanna screw Drew, and its taking its toll
Reflection:
This was actually a rap song I wrote - less about poetry and more about blowing off
steam to the beat in my head. Ive never been the misogynist asshole portrayed here,
but apparently this was my Eminem moment before there was an Eminem.
Most every guy, or at least heterosexual guy, in the joint has a celebrity honey on
his wall. Convicts have access to various magazines through the canteen and can
get subscriptions to just about any form of literature that doesnt contain maps and
details to prison breaks or resembles the Cliff s Notes to The Anarchists Cookbook
(although I did find a good way to create a small explosion from inside the county jail
while reading The Still Life of Woodpecker never tried it though to see if it actually
works). Sometimes you simply pick a specific gal and it becomes your mission to
find any and all pictures you can of her. Even fellow convicts will treat pictures in
People magazine like trading cards to hustle images of their favorite screen siren.
I always had a huge crush on Drew Barrymore and at the time I started getting
comfortable in the county jail and began considering my dcor options Ms.
Barrymore was doing a series of advertisements for Guess. And she had posed in
Playboy. And she was my age. And this was her bad girl phase. It almost seemed like
a match made in heaven. I even tried to write her a letter through People magazine,
specifically to her business partner Nancy Juvonen, to see if shed be interested in
visiting me. Sometimes too much free time inside can lead to unlimited delusions
of grandeur. Unfortunately, she still hasnt responded to my letters (and I really
thought I had a chance after her Tom Green adventure I cant look much worse
than him, on paper).
Drew is actually the happy ending to a really sad state of mind when I was writing
this piece. Most of the other references in the poem were random musings on the
State of our beloved Union as I was watching it on a television from the county jail.
During this time, O.J. Simpson was actually rooted for by fellow convicts while he
headed down the Los Angeles freeway with Al Cowlings in the drivers seat, Timothy
McVeigh had unleashed his domestic terror on Oklahoma City, and Michael Jackson
was paying off his first public victim of child molestation the world was going to
shit and all seemed to be happening in sound bites between commercials for fast
food chains. It was depressing to watch. Even Jerry Springers guests seemed to be
enjoying life a lot more than I was; and you know youve finally hit bottom when the
life of a Jerry Springer guest looks more appealing than your own.
Shortly after I got out of prison, a few years later, the Columbine tragedy struck
just miles away from the halfway house to which I had been released. I remember
hearing the helicopters in the short distance and watching it all unfold from the
television in my room. We werent allowed to leave the halfway house unless we had
to go to work and I didnt have to be at my job with the Denver Post for another few
hours. My buddy Jason and I watched the entire thing unfold, with enhanced sound
just down the street. I was so close to something that had a worldwide impact of
grief. Once again I found myself thankful for having been given the chance to try
my hand as a productive member of society and grateful that I wasnt trapped in that
cafeteria. I felt instant sympathy for the families of the victims. I visited Columbine
High a couple weeks after Harris and Klebolds spineless and gruesome attack. I
have been forever touched by the overwhelming amount of respects that were paid
to that site. People traveled from around the world just to lay flowers next to pictures
and weep and grieve publicly with strangers.
Through a connection at the Denver Post I opted to volunteer to assist with setup
for an MTV special a few weeks later that was addressing the core issues and the
impact of this tragic day in American history. The VJ hosting the segment seemed
more concerned about his hair and makeup than anything that community had to
say about what had taken place. Just another series of sound bites nestled comfortably
between fast food commercials.

Infinite Thoughts
To control what I feel inside seems unfair
Id show you the anger inside but you dont care
This pain in my soul had opened the gate
To a world filled with malice and hate
Simple for you to laugh and mock me
Hard to understand how this place affects me
Id say I feel sorry for you

Just a lost little boy hiding behind what you dont know
But, then again, how could you?
If you lose the only thing you love

Its because you pushed her away
See you in Hell
The only thing you know is rich in the pocket, not in the soul
Reflection:
My homeboy, Palmer. Palmer was my first cell mate. The first night I was transferred
from city jail to the county jail, roughly twenty-four hours after I had been
apprehended for the crime, I was sent to I believe E-wing of the Arapahoe County
Jail, where I met Aaron Palmer. The night I had showed up it was lights out and
lock down for the evening and happened to be the one day of the week that guards
hand out two candy bars if you had passed inspection of your cell. As I was being
chaperoned to my new digs I asked the guard to kick me a candy bar and he just
laughed at me. Apparently I hadnt earned the privilege yet. However, knowing how
much it sucks your first night in, Palmer hooked me up with one of his two Snickers
bars and we instantly hit it off.
Palmer and I were buddies from jump. He was a peckerwood (white boy) about six
months older than I was and currently taking an attempted murder beef to trial. He
had been spending a lot of time with 102 Crips and always had his gangsta on. One
day he got caught talking smack to a carload of skinheads and guns starting going
off from both rides. Unfortunately the skinheads got to the police before Palmer did
and their story was better than his as to the specifics of the altercation. Otherwise
the other guy might have been my first cell mate that night rather than Palmer.
Palmer and I were straight up fools together in the county jail. We were tall skinny
white boys that talked a lot of smack and never really got taken too seriously as a
threat. But we definitely had the potential to be. He and I became accomplished
thieves among thieves in the county. While inmates would go on to court dates we
would get up the instant the doors cracked in the morning (everyone sleeps late and
heavy in the county jail) and jack the contents of locker boxes filled with a fresh
supply of commissary. Palmer usually kept an eye out for The Man while I quickly
slipped in and out of the cell with a pillow case. Wed take half the loot and blow it at
the card tables later that night before anyone had the chance to realize it was missing
after returning from a bad day in court. Wed always hit the fish (newcomers) or
punks that the majority of the cell block werent feeling connected with the rest of us
losers. It was like the jocks verse the nerds, only in criminal world. Sometimes wed
share the take with a couple other cats to keep mouths shut. Fish would try to make
a stink and find out who did it, but ultimately ended up kiting out (sending a request
slip anonymously to the man to be transferred from the cell block) to find a new
home for fear of worse things happening to them now that they had been proven
victims behind the walls. I was always a thief inside though and never got in to the
fighting or making punks out of easy targets. Palmer and I left that to the goons that
had made a permanent lifestyle choice out of their incarceration.
This particular poem though was written on a tough night when Palmer and I had
both had rough days inside. I had a bad day in court and his girlfriend came to the
county to break up with him. We took it out on each other and the above was all I
had to say about the evening. The next day we were playing cards at the table and
back to our hi-jinx.
Palmer was the only guy I kept in touch with the entire time I was incarcerated. He
was sent to Texas in the mid-90s when Colorado prisons were a little over-crowded.
He was forced in to sub-human conditions and in an effort to save his own life
among much harder convicts became involved in the multi-day riots that inspired
pulling Colorado inmates out of Texas shortly afterwards.
Palmer got eighteen years for his part in a shoot out with some skin heads in
Denver, but as a result of taking it to trial, many mistakes had been made and after
six years of appeals he had given back all but the six he lost locked up. He hit the
same halfway house in 1999 just a few months after I was released and we were
reunited for a brief time. We had both changed significantly, for the better, as a result
of our prison experience.
While Palmer was locked up he studied and received his G.E.D. I began taking
college courses after my first couple years locked up and Palmer opted to do the
same. We became students together, although we were miles apart. Hes still the
one person in the world I share the totality of my prison experience with and Im
extremely proud of what hes done with his life from whence he came. He is one of
the few Ive met that did his time, got out, killed his number and will likely never
return again. He is the exception to the rule and we got each other through many a
long day.
Convicts have a saying You find out who your real friends are when you get
locked up. I never intended on finding a real friend on the inside, but Im forever
grateful that I did and that together we beat the system the right way. Over the years
we always ended our letters the same way They cant keep us forever! And we
made sure of it.

If I Prayed
Good evening, oh good night
If theres a God, turn on this light
My ignorance has brought me here
Now Im just plain lost
In a world of crime and violence
Straight to jail I have been tossed
If I could breathe fresh air outside these walls
Just one more chance today
To hold my girl, love my house
These words youd hear me say:
Lord, up above or at my side

Thanks for one last breath
Ill never speed or crack or drop
Or use that crystal meth
Ill drink a beer or two or four
In my house if thats o.k.
Id appreciate at least allow
A quarter sack a day
I wont steal cars or candy bars
Ill even lose my gun
But give me just a little pleasure
Simple, harmless fun
I thank you lord, youve been real kind
Generous with your time
Just one more thing
Kill all cops
And things will be just fine.
Amen
Reflection:
I really dont have much to say about this one. It was one of my less pissed-off-at-
the-world and more just in-complete-denial-of-the-gravity-of-my-situation-and-
praying-to-God-to-save-my-ass pieces. I prayed a lot while I was locked up and
have an unusual, yet fantastic relationship with God. But this isnt the forum for that
discussion.
I do want to address the Kill all cops line because thats a pretty serious one.
Things wouldnt be fine if all cops were killed. Im not a proponent of violence with
guns or really any violence that isnt sports related and monitored by officials.
However, I would like to say that it would sure be nice if the cops in Denver, along
with other cities in this country, would stop killing the less threatening people of
our communities and start being reprimanded appropriately when they do, like the
rest of the killers in a civilized society. Only in America could you kill a mentally
handicapped 15-year old or an innocent senior citizen and only get a couple days
suspension and get paid for it.
Killing all cops wouldnt be a good solution, as a) no one deserves to die simply
because of the profession they chose and b) I believe the majority of officers are
doing their duty in an honorable way and really do serve to protect. But cops are
human and prone to errors in judgement just like the rest of us and those few that
do a disservice to the badge should be treated with equal criminal justice, just like
the rest of us.

