Michael L. McBride #903,

Ellis Stalag Huntsville,

Texas 77343 U.S.A.    

What happened to all the political people who once were in school taking writing dictation from the teacher?  English class back then encompassed more than hanging participles, conjugating verbs and deciphering ablatives of Latin.  Does anyone remember the first time we were introduced to poetry as a participant?  Do we remember the wonder and awe that we developed when we learned we could do with our own minds, with stubby greasy fingers and dull pencils what we had heard and seen done by the inspiring professionals?  Do you remember your first poem?  It's the same as your last because that is who you are.  But sophistication in writing and the sophistication of our use of language also has punished our adult minds so much to the point of guilt that we deny the child who yearns for only poetry.  Politics, ho hum, I can speak better than you and say less.  I am a cynic.  I am cynical.  I am ashamed that I now scrutinize almost everything that comes my way because of the sophisticated blather that wears the lead filled boot I feel pressing me down.  Color commentary my plight.  You can't relate to my dire straits from experience,  but to talk about my pain as though it were your own in false commiseration with other people who think exactly as you do and, just like you, go into their bedrooms with their intimate partners and decry, berate and belittle those who you'd have testify in your behalf, those you'd have stand up for you when your perception has you feeling like a target of contempt.  But they are you.  You asked to be identified with them by the car you drive, the food you buy, the shirt you wear and the color of your hair.  There can be no love lost with no spark.  The only light you know you jumped into thinking heat first.  Sparks and flames, not brilliance and cold glitter.  That's friction, Baby.  Friction.  Learn to reflect it.  Just as the sun is hot and bright, the mirror is cold and sheds only light.  there can be no other you, the mirror reflects only that which is before it.  What about you?  Can you reflect the humanity you see in me, or must you constantly contrast what meets your senses with what your interpretation demands?  Do you focus on function, or do you digest the process to realize that if you would wait just a minute  each time before your brain releases the signal to your tongue, you'd soon learn it's been said before and needs no further blaming.  After all, it was that awe your childhood possessed that made you wait before, there was an instinct born with you that fed your patience.  Patience because you realized you were small in the world and not knowing that where your feet were kept you from moving them too quickly for apprehension you'd get stepped on.  That is, until you felt the deliberate boot stepping on you and you decided you'd step too.  But you lost it.  You lost it.  You suppressed that innocent awe with a false confidence you could continue to step either on or away from that which you confronted.  But you're still not knowing how dangerous the world is, if only because it's not yours and when you sleep all perception stops and you're just as vulnerable without implication as you were when you were yet attached to your mother.  This land is your land, this land is my land, bullshit.  We share in time space a possession of perception, not material, moral, corporeal or semantic grasp.  It's beyond your reach, beyond my reach and yet envelopes us.