That orange man.
His headlight, bright, behind me.
His bad ass.
to his megalomaniacal pathway.
He has his five-digit number,
big and black on his massive orange.
His tattoos are funny,
stretched by muscle-building,
but prison isn’t funny.
He’d pick me up, one hand,
squashing my midsection,
and he’d laugh as the white worms
squirt out my nose and ears.
But orange man couldn’t take my prison.
Sure, he survived Leavenworth,
and now he rattles civilians,
but my prison would flatten him,
him and motorcycle, no thicker
than a Costco catalogue,
and best for us, before he’s flat,
in my prison, we long
for someone to kill us.
#1 by Carl D'Agostino on September 15, 2011 - 5:17 am
Self imposed prisons of mind and soul are brutal indeed
#2 by Carl on September 22, 2011 - 9:40 pm
Thank you for your comment. I am sorry for the tardy response. It seems I got stuck in the cellar.
#3 by Kay Camden on September 15, 2011 - 9:10 am
Isn’t it funny how we see people. If only they knew. Would they change?
#4 by Carl on September 22, 2011 - 9:42 pm
I always figure it’s I who needs to change.
#5 by Kay Camden on September 23, 2011 - 9:02 am
No way no how. Life might be easier but do you want to be like them? Good to see you back, by the way. You’ve been quiet for a while.
#6 by Carl on September 24, 2011 - 10:53 pm
Thank you for your kindness!