Short Journey
Lost, but not found
In a world thats so profound
Can I find a place to be?
At times I wish I wasnt me
Lift my head from pure disgrace
And take me from this awful place
I cannot be myself in here
Amongst the hurt, amidst the fear
A search so deep and straight inside
Wandered to my soul, confide
To say the least Ive done all right
Cleansing spirit sent to flight
Damage done, so now move on

Rewrite this life a simple song
Reflection:
Sometimes I would dig deep and find all the right words to say goodbye to the world.
Incarceration is a lonely place. This particular evening I had been contemplating
hanging myself from the cell block railing with the sheets of my bed. I had figured
out how it could work and at what time I could likely do it (in the morning) quick
enough that no one would be able to save me. There were plenty of nights like this
and obviously Im glad that I stayed strong enough through the experience to never
let myself go down that path.
I knew a few kids that didnt make it through their stints in the joint. Most were
young and likely felt theyd be subjected to a life of servitude to the predators within
the system or had already been preyed upon in such a manner and couldnt go on.
Others were junkies and simply shot death straight in to their veins to avoid the next
day of misery. I recall seeing a Native American in Four-Mile Correctional (my
first prison camp) that was about to miss the hourly count if he didnt hustle back to
his room. I approached him and asked what he was doing hanging out back of our
trailer (the housing in these camps were basically giant trailer parks) and he looked
up at me with this eerie blank expression while holding his arm. He was bleeding
from a vein that had been punctured one too many times with needles full of Chiva
(heroin) and collapsed to the floor of the top steps. I couldnt risk my being late for
count because of some junkie and didnt tell The Man about him in case he survived
and thought I had snitched on him. I never saw him again and the entire facility was
locked down for shakedown (search of the entire facility) the rest of the evening. He
had apparently been found in time to be transported to the prison medical facility
but passed away later that night.
I cant imagine a more lonely place in the world to die than prison and began
thinking about escaping - alive.
I did actually escape from prison nine months after arriving from the county
jail. At the time the penitentiary I occupied was undergoing construction and the
perimeter fences were moved closer to the facility as the construction company
wanted no chance of contact with convicts while they added another building to the
property. This created multiple blind spots from the guard tower and the minimum-
security camp I was at consisted of trailers that we could easily get in and out of,
not concrete and steel like most other prisons. So, one night I just decided I had
enough of the joint and bounced.
It was the middle of winter, February 1996, and it wasnt unusual for convicts
to wear their full prison greens to bed, complete with beanies and jackets, as the
trailers we lived in didnt trap much heat and we froze our butts off most of the cold
season. The day of my escape I grabbed a ton of newspapers and stuffed my clothes
with them to create a dummy that could lay under a blanket, and appear as if I
was sleeping soundly during every hourly count wherein guards just flashed a light
inside to make sure we were all in our beds. After successfully testing the dummy,
while I hid under my bed during a count, I snuck out of the trailer, climbed a fence
in a blind spot, threw a blanket over the single roll of razor wire, and once I got
to the freedom side, high-tailed it through the Arkansas Valley from my camp in
Caon City towards the lights of the nearby town of Florence.
After three hours of running, I came upon the Arkansas River raging from a
melted snowstorm just a few days earlier. I looked up and down the area for a bridge
to cross to the town of Florence, just on the other side, but couldnt find anything so
I dipped my foot in to test how deep it was and the first step only brought water to
my ankles. Thinking I could basically walk on water, like a dumb ass, I committed
to another big step and immediately plunged in to the ice cold rapids and flailed to
save my life by swimming as fast as I could across to the shore.
At this point, its about 4 a.m. and Im now freezing my ass off, drenched with my
stupidity and hopped a fence that bordered a trailer park on the outskirts of town.
I tried to think fast before hypothermia set in, knocking on the first door I came
across. I fabricated to the angry old man that answered the door, at this ungodly
hour of the morning, that I was a runaway teenager and had fallen in to the river
and needed help. He threw me a blanket and said, The manager is at the end of the
lot, go see him.
I hustled down to the managers home and the lights were already on, so I knocked
and gave him the same story. He didnt hesitate to let me in and immediately got
me some warm clothes and made some hot tea. As I began to warm up, his wife
emerged from the back of the trailer. Apparently she was the reason the lights were
on so late, as she was battling pneumonia and having a rough night.
She was a lovely woman and began asking me questions about why I ran away. I
made up some story about abusive parents or something, and she proceeded to give
me very compassionate advice about how running away probably made them worry
and that there were better solutions than running away from my problems. Little
did she know how profound her advice was at that moment and I began realizing I
made a huge mistake with no real plan to correct it.
Her husband, however, wasnt buying the story and noticed the prison number
on my jacket and inquired about it. I proceeded to lie, and told him it was a
construction jacket from the company I worked for and that number was used for
payroll purposes. He called, Bullshit. Ive lived in this town for twenty years and I
know an escaped convict when I see one. Youve got two choices, you can call the
police or I can.
I reluctantly gave up my ruse and confessed he was correct. I asked that he let me
finish my tea and then Id call the local authorities. He kindheartedly obliged.
A few minutes later I rang the Florence County Sheriff s office and told the voice
on the other end of the line, My name is Brian Roundtree and I escaped from Four-
Mile Correctional Facility a few hours ago and want to turn myself in.
The officer replied, Are you sure?
No shit. He asked that very question. Apparently, my dummy was still working
and no one knew I had even escaped yet.
I kinda laughed and exclaimed, Yes, Im sure.
The officer demanded, Ok, stay right there.
I laughed again and stated, I called you. Remember? Im not going anywhere.
Within a few minutes four or five cops showed up, guns drawn, dogs ready to kill
and escorted me from this kind couples home and back to the joint.
I got four more years added to my original sentence of eight, one for every hour I
was gone, and would spend the rest of my time in a closed-security (one step below
maximum) facility.
I did gain some considerable clarity that night and it became a pinnacle turning
point in my decision to pull my head out of my ass and reform myself, avoiding the
criminal mentality that might have kept me going through the revolving door of the
system for the rest of my life.
I never got a chance to thank the couple that saved me that evening, but if they
ever happen to read this, I hope they know they did more than just save a cold kid
from hypothermia and their words of encouragement during my short visit stuck
with me the rest of my time locked up, inspiring me to stay on the straight path
towards eventual, earned freedom.

