The cell is thirteen and a half by eleven feet.  The floor is dirt, and on the really cold mornings last March, i remember being able to see frost on the tiny blades of grass that tried to grow till they realized there was no life in this place.  And so they died, leaving us alone.

i can’t speak for Jesus, but often i know that i’ve thought about joining them.  Of leaving this small space and coming back up to grow wild in some wondrous open field.

i’ve named this cell Godforsaken, and it bothers Jesus, but he always forgives me when i curse his father.  He laughs when i tease him, and sometimes he says just the right thing to ease my troubled mind.

P-K4 (let’s never speak of this)

I haven’t spoken to him in
  twenty years.
He must be old now (as I
  believe I will be soon).
He taught me to play when I
  was just four. To us,
  chess was a means of
  communication (for since
  birth, I believe, my father
  and I have been unsure of our
  relationship).
My mother watched us play,
  taking snapshots in the
  background, always calling it
  a foolish game (and she would
  never learn to play).
She has a picture of me as a
  child with a wooden
  knight clenched between
  my teeth (mocking victory).
I never won, though.
He wouldn’t allow it.
Still I returned to the table
  the next day, because it
  was not abuse.
(It was my oxygen.)

i can see it so very clearly… especially
  since her passing… this white expanse
  of land that lays all around me on
  every side.
there are no buildings… no trees… no
  river brooks… and most certainly
  no people to cloud my view.
  there is simply white. a plain of land
  covered by snow for as far as
  the eye can see.
the cold does not make me shiver…
  nor does the solitude. for this
  remote location is of my choosing.
  i am not scared of losing my mind
  here… for it lay in the casket
  next to her.

“la musique” he speaks
  in his native language…
  “ah, la musique.”
i listen, grateful for the glass
  of wine which he has
  handed me, and the
  turntable spins slowly…
  the needle threading
  its song as the red
  liquid rolls about
  my tongue.
“je me souviens de temps
  en temps” he continues,
  and i nod slowly… a
  smile upon my lips…
  for i remember dancing
  with her also.
what an odd time to meet
  her old lover… so
  soon after her wake. 

a strong wind curls up
  under my umbrella
  like a drunken bastard
  reaching under a
  woman’s skirt, and
  without permission,
  tears it inside
  out.

this leaves me wet and
  extremely upset, though
  instead of cursing
  nature, i holler at
  the broken piece of shit
  in my hand.

i see, quite often, sharp edges
  upon clouds… blades
  within heaven, which
  cause me to worry.
for though this mist would not
  cut through our flesh
  as does steel, what
  of fragile spirits…
  recently sent from this
  world in a furious
  manner.
will they feel their spirit torn as
  was their skin… only
  to fall back down to
  this hell. 

i try not to keep all of
  my sanity in one location.
heavens no.
that would simply not do.
so i place a little here by
  my dresser, that i might
  ask it for guidance when
  i must get dressed in the
  morning.
no purple polka-dot ties
  if you please.
heavens no.
don’t you know, that simply
  will not do.