Stay Strong
A piece of property, so I got greedy
Trying to steal from the rich and give to the needy
I figure one way or two I did the right thing
But The Mans got laws that got my ass in a sling
The way I see it everybodys all right
So let me out today, a la fiesta tonight
I wont do it again, O Lord I solemnly swear
Im tired of living a life without freedom to share
Call it a bargain or what the system calls a plea
But sittin up in this place aint the life for me
I got ideas and goals to reach
Like trying to get the homeless people off of the streets
And going straight, I mean straight-up legit
Im sick of fucking around and not accomplishing shit
I want a family and a lady to hold
Yall can settle for silver, but Ill take all the gold
I know I fucked up, but my time has been served
I got the point...you throw a fastball and I get the curve
So hear me out, Im not trying to cry
But you keep me locked up and Im bound to die
I know its not over and Im not giving this up
But let me out soon cause Im about to erupt
Reflection:
One line jumps out at me every time I read this with regards to getting homeless
people off the streets. The last three weeks to a month prior to the evening of my
crime I actually lived on the streets of Denver. I grew up in middle-class suburbia
most of my life and didnt have much of a hustle to survive on the streets, hence
why I was so apt to commit crime to eliminate the situation. In my short time I
met homeless from all walks of life. From teenage girls that had found the streets a
better alternative than the sexual abuse they were subjected to in their own homes
to severe paranoid schizophrenics who didnt even comprehend that homelessness
wasnt considered a typical American lifestyle.
Every winter the county jail would see a surge of petty criminals that were merely
homeless vagabonds trying to find a warm home for the season. They told stories
of wars they werent welcomed home from and the plague of alcoholism or drugs
that robbed them of their wife and children. Hygiene was always an issue with these
sorts and often they were subjected to the same cruelties inside the joint (from cops
and convicts alike) that kept them from being assisted in the outside world.
According to the National Coalition for the Homeless there are some 700,000+
homeless people currently in the United States. Im not even sure what to think
about that number. Its too overwhelming to believe that anything can be done short
of asking one out of every fifteenth person you run in to on the streets to come share
your house with you until they get back on their feet.
When I was released my father was spending his Friday lunches serving meals
to the homeless in downtown Denver at the Rescue Mission. I was working for
the Denver Post at the time and decided that was a good thing to do with my free
time as well. My dad originally got the idea of serving this cause from noticing that
people seemed to only want to serve during the holidays and he felt better suited
for serving every month of the year except November. It made sense to me and so
I served.
Now, particularly in my own city of Denver the daily visual reminder of
homelessness, on literally every street corner of downtown, is a humbling site and
motivates ones sense of obligation to humanity.
A study of thirty U.S. cities found that in 1998, 26% of all requests for emergency
shelter went unmet due to lack of resources.
A review of homelessness in fifty cities found that in virtually every city, the
citys official estimated number of homeless people greatly exceeded the number of
emergency shelter and transitional housing spaces.
It is a domestic epidemic and there is no end all cure. People can do their part
though and make a small difference in these peoples lives. The short time I spent
volunteering my time with the Denver Rescue Mission I met some incredibly
courageous people who struggle daily to sustain even the most basic of human
needs that most of us take for granted. Even if youre just giving that guy a dollar
for standing their with a sign if you take the time to find out how he ended up there
with that sign you may make a world of difference in his life. Ive learned that to
encourage the chronically discouraged is reward enough and more often than not
eclipses the very definition of civic duty.

Welcome to Hell
Comparative to this place is my existence
A flame burning inside I serve my sentence
Although Im sure the underworld is not like this
For now I tell you I cant see the difference
A victim of my own circumstances

I chose to go out and take my chances
They say that my conclusions are my own
So I protect myself and they throw the shackles on
Either way in the end Im still a prisoner

Of a world polluted by self-greed
Established by a man who needed nothing
So the devil had the time to plant his seed
So hear these words and do yourself a favor

Keep your nose clean, cause Satan aint no savior
Reflection:
Incarceration is no joke. That shit is not for the weak. I wrote this early on, during
my first fifteen months locked up. I was in the county jail. They had three men to a
two-man cell built to roughly 10 x 6. One toilet. Everyone in my pod was waiting
to be transferred to the joint. Wed all been sentenced and oddly anxious to get to
the pen so we could spread out a little. Get our hustle on and start doing our time as
comfortable as possible.
The conditions of the county jail were such that tensions ran high 24-7. Fights
jumped off almost everyday. Some of these cats were shifty in their anxiety to get
a change of scenery. I remember a Crip, named Wetback, used to go to the GED
school, not to get educated, but to hook up with fellow gangstas and see if he could
tag a snitch or just bust a Blood in the mouth. He had been sentenced to life without
parole for murdering a couple in Denver and if he didnt give a fuck about life on the
streets you can only imagine how he felt about doing the rest of his life in prison. He
became somewhat of a legend after he and another Crip managed to get in the same
pod as a young peckerwood, named Luke, bitching about having to serve five years
for whatever. Rule #1 after sentencing is: Dont bitch about your time. Do your time
like a man and if youre a short timer, do it quietly and you might get out alive. That
said, Luke may have gotten out alive, but he was forever changed after Wetback and
his homeboy rolled up in to his cell with a broom handle one afternoon and raped
him with it.
I bitched, about my lot in life, on paper because I was fortunate enough to learn
the lesson of keeping your mouth shut within my first couple weeks, and in a much
less brutal manner than Luke. I was peeping a game of Spades between this cat
named J-Blood and three other convicts. I saw him toss a card out of sequence and
mentioned it to him. Next thing I know hes up on his feet telling me to keep out
of his game and was about to teach me a lesson about minding my own business.
Our tussle was my first, and last, fight the entire time I was locked up. Although he
never landed a punch, because I was too fast to let him, he did manage to get me
in a headlock and scratched the shit out of my face. I got a couple shots to his nuts
while I was in that headlock, but he left a scar that I still have to look at everyday as
a painful reminder of why I dont stick my nose in others business to this day.
Every day from that point forward was the realization that I had to be on my toes
at all times. Ready for anything. Anyone that might be pissed off and looking for
any random mother fucker to take it out on. If a hell exists, it probably feels a lot like
being locked up. And its certainly no joke.

Yesteryear
Escape routine existence so I can gain my senses
I wish that I could say its due to false pretenses
So here I sit alone among the lost souls of our time
Trying to convince myself that everything is fine
To understand the things Ive seen of a life that leads to here
Would be enough to shatter what you know as utmost fear
Reflection:
I believe I wrote this after finishing a reading a book. Wish I could remember
which one, but the point is that books were always the greatest of escapes from this
proverbial barrel bottom. I probably read more books during this time than most of
my friends who were on the outside completing college.

Perspective
Would you mind if I opened your eyes to something you didnt want to see?
Would you care if you got caught listening to something you didnt want to hear?
How about those times when you say something you regret shortly after you say it?
WELL, THATS TOO FUCKING BAD, ISNT IT?
Have you ever experienced losing your freedom

Being stuck behind walls
And no chance of leaving the space to which youve been confined
Eating three poorly rationed so-called meals a day
Praying that its cooked
And isnt going to leave you sick for a week
How about looking up to the sky while youre outside
And seeing nothing but a steel cage over your head
Or being of legal age to drink
And getting thrown in an even more confined space for having alcohol in your
room?
Heres one...
Being near three different phones at one time
But knowing that they will never once ring for you
Or anyone around you
Or maybe getting a letter from the outside world
Already opened
With the possibility if already being read?
Can you see where Im coming from?
Reflection:
The most frustrating thing about being locked up was the lack of some decent,
half-ass intelligent conversation. Most of the inhabitants of the concrete jungle are
equipped with nothing more than the equivalent of a 6th grade education. So when
a screw came in with a hand full of mail you always hoped it would contain some
sort of dialogue that would generate, if even for a few minutes, those parts of your
brain that werent being occupied by mundane conversations about stealing or the
dope game or Jerry Springers latest offering to the viewing public (which, by the
way, I believe if prisoners werent allowed cable, Jerrys hold on the market would
decrease greatly and he would drift off in to the great unknown where he belongs).
Phone calls to the outside world were the same. However, in the county jail, phone
calls were a crap shoot if you didnt have a system worked out with someone to be at
a specific place and time. Calls from the county were collect and I wasnt a big fan of
being a burden to anyone having to accept those calls and the payments that came
with them, so I tried to schedule a call a week to my grandparents and my Dad just
to hear about the family and how things were going out in the real world.
A good majority of the other convicts didnt have the support I had from their
families. They had either burned those bridges long ago or simply never had them.
They would place calls to a trick they happened to remember the phone number too
or their babies momma in hopes of getting someone to come visit. I recall seeing
a lot of cats picking up that phone and getting nothing more than a hang-up when
the request to accept a collect call came through. Phones were always broken in the
county as the rejection was taken out on the receiver a few times a day. You think
theyd build tougher phones in anticipation of this, but the system didnt care if we
talked to anyone. And so they shouldnt.
Occasionally I would get in to a conversation that had some substance, but they
were few and far between. They usually came from the jailhouse lawyers working
on their appeals and spending all their time in the texts of the law library. So even
the most enlightening of conversations usually just touched on the topics of current
law and current events that interested the outside world didnt matter much. After
awhile I just talked out loud to myself or the television. Got a little nervous when
the television started talking back. Fortunately by the time that got out of hand, I
was moved to the pen and was able to start getting four hour visits on the weekends
from family and friends. The frustrations were eased at least once or twice a month
at that point and held me over for the next few years.

Whatever we fight about in the outside world is also a battle in our inner selves.
- Carl Jung

Brothers Forever
I know it seems I hurt you
But Ive hurt myself enough
With motives unexplainable
From a life thats been real rough
Afraid of how to deal

With all the pain I felt inside
I lead a double life
All my feelings set to hide
Im still not sure of how to take

The things Ive come to know
So, please bear with me on this subject
Time is kind of slow
I never meant to hurt you

Please save all your tears
Things will look up
And Ill still be here
For you and all your years
Love, your big brother
Reflection:
Consequences are a bitch. When youre on the fast track to self-destruction youre
usually not too concerned with short- or long-term damage to yourself or those
that genuinely care about your well-being. In my opinion, the most damage that
took place as a result of my fascination with the career of a criminal was that of my
relationship with my little brother, Kevin.
Kevin was a sophomore in high school when I went to prison. He went to the
same high school I had attended just a couple years earlier. His teachers were ex-
instructors of mine. Some of his friends were little brothers and little sisters of my
friends. Being as I grew up in middle-class suburbia, was a fairly well-known actor
during my high school career and a practicing junior evangelist during that time
it kind of came as shock that I had committed armed robbery and was on my way
to the joint for a good stretch. I still havent had the conversation about how my
brother initially reacted to the news that I was in deep shit. It just never seemed like
a good idea to bring back the pain of that day for him in conversations weve had
later in life.
For those of you that have siblings you may relate to the responsibility an older
sibling feels to show the ropes to your younger siblings. The only ropes I had shown
my brother prior to getting incarcerated were how to get laid, steal, stay out late,
get drunk, get high and basically fuck up your life after youve lost focus and/or
direction in the post-high school world. Not exactly the shining example my parents
knew I was capable of being for him. Although I didnt take this responsibility very
seriously up to the day I committed these crimes, it hit me like a fat man on a slippery
dance floor one day, and brought this poem to the forefront of my mind that part of
my consequences would forever alter the relationship with my brother.
I recall getting only 1 letter from Kevin while I was locked up. It took him a
good year or so to muster up the will to write me anything and it was laced with
tears, anger, frustration and disappointment. It was the most powerful of all the
correspondence I received in my 5 years incarcerated. The length of time in between
our visits (maybe twice a year) and this letter only added to the disappointment I
felt for having failed him. To this day Ive never discussed with him what he went
through having a brother locked up and everyone knowing about it. I can only
imagine the way he probably stood up for me against his better judgment because
of his strong convictions on the importance of family and not letting anyone talk
down on me. I certainly didnt deserve anyone standing up for me, but knowing his
character Im sure thats what he did.
One of the hardest days I had inside was the day he graduated. I performed at
my graduation and left a legacy that was surely altered once word of my crimes
hit the community. I hoped for his big day that he would be remembered for the
achievements he made during high school, though that day I feared that he might
be remembered as the kid whose older brother was in prison.
Many years have passed and my brother and I are best friends today. Knowing
him as I do, I know Ive been genuinely forgiven for any negative impact I might
have had on his life and for failing to be a leader for him to look up to during his
transition from teenager to adult. Our roles to one another have been reversed over
the years. I now look to him for the sage advice and hes taken the shining example
lead in so many areas of life. The consequences of my past have seemingly been that
I now defer to the little brother on how to be a positive influence as a sibling. I find
myself passing that valuable lesson on to my children now with an appreciation for
it that I might not have understood had it not been stripped from me as a result of
my actions. I hope for my childrens sake that they treat the role of being a sibling,
especially an older one, with more reverence than I ever did.

Thinking Of You
Asleep, but not alone
In my minds and dreams you roam
I wish you were right next to me
To hear my lonely poem
Staring up above
What a night to think of love
Call it greed
You here I need
The side all others shoved
Your wet soft lips

Your warm smooth face
Your bold strong heart
Our lives embraced
A cynic Ill be
For now until life
As soon as were found
To be husband and wife
My careless attitude
Toward the rest of the world
Makes me care more for you
Hoping always my girl.
Reflection:
I dont even remember the name of the girl whose face I had on my mind when I
wrote this. I do remember that she was the last piece of ass I got for the next five
years and honestly this poem could have been written for every girl I dated prior to
getting locked up.
I really played up my criminal status when I first got locked up. I wasnt really
learning any truly hard lessons, as I hadnt been sentenced yet and I wasnt yet
convinced that what I had done was really going to get me any long-term jail time.
So I utilized my criminal badge of honor to coax old girlfriends in to visiting me. I
knew I was somewhat of a novelty to these girls, as they were always in to the bad
boy and it doesnt get badder than ending up in jail.
I was a playa before it became a trendy term overused on MTVs Real World. Girls
would put money on my books and show up to give me tit and crotch shots through
fifteen minute visits through glass. Theyd send pictures in provocative positions and
write letters that even Penthouse would consider too hard core. This got better with
multi-hour visits in the pen, where you could actually touch someone. Only by then
all the hotties of yesteryear had dried up and I was on to large women with low self-
esteem that could only find love behind bars because well take anyone willing to do
anything at that point and we love to write letters, which is more than the 10 guys
they gave their numbers to at the club would do the weekend before they visited you.
I think my low point was having a friend of my mothers drive four hours to Canon
City to visit me. Have her put whatever cash was in her pocket on my books and
talk her in to giving me hand jobs under the table, out of site of the guards. You get
pretty creative after going so long without sex. Truth be told, this was the closest
thing to any action she was getting at the time as well and any woman that read my
letters in the comfort and privacy of their own home had plenty of ideas that lifted
the sexploits of their imaginations to new heights.
In hindsight it was pretty disturbing what I could get a girl to do just for my own
selfish pleasure, but I think I paid for it with five years of abstinence (during my
20s) as a result of my incarceration. After all was said and done, when I finally got
released I had a whole new appreciation for women after five years of limited contact
with them. And Im confident that my wives have reaped the benefits of how I pay
attention to the intricacies of relationships. Heres a tip for you younger, still not sure
what makes a woman tick, fellas: Read enough porn letters (those words that fall in
between the pages of the vivid pictures in that pile of magazines under your bed)
and youll have a very detailed idea of what women want that they might not be so
apt to tell you in the middle of you always fumbling as you try to get in their pants.
The better advice, though, is just ask them what they want and listen closely.

Do You Have The Time?
Ill take the time to enjoy the sunset
And bathe in the serenity of dusk
Ill take the time to cherish a smile
And return one as a must
Ill take the time to push the children
Gently on the swing
Ill take the time to hear the birds
Melodiously sing
Ill take the time to climb a mountain
View the world from up above
Ill take the time to be one with the Earth
Embrace it with my love
Ill take the time to find myself
And walk a less-traveled road
Ill take the time to stare at the stars
As they invade the depths of my soul
Ill take the time to share my thoughts
With someone who might learn
Ill take the time to dance with the spirits
Around a fire as it burns
Ill take the time to create a path
Where existence knows no pain
Ill take the time to receive the blessing
Of a warm mid-summer rain
Ill take the time that time allows
To live a life thats free
Ill take the time to show the world
That times an eternity
Reflection:
This was a pretty important day in my familys history. I wrote this poem the day my
sister called my dad.
On the surface that doesnt make much sense. However, my sister was 20 years
old and a distant memory of my fathers past that was just recently being revealed as
a result of this phone call. I had never met her and whats more important she had
never met our father, her 3 brothers, a sister and a step-mother.
I remember the day like it just happened. I was calling my father collect to shoot
the shit in my weekly escape from the county blues. I heard he had been crying and
asked what was going on. He simply said, Your sister is on the other line. I knew
exactly what he was talking about because I had actually been let in on the family
secret a couple years earlier as a result of snooping through dads important box of
papers. I instinctively knew my other sister, Carrie, was ok and the way my father
said my sister I just knew. Dad asked me to call back the next day and hed give me
the details of the conversation.
I walked in to my cell and absorbed the fact that a critical piece to the family puzzle
had just been put in place. My first of many a Christmas locked up was approaching
and my family had been given the gift of a life long lost to us. Contemplating the
prospect of spending Christmas in jail and having a new family member entering
the picture brought out a new style of poem that would eventually change the way
I not only thought about my time and how I would spend it, but also transformed
my ability to write with meaning, rather than simply vent and whine about the path
I chose.

World Peace
Do I know you?
Shouldnt I?
Reflection:
I just dig how simple this sounds. Its the shortest poem Ive ever written, but it
made a really big impact on my overall philosophies as they relate to humanity and
relationships.
One thing, in particular, I really disdained about the prison experience was the
lack of compassion and absence of understanding when conflicts arouse. Whether
it was The Man shaking down relatives as they came to visit a loved one or typical
degenerate behavior witnessed on a daily basis among convicts, never once did I
observe individuals trying to understand one another.

Dim Bulb
Where will the light lead me?
Will it embrace me once Im there?
Do I determine its glow?
Can it ever fade away?
If I stop and look around, will I notice I am its shadow?
Why does it shine brighter when I close my eyes?

Ocean Of Dreams
I hear you calling
Though I cannot come
My journey toward you
Has just begun
The path Ive chosen
Have no limits
Other than the roadblocks
I have given it
It seems as if I know which direction I am headed

However, I stumble to open the eyes of my soul
And allow it to carry me away
My purpose here is one of abundant proportions
I constantly seek from high and low in literature

Hoping something will tell me
But I believe only a small portion of what I seek
Can be found among the words written by others
The directions are inside me
And I am the only one that can navigate this voyage
Should I allow my present environment to hold me back?

Or can I travel to my destination
In other vehicles which I fail to seek?
Tonight
As I sleep
I would ask for clarity
Knowledge
And strength
As I swim through the ocean of dreams.

A Drop Of Life
Today I stood outside
And felt the rain come down
The closest thing to peace
And freedom I had found
Show me a sign
That everything will be all right
And Ill show you a boy
Thats not quite so uptight
You cant understand
How beautiful life can be
What I wouldnt do to stand
Along a beach next to the sea
To feel the comfort
Of a loved ones arms
To not be stuck
Behind these walls and bars
To wake up in the morning
And listen to a bird
Singing songs of joy
While waking up the world
I cant fully explain just how that rain touched my life today...

Before I Wake Up
I dream of a forest where trees echo comfort
I dream of a vanity where mirrors reflect confidence
I dream of an ocean where waves holler strength
I dream of a crowd where strangers rustle belonging
I dream of a sky where clouds thunder understanding
I dream of a theater where performances whisper belief
I dream of a letter where words speak truth
I dream of a liaison where lovers sing trust
I dream of a world where the diverse breathe peace.

June 23, 1996
Freedom is a rainy day
Freedom is a flowers bloom
Freedom is a smile away
Freedom is a crescent moon
Freedom is a nature walk
Freedom is a gentle kiss
Freedom is a heartfelt talk
Freedom is a thing I miss.

Letter To Tricia
Friendship and companionship are two words
That contains the same important word...SHIP
Relationship
Between two lovers is a voyage
That will never falter
In as long as the passage of time takes them
To new places
Where they can experience
And grow
And love
And enjoy
And cherish
Together
When the ship ports

The importance of communication
In your next destination
Will determine whether or not
The journey is a success
Hitting rough spots in the sea
And sharing in the steering of trust
Can only mean that a common truth
About your love for one another
Is unselfish
And unique.

Talking Through Glass
I sentence you to time.
Time to evaluate the past
Time to determine the future
But most significant will be
Time as you move along with it.
I accept your sentence to think.

Think about my purpose
Think about overcoming the obstacles
To think unique of others thoughts.
I feel your sentence of being.

Being alone in crowded circles of malice
Being afraid of maintaining hope among pessimists
Sharing the journey in to being.
I worry about your sentence of distance.

Distance from free expression
Distance from cleansing sanity
Distance from truth in humanity.
I share your sentence to life.

Life after unveiling masks of deception
Life after unwritten oaths to learn
Finding life behind the smile in the mirror.

Seattles Kitten
Stand back removed from yesterday
Thompson Twins
Im beggin to be held
Touched through a window laced with cold
Watered patterns of an innocence
Long forgotten
Painful to remember.
Im attached to a bouquet of tragedy.
How appropriate that Im interrupted by one of the few things

that struggles to be free in a world of intellectual bondage.
Reflection:
Well, you knew if you ever wanted to hear a prison story you likely hoped it had a
fella named Spyder in it. This one certainly does.
Spyder was a fuckin nutball. He brought me to tears at his absurdity. Sometimes
laughing, sometimes genuinely crying. Not to his face, because men dont cry like
that in front of one another, but he was a nut.
We once got in trouble for being in the same cell while he put a tattoo on my leg.
He was sent to his cell and we both sat wondering what was gonna happen. While
waiting Spyder decided, based on his personal history of incarceration,that he was
destined for the hole on this one and began immediately preparing a package of
tobacco to take on the tripa whole can of Bugler...and a lighter. Minutes later I
heard a strained grunt from a couple doors down, Spyder was packed and ready to
go to the hole and I mean packed.
I remember hearing most of the pod of 14 other men, laughing their asses off when
the C.O. (correctional officer) came back and just gave us a warning not bothering
to send us to the hole because of my reputation among the staff at that time (Id been
out of trouble for a couple years straight now and was working a steady job in the
facility print shop and set to get out soon.). So, Spyder got a pass, but his pride ended
up taking a hit.
The last two lines of this piece were written as he sat outside my cell door, while I
was writing this to a dear friend from high school. I never did send it to her.

Doing Time With Mom
The clock struck one
And when the baby boy cried the mother nurtured
The clock struck two
And as his teeth came in the mother soothed the pain
The clock struck three
And the mother giggled as her son babbled incoherently
The clock struck four
And the mother fell in the distance with laughter
as her child played with his baby brother
The clock struck five
And the mother was a silent vision through a windshield
as her children drove away
The clock struck six
And the mother had become a weekend visit
whose time was rare, though precious
The clock struck seven
And the mother was the lost soul beneath the pen of a frequent letter
The clock struck eight
And the mother was a journey to an oceanside haven
The clock struck nine
And the mother shined afar
after the endless summers
The clock struck ten
And the mother was a present
for nine hard months in school
The clock struck eleven
And the mother was a welcomed change of scenery
The clock struck twelve
And the mother comforted her reckless boys
in the grueling bliss of parenthood;
The chime rang thirteen

And the mother mended her first borns heart
healing the wounds of love
The chimes rang fourteen
And the mother shared in the theatrical visions of her eldest son
The chimes rang fifteen
And the mother parted with tears in her eyes
The chimes rang sixteen
And the mother became a reason to see old friends
The chimes rang seventeen
And the mother and her son seemed to no longer appreciate each other
The chimes rang eighteen
And the mother opened her sons eyes
The chimes rang nineteen
And the mother and her son endured lifes struggles as one
The chimes rang twenty
And the mother drank the guilt of her sons shortcomings
The chimes rang twenty-one
And the mother watched with sorrow
as her boy lost focus
The chimes rang twenty-two
And the little girl finally spoke like a mother
nurturing as her baby boy cried.

February 5, 1998
Equal to my frustration
Is the silence of its voice
A man trapped in a corner
Between his conscience and his choice.

Birth
Another year older
Another year stronger
Ambitions get bolder
Thoughts remain longer
Days filled with sun
Nights draped by rain
This time should be fun
Ive created pain.

...so I always had to adjust my passionate desire to embrace humanity
so that it might fall on a Tuesday.
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes From Underground

Rising Haiku
Warm serenity
Feeling the daring sunset
The unknown blessing.

Victimizing Contemplation
When the final breath
Is forced to leave
Will the mind of death
Take time to grieve?
Betrayed by thoughts
Remorse sets in
The fading spirit
Disrupts the dream.
He looks for guidance

Blinded by facts
The guilt is buried
Hes changed the mask.

Nicotine Walls
Lonely is the peeling paint
The unwritten letter
The smell of stale smoke
As I inhale the possibility of death
The bland conversation
The magazine with PAIN in bold letters
The picture inside the clock
The overwhelming time to think.
Lonely is the peeling paint.

Bob
Got you where I want you leaks through the speaker.
3:30 p.m. drifts past my day
While I sit on my locker box as if it were a park bench
I feel like Im waiting for some telegram of hope to be delivered
To my cell
Cornel West, Harvard professor, contemplates and discusses the sympathy
of the working poor class for President Clinton
The toilet seat is steel, and cold, as usual.
Sunday, Bloody Sunday ignites conflict within my purpose.
Am I to deny my indulgences to attempt inspiring unity
among the disillusioned of society?
I cant possibly be expected to bear all that weight
Though, I suppose we all bear it
Im drenched in the humidity of this lifeless concrete box.
Theres this unexplainable obsession with the name Bob
Constantly mocking anyone new that enters my life
Be it directly or indirectly
I actually told a guy named Bob that his was my favorite name
I almost got my ass kicked because his shallow ego felt threatened
As if no one in their right mind would have a favorite name
Much less have it be Bob
Fuck em.
I have become comfortably numb is the mantra that dominates
this absurd human warehouse
Holes in the trash bag curtain
Covering my solitary view to the outside world
Seem to be the only temperature control I hold.
Spirit in the sky distracts the sullen mood that has plagued
this stale environment for so long
Dance, dance, dance, baby!
Its not necessarily religious to have a friend in Jesus
If people didnt limit themselves to a set dogma
Theyd all kill for a chance to sit at the dinner table with Jesus,
Buddha, Krishna, Mohammed, Martin Luther and any number
of legends in the world of theology
All asking Why this? and How come that?
Over a bucket of the Colonels extra crispy
Hey Rabbi, pass the potatoes.
Who said You have to drink to get drunk?
Probably Bob...

Dissection Of The Red-Headed Step-Child
Morally bankrupt
Few would ask why
He mentioned murder
He heard a girl cry
Daddy would touch her
Pollute midnight thought
He became vengeance
Daddy got caught
Worlds began blending
Veins came to chill
His only regret
The speed of the kill
Methodical pain
Indulging hereafter
Sodomized the corpse
Drowned in his laughter
I asked the question
Disturbed by response
He casually and proudly
Recounts of his haunts
Blatantly callous
With unethical breath
His hero is Einstein
His martyr is Death.
Reflection:
I had to comment on this particular one because its too disturbingly out of context
in consideration of my overall intentions of this book. I did time with some really
sick people. My last two years inside I ate every meal across the table from three
murderers doing life without parole. On a daily basis I was surrounded by thieves,
gangsters, killers, rapists, child molesters, you name the crime I did time with
someone who committed it. But this particular poem is about the sickest person I
ever ran in to locked up.
Convicts typically dont talk about their crimes too much amongst one another.
Most everyone claims theyre innocent if the subject of what theyre in for comes
up, usually because they have an appeal going on and dont trust anyone not to
snitch on them in case they start bragging about their exploits in the real world.
However, this guy had no problems bragging about what he did, and actually wore
it as a badge of honor. He worked in the prison print shop with me and for whatever
reason we got on the subject of our crimes and he proceeded to leave no detail
unexplored on how he ended up in the joint, thus prompting this poem.
Long story short, he claims to have killed a neighbor who was raping his own
daughter, then went on to sodomize the corpse. This convict was maybe 30 years
old, all of 5 6, frail-built frame and one of the few intellectually superior guys I
came across inside - read, not the kind of dangerous psychopath one would think
could pull of such a horrific crime. Needless to say, his story still gruesomely trumps
any other I might have heard directly or learned about second-hand while I was
incarcerated. If I remember correctly he wasnt that impressed with what it took for
me to get locked up and I did my best to avoid him after learning about how he got
there.

Voices
Inside the world skies climb across oceans
Deafening is their rumble
Stumbling endless
Mindful of the seasons and gods that once rested
Innocence and debauchery kiss on windy sands of grain
Drained of immortal pleasures
Left to sift through
Finding only the past that breathes life in to destiny
Raising hands toward the skies inside the world
Climbing around the sea
Painting the waves of patience
Sailing to shores of voices pleading for vision
Of salt and air and life unanchored.

Alphabet Soup
Arent we always surrounded by some sort of cynic? Someone, who in their attempt
to state that theyre doing their part to help, tends to actually makes things more
miserable than they actually have to be? Is it possible to just grab this person gently
by the collar, sit them down, and make them eat Peanut Butter Capn Crunch with
milk simply to create the illusion that life isnt as serious as we pretend it to be?
Because in the next stage of life there is only going to be that single opportunity
to say, I learned everything I was suppose to learn. I dont much care for the
complexity of it all, and, if you dont mind, Im ready to move on to something a
little less obtuse.
Cant we come to a place in our life that isnt restricted by the ideologies of a select
group? Is it so out-of-whack to want absolute simplicity? Anything more is going to
confuse the real issues that should be studied, or dissected, for the sake of humanity.
Dont kids deserve the chance to limit themselves to the smallest details of life?
Why should making $60,000 a year be any more important than building a sand
fortress for that collection of Star Wars figures jammed in the toy chest since 1976?
It shouldnt be.
Each one of us has the right to express a difference without the fear of persecution.
These arent legislative rights written in a dusty old book by a group of politicians
who thought they understood our needs. These are birthrights of human existence.
Freedom isnt meant to be subjected to the raw, detached environment of extreme
thought. Its an instinctive reaction to a sunny day, the awe of a raging river, the crisp
perfume of wild flowers dancing with the long legs of the wind. Freedom is the sixth
sense.
Great! So, now weve come to a point that forces us to believe all the answers reside
within the madness, or serenity, of our being. Am I suppose to chant and dance and
walk over hot coals? No! Im suppose to follow the beat of my path...and, if I like it,
then I dance.
Happiness is only going to come from the cat in the mirror...but...
I already knew that!

Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise from outward things...
there is an inmost centre in us all where truth abides in fullness.
- Robert Browning

Journal of Discovery
May 17, 1996

Days fly by and my appreciation for life grows stronger. I find myself being patient
with others, and, in turn, my patience with myself shines through.
Summer has visited early this year, and the local bugs have blessed me with their
presence for the past few evenings. One little fellow, in particular, has caught my
attention. His body is covered with a beautiful, fluorescent green, and his eyes are
pure orange. Hes a jumpy character, hopping from one place to another, covering
large areas in moments. Or they seem to be large to him - being that hes only the
size of the tip of my pencil.
Now and then, he lands on his back and I can see him wiggle his tiny legs,
struggling to right himself. I give him a gentle push to help him back on his feet.
And off he goes again.
I suppose its precious episodes such as this that deepen my appreciation and
patience with life.
May 19, 1996

In an environment where hate breeds, I find myself consumed with sympathy for
those who choose to ignore the true purpose of life.
I spoke with a gentleman this evening whose sole purpose was based on hate.
He is blinded by a false unity among his people. He spoke of history, and how it
repeats itself. Yet, his choice of belief systems forces him to repeat the mistakes of
history, not learn from them. I say false unity because he feels that the unity should
be within one particular race - white. I know, personally, that the unity needs to be
throughout the human race.
To make life so black and white is dull and careless. We, as humans, must
acknowledge the rainbow and all its colors. If we focused on one color we would
deny the magic of that rainbow.
It saddens me to think that people are so unaware of this true purpose. I suppose
all I can do is exist in personal harmony and wait for it to rub off on the next person.
I believe, eventually, it will.
May 22 1996
The true winner in anything is one who humbly wins and gracefully loses. Too bad
a vast majority of the world powers dont embrace that concept; the world would be
a much more peaceful place.
I was playing a game of dominoes this evening with a young Spanish kid and a
middle-aged Caucasian man. The Spanish fellow was new to the game, and when
his turn would come around I would encourage him to play a certain domino to
score points. He would play it, and ask me how I knew what he had in his hand.
I explained that I didnt know exactly which one he had, but he refused to believe
me, adding that he felt I was somewhat clairvoyant. Then, the older player set out
a domino that I said was in his hand. He immediately became defensive, claiming
that I was cheating. I proceeded to tell him that it was only a matter of counting the
other dominoes that had been played to figure out what he was holding. This was an
insufficient explanation as far as he was concerned.
The Spanish youngster jumped in on my behalf, maintaining I could read minds
to a certain extent. The stubborn old-timer scoffed at the absurdity of it all, and told
the young man he was gullible - all the while arguing with me. Just a few minutes
after the bickering began I conceded by telling the older man that I had noticed him
knock over his domino - though I hadnt - and that was how I knew he was going to
play. I allowed him to win the argument.
The young man, at my side, asked why I had lied to the older man. I explained to him that
sometimes one has to lose to appreciate the concept of winning. By losing the argument,
the older man saw it as a victory, and seeing him win was victory enough for me.
I am very much at peace with myself lately. Eventually, my inner serenity will
transpire through others. Then again, maybe it already has.
June 1, 1996
It gets pretty lonely in here. I talk to myself (a lot) because Im the only good
conversation around. People tell me as long as I dont answer myself, Ill be all right.
I overheard a conversation the other day that consisted of a black man and a
Mexican man arguing about whose gang was bigger and badder. Another exchange,
in a far corner, had a Puerto Rican talking to a Caucasian about some heroin that
was floating around the penitentiary. A third dialogue came from a Cuban, speaking
rather loudly on the phone, informing someone that they needed to take out a
certain individual who was talking a little too much to the police.
The people I live with still have crime on their minds. They are oblivious as
to how they ended up in prison. They say they were framed or a victim of their
environment (past and present). Whats wild is that they all speak of destruction in
one way or another. Destroying their lives, destroying their government, destroying
their surroundings. They have allowed themselves to fall victim to the system.
This is why I talk to myself. Im the only one speaking of creation. The only one
speaking of realizing that one can overcome the system by using the system.
Most of the inmates conversations are gasoline feeding the systems fire. We have
to fight fire with fire. Being that it is our system, we can utilize it to work for us, and
not against us. Breaking the law does not mean we cant still use it to help us - thats
the beauty of democracy; for the people, by the people.
These are just a few of the things I think about when Im lonely. My dad says I have
too much time to think; I say I dont have enough.
June 12, 1996

Im black, hes white, shes brown, that kids yellow...AHHHHH! When are people
going to understand that we might have different shades of skin, but if we were all
blind we would look the same to one another?
Why? Because were all humans - plain and simple. One race. Were all so busy
trying to rationalize domination based on race...excuse me, color...that we fail to
see that the only way things are going to get better in this world...
People fail to see that, in the big picture, were just pawns. There is only one king. And
we all keep trying to fight against each other when we should be thanking our host for
allowing us to be guests on this planet. There never will be one dominant race - EVER!
Were all so damn power hungry that we end up wasting our whole lives trying to
become the dominant color. Green is no better than blue, and they know that. So
they work together to create something equally beautiful.
Ignorance. Hate. Youve got eyes, but youre still blind. Youve got ears, but your
hearing is selective. Is it too much to take in? We are the only species that doesnt eat
each other for survival, yet we still kill one another, thinking, Well, thats one less of
that color we have to put up with. Yet, for everyone we kill 10 more are born. Why?
Because we refuse to accept the big picture. Why do we refuse it? Because its too
simple. If theres no problems to solve we feel useless.
So, we create a problems based on color. Hes black, Im white, that kids brown,
shes yellow - GET OVER IT!
June 26, 1996

It seems as if when things are going my way something else comes along in an
attempt to throw me off my path. Well, I refuse to let these people and their Mickey
Mouse government break my spirit. I have, do and will overcome!
July 9, 1996
When life gets crazy you have to get crazier. If everyone were crazy (which, to some
extent we all are) then everything would seem normal. But since no one really knows
what normal is, I suppose there isnt much difference between the two!
July 11, 1996

Today is a good day to start over. A little self-discipline, a lot of self-motivation, and
my journey begins.
Ive tried to quit smoking. And Ive convinced myself that I can retain knowledge,
and apply it. One bad habit replaced with a good habit.
Stay focused on whats important, and nothing can stop you on the path to
GREATNESS!
July 24, 1996

You cannot change a person; they have to change themselves. Were all confused on
the issues because we think the next guy has all the answers. Well, the answer for
me might not be the right answer for you. But I know the right answer comes from
within. Now, if I could just remember the question.
August 30, 1996

I am the one who created this world, and I will be the one who determines its
outcome. Im in control...even when Im out of control. The journey continues, and
the road never gets smaller. It just keeps growing, and I grow with it.
September 29, 1996

Where has the innocence gone? The days when kids picked flowers, instead of
fights? Where families ate meals together daily, instead of just holidays? Where love
was defined by the look in a persons eyes?
Maybe innocence is just waiting to be revived. Maybe Ill revive it.
November 20, 1996

The world is on fast forward. No one takes time to look around anymore.
Conversations are filled with bland enthusiasm. Its like they want more, but arent
sure how to go about getting it.
Ive got to remember to take the time.
January 1, 1997
The New Year moved in. I hung out with Dick Clark, pictures of Drew Barrymore, a
dirty ashtray, and thoughts of what the future holds.
Let the games begin.

January 23, 1997
Dont talk about what you know. Think about what you know, and talk about your
ideas on what it is you think you know about.
Thats my third rule...Dad knows the other two.
January 25, 1997

I saw her today. She shined. Her smile. Her eyes. I came to realize that the possibility
of her and me in the future was very real. I was in control, all defenses down, and I
finally let her in.
Not being able to weep hurts. Understanding why hurts worse.
February 9, 1997
You can lock me in your cage, but I know my enemy. Do you know yours? I know
that freedom is not a physically attainable goal. It is a universal truth that you come to
terms with. It is not restricted by the laws of man. Can you say the same for your soul?
February 16, 1997

Silent Portrait: Can you imagine a man crying inside uncontrollably? Crying because
he missed the breeze dancing with the treetops? Because he missed the warmth of
the sun on his face? Because he missed the soft touch of a gentle woman?
Can you imagine a man crying just to remind himself that he still could?
March 9, 1997
Is there ever a definitive moment in time when a man is confronted with his true
sexuality? If so, would that moment include a deep, philosophical discussion with a
bisexual and another man approaching eases the intensity by kissing you on the ear?
I blushed. I laughed. And thanked God that I still miss women.
April 15, 1997

How soon is too soon? I feel comfortable thinking about her throughout the day. Am
I just so lonely that thoughts of a future with her are acts of desperation manifested?
I think I simply relish in the beauty of feeling this good about someone. Its been
years.
April 28, 1997

In a world drowning in misery I struggle to confront the idea that Im actually happy.
Faced with the realities of death, and its accomplices, I can think of nothing but of
an immortal spirit. A life above and beyond the perception of mortal hopelessness.
My picture; my mirror.
Someday between May and July, 1997

Thats what the world comes down to, doesnt it? Chaos! Its like the world runs on
total chaos in all of our minds. We constantly seek answers to lifes little questions.
And when we think we have the answers, we tend to share them with somebody.
Only, that somebody doesnt always agree with our outlook.
So we argue, and try to convince others that the way we see it is the way it is. And,
for us, it probably feels completely safe. The answers we have found are absolutely
right for ourselves.
And thats the way it should be.
July 20, 1997

To my little nieces and nephews: The smell of rain, drowning sorrow, drenched with
optimism. The smiles on their faces, the dreams that reveal themselves in constant
expression when they look in my direction. Our time will come soon. This I promise,
if you promise to hold on to those dreams.
August 26, 1997

Im visualizing trips to the unknown. A world extreme, covered in marshmallows of
dreams waiting to be consumed. The journey to the eating of the cake is paved with
the appreciation of its creation.
Always go in with your eyes wide open, and infinity promises to reveal itself.
October 3, 1997
If not for desire lost. If not for passion misdirected. If not for amour drowning in
seas of forgotten memory. Then, simply, for love.
October 27, 1997

How Appropriate: Searching for knowledge in the shadows of my present vision, the
struggle is as relentless as pursuit of it.
At times, my path is clouded with the angry smog of my environment. Though,
tonight I have prevailed with instinctive reason. They come to me in a fire of rage
and walk away laughing at their own absurdity.
The less you feed it, the sooner it dies.
October 29, 1997

Cool Hand Luke on TBS. The Shawshank Redemption on TNT. Words cant
explain how free I felt tonight.
November 21, 1997

Welcome. My little blue screen stares useless as I wait for it to somehow release me
from my hollow evening. Am I lonely? What the fuck do you think?
Ill no longer simply settle for a platonic love - I want nothing more than that. Give
me your heart, your trust, your strength...share your knowledge. Lets experience
love from the depths of within.
December 25, 1997

Snowflakes! I mean, snowflakes unlike the kind weather folks told us wouldnt be
coming. These are the kind of snowflakes that only the spirit of the season could
have blessed us with. Drifting through the air, suspended in time, painting the earth
with harmony.
January 1, 1998
This is the year of the Tree!
One resolution: Keep em smiling while maintaining my own.
February 8, 1998
Who else can I pretend to be, other than that which is not me?
March 29, 1998

The past couple of nights Ive been having dreams, wherein, I am the victim of a
crime. Ive come to consider this as my conscience absolving me of the crimes Ive
committed. I now feel genuine remorse. I believe it to be a step toward freedom.
May 20, 1998
At times, I find myself trying to be bitter about this situation. But, then, my thoughts
are interrupted by the voice of a convict bitching about what he thinks he deserves. I
then move to finalize the idea that convicts always get what they deserve.
June 27, 1998

Madness and genius are, in theory, practically the same thing. Both come from
perfecting the pursuit of knowing what it is you want to do.
July 25, 1998

What weight does the conscience bear on the soul after death? If any, then does it
not stand to reason that same weight is suffered during life?
August 31, 1998

In his silence I understood everything good about myself. In his smile I recognized
the evolution of me. In his mirror looked back a great human being. Whatever
porch, in heaven, he chooses to sit on, you can be sure that everyone is welcome to
share his view.
I love you Grandpa. You will be deeply missed and always cherished.
September 9, 1998
There is no right way to tell a person youre not sure whether or not you love them
on the level they need to be loved.
I tried. I failed. Someday, Im confident, the truth of love will cease to elude me.
September 22-23, 1998

As my soul grows, I am at peace with myself and the universe. I take comfort in the
journey Im on.
Enhance my connection, strengthen my spirit, project love, and serenity follows.
October 15, 1998

Wherever youve been, youve already been there. Wherever you are is most likely
where you wanted to be. And wherever you want to go is usually where you end up...
if thats truly where you wanted to be.
November 24, 1998 (My last day locked up)

All day long Ive been trying to identify my emotions about getting out. Ive finally
realized Im scared...just as I left the world scared, I re-enter scared. Guess Ill just have
to get over it, because nothing scares me more than wasting another day in the joint.

Whats right is whats left after youve done everything wrong.
- Robin Williams

The View Is Fine From Up Here
Inspiring view. Caught among that which is and that which may never be. Hoping
that the few among me will come to appreciate the life that should have been.
Precious to the soul and detrimental to the human experience that we understand
what is before us. In the face of adversity we shall triumph over all that dares to
stand in the way of our progress.
Do not be scared by the things that you do not understand. The essence of
knowledge is learning. Learning to feel again, to see, to touch, to weep, to rejoice.
Receive the blessing of life in its entirety. Dont be fooled by the interpretations
of man and the bleeding dogma that dies before its time. Defining such moments
should be unique to you and your spirit. We must not expect that everyone should
see as we do, only can we respect what it is that theyre seeing for themselves. And
be glad that theyre seeing anything at all.
This freedom is the conscience of humankind. Steeped in philanthropy and the
subtle hand of altruism are the guidelines for a simple existence. The power of belief
and a large fry on the side. Were they to decide that the end happens now it would
only leave the next to decide that this is the beginning. Thus, the beauty of belief.
Sensing the magic of a rainbow on cloudy rain-covered afternoons. Breathing the
salt air of the ocean as a tide wrestles with the shore. Holding hands that would be
branches in a lush forest. Walking the path of legends.
Can the world ever truly unite? Is it such an undertaking that cannot be
comprehended by lesser men? Suddenly I long to tell the people what I know. Then
Im reminded not to talk about what I know, rather to think about what I know
and talk about what I think it is I know about. Slowly fading is the world that once
lifted mortals as gods and goddesses. How long before the romance of history fails
to repeat its glories? Will we ever be as passionate about the rising of the sun as the
early poets? Will we any longer strive to have the integrity and strength of leaders
pumping through our streets, heads held high?
I suppose its useless to even pretend such an undertaking, though I wonder what
affect a single person has on the events in everyday life. Is there any one person
bigger than the next? More important? Of course not. Thats why we change leaders.
Because no one person will stand up and establish themselves as such a person. My
fifteen minutes of fame is all I want. I may get greedy, but we all know that you will
find reason to end it if I do. Regardless of whether or not were actually enjoying the
ride, the truth is in the journey. The truth is not always fun but in the end will always
bring content and a degree of gratification.
Until tomorrow, children. Sing with the moon and dance with the stars! Dream
accordingly. Delight in the pleasures of your immortal souls. Thank the heavens
above and the earth below. Kindred, oh most definitely kindred...

I dont know
Who does know
There is no
Where to go.
- Adam Yauch (MCA), Beastie Boys

Biography Condensed
In conception:
Unfamiliar, like home
Exchanging pleasantries
Gently invading, to this point, privacy
However inevitable
Was soul formed?
Was mothers soul dissected?
Can I borrow some soul, Mom?
Its in a cupboard, neighboring uterus.
Invasion still, and more
Maternal cravings, hunger relieved by chocolate midnights
And Dad with his devotion to the unknown
Child unfelt, unseen, unheard
Yet
A childhood unexamined in the near distance
Braving traditions responsibility
Also unknown, unknowing
Embryonic selfishness
The first flaw revealed
The single enduring imperfection
Abhor-shun
Docked til further notice.
In Birth:
Snip, snip
Time to jump ship
Free-dumb at last
To last and outlast
Opting to brave the cowards world
Is it round, is it flat?
Hello mudda, hello fadda
Youre in for life now
Senses blossom
Sight, ah yes, I remember this
Voices recognized, shifting tones
Handled like Grandmas China
I wont break if you dont bend
The intimate olfactory penetration that resides in hospitals
Death is down the hall, first door on the right
And the reason I cry
My tongue is burdened by fluid human.
In-Fancy:
All the visitors anew
With their Gootchy-gootchy-goos
Substituting breasts for goats
Explains so much
Knees burned, crawling in the shag jungle
Dragging myself through dirt and last nights spilt Budweiser
High chair adventures
Plastic bowl and lens-free sunglass outfits
Accessorized Gerbers peas and apricots
(I eat neither to this day)
Cricket, the K-9 garbage disposal, scarfed it then
A haze of characters unnoticed
Mom and Dads friends
With their gootchy goos.
In Childhood:
Shit meet fan
Underneath I stand
And walk to run
Devouring playground instability
Alone no longer
Fresh blood or the new Jeep?
Dad lost
Brotherhood begins, inspiring the sadist within
Yes, I confess
Jealousy opened the passenger door
Throwing you to the moving street
Without regard
They never knew, and once revealed we merely laughed
Selfish demon unveiled again
No matter, I grew to love you more than all and still more than self
Then Mom removed herself

Avoiding accountability
Only memory
The back seat of the car left consoling
While you drifted in to your culpability
Dads replacement, with her emotional distance
And her loaded baggage
New siblings, new parent
Its official
Brother and I warm ourselves with the freshly woven insecurity blanket
Difficult adapting
Adapting never the less
The youngsters eventually prevail
Saturday soccer retreats
Taming Toys-R-Us
Guilt bribing the children
Whose weekend is it anyway?
And they asked why I ran away.
My 12th summer descended

Father, today your heart becomes the tool
With which I regretfully dissect your soul.
In Idol-Essence:
The Brave Coward clutters my mirror
Illusions of parenthood
Elusions of parenthood
Failing to find
Where once focus, now left behind
Hollow friendships
Empty examples of life wasted
Unwanted - Single, white teen
Call 1-800-POOR-ME
Who needs guidance if youre banging the counselor?
Thrown in to being
Hints of questionable morality displayed
Exploited
And repressed
Ill be back to pick you up in a few years.
Mother continues to run
I, the Brave Coward, must run with her.
Dad, Im home. I betrayed you, and so I shall repent.
In my absence
Dads third became the charm
Current siblings dismissed rivalry
As if he off-handedly proclaimed, Im going to the market
To find The we of me.
Unaffected, I replied
Ill see you when I get home from school.
The institutions walls reeked of naivet
Dogmas corrupt
While talents reveal
Ah, my first true lust
And her moving oral ingenuity
God, forgive me my thrust
And our sinning promiscuity
Educational disdain
Perfecting social imperfections
Drained from the lack of effort
Graduating to life uninhibited.
In Adulthood:
Certified citizenship
Slowly expiring with responsibility neglected
More free-dumb exchanged
By the ounce and quarter-ounce
Tramps and thieves
Groping the falling Trees leaves
Criminality in the genes -- over-sized 501s
The belt and the flyswatter and the paddle...
Instruments incomparable to the future
Designer hallucinations
A Freudian nightmare, a Jungians wet dream
Look here, look over here
Exquisite self-destruction
Ive forgotten my message
Or did I ever have one?
Perhaps the gun to your head will refresh
Pardon me, Morality, Im back. Could I have a word with you?
In Prison:
Its crowded at the barrels bottom
False-prides stench lingers
Brave Coward
Here rest your peers
Covered in animositys feces
Enjoy your meal
Pity plagues
Youths innocence removes its hat
Adorned remorseful in theory
No guilt is a vice
Bathed in rapid river escapes
And drowned in wrists wishing razor blades
I scraped, scraping the dry well of existence
Up becomes a final option
Avoiding death
The Brave Coward may, after all, triumph.
Father, my rock
Mother, my hard place
Family comfortably wedged between
Functional in love consuming
No longer stuck
Heroes pass
But their gifts remain -- sitting on a porch above rose gardens and ripe tomatoes
All this familiar influence
Preventing cliche.
Self can only save self

All else leaps short
Cowardice was the path chosen
Bravery delivered, the Lion be proud
Divine consequence always outweighing Lots fury.
In Perspective:
Purpose being to embrace or dismiss
To overcome or succumb
And always to cherish
That single moment in between
Sincere, serene, sweet serenity
Uncaught, time preserved
When loud wings dwarf opinion
Defining fact
Beyond limitation, yet limited simplistic.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brian H. Roundtree is a blessed father

of four amazingly evolved children
whose understanding of the importance
of compassion for their fellow humans
transcends the comprehension of most
of the adults that inhabit their lives. They
inspire him daily to continue pushing
the boundaries of human understanding
and embracing the essential components
of unconditional love that are critical to,
and define the very essence of, the human
experience he attempts to capture in his
writings and share with the world.

Brave Coward: Collections of The Prison Experience

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Collections of the Prison Experience

Foreward by Dennis Roundtree published by arrangement with the author

Published in the United States of America by Lulu.com

Cover designed by Brian H. Roundtree

So read it. Its short.

Dennis Roundtree, the authors father

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I say Im sorry, all apologies

I should have aimed between your eyes

You took my money so I took back

BRAVE COWARD: Collections of the Prison Experience - 13

I saw her two years later

Six months down the road

Brand new judge in court

So here I sit a wonderin

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I wanna screw that bitch til the cows come home

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Id say I feel sorry for you

If you lose the only thing you love

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Lord, up above or at my side

BRAVE COWARD: Collections of the Prison Experience - 21

Damage done, so now move on

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A victim of my own circumstances

Either way in the end Im still a prisoner

So hear these words and do yourself a favor

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WELL, THATS TOO FUCKING BAD, ISNT IT?

Have you ever experienced losing your freedom

Can you see where Im coming from?

BRAVE COWARD: Collections of the Prison Experience - 31

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Afraid of how to deal

Im still not sure of how to take

I never meant to hurt you

Love, your big brother

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Your wet soft lips

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BRAVE COWARD: Collections of the Prison Experience - 39

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It seems as if I know which direction I am headed

I constantly seek from high and low in literature

Should I allow my present environment to hold me back?

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When the ship ports

BRAVE COWARD: Collections of the Prison Experience - 45

I accept your sentence to think.

I feel your sentence of being.

I worry about your sentence of distance.

I share your sentence to life.