Untitled: Cell & Prison
Where is the sun and the stars which glimmers in the
dark, hollow Corridors of the Cell & in Prison block 69?
Solitary confinement for stabbing an inmate for attempted
Rape. What was the loss of your mentally afflicted Zen practicing
Mother, And your deceased beloved Father. an aggrieved Episcopal Methodist
Pastor who committed suicide.
Only to be deserted into the blind alleys without no family.
A magnate high school pupil in the Bronx living in the ghettoes,
Selling heroin and crack abandoning a foster home.
Here I stand waiting judgment for parole for 7 years in a cell.
A very late DSM VI borderline, bi-polar monitored through
A digital bracelet, the mode of disciple and surveilng.
Dr. Feinstein, his psychiatrist, an Orthodox Jew, had said
Exorcist ritual prayers in silent whispers. The vortex of his Afro-Asiatic
mind meditated on the Heart Sutra of emptiness, and suffering-- yielding
To compassionate healing of the Doctor’s rehabilitative treatment.
Even his love of the crack whore flower was illusory void to which
He was enlightened of mortality and curse of dust.
Liberation and freedom came to alas as a janitor at Penn Station, and
Public works volunteer on the weekends.
Blaine F. Parkson studied Psychology of Religion & Creative Writing at SUNY Purchase College
Eyes as fallen Pearls
for J.M. & R.L.D, J.L.
The jewel of the vanishing twilight
I can never speak of,
Until I rest to rot and spoil.
And wish the very worms
Will have me consumed, the ‘pearls
That were his eyes,’ devour
My poisoned kidney and liver;
disemboweled in frost and snow,
Whereby, that very dagger,
My spleen, severed my tongue,
Which my ancestors said of chin-mook
Of silence that speaks, by never saying
anything at the drop of a dime.
Maidens of youth, were I ever
to love; I can’t ever say that I have-
Or is it a lie told by
the “God haunted,
Cruel Talent of Russ,”
Which has become the truth?
Tell her if you see him, he remains dead
And buried on a fragrant bed of lilies.
The sisters of Mercy and Terror
of Retribution, shall know, wielding
staff and sword, for a remnant of
seven thousand reserved from
the annals of time, vanguard those
who are left dead in tawdry barber
and salon shops--- far corners of
the metropolis, pilfered lots---
the fallen tropical torrential rain,
was shot when she repented
The rackets of the flesh.
The mercenaries of beasts,
sold her pound for pound,
Flesh for flesh, picked their teeth
with a mint deck of laminated
Chosun cards, with the soft
metallic polish of finishing nails.
Circles and Spirals of Light,
The gentle cadence of broken sibilants,
Deferred gutturals, which cry
Out from the hidden fount and portents
of creation of primeval sorrow and glory,
dusk, shadow and tempest.
The ubiquitous dawn, now, let us arise
O Rider of the raging seas
of lies, perennial doubt, and the
illusory devils, demon gods,
overthrowing my enemies.
You stretched out your shriveled
hand to save my child from drowning
by the salty shores at bay across
the fishing colony.
Sovereign divine you sold yourself
into slavery to set captives free.
One’s eyes, awaken, to hear,
The pupils and retina burnt by
the Sun, no longer burn with the passion
And pride of life, and lust of the eyes,
but fulfilled in the hope
Of the eskaton of the return,
Of divers dominion, times and deadly straits
reported, but the sequence of the
Actual left unsaid.
Kristavara & Ann [a] ya-mariam wanted it that Way,
a resident of the Eastern Isle Prefect
via Diamond Junction.
She remembered the discourse of the pre-eminent
Theologist who scripted: “She Who is,” and
read while drinking chrysanthemum tea, the novelle,
just released translation of Lombroso’s La donna delinquente
by the renowned City historian.
Luxury and the high life of thieves were all too much
a bane; she figured that it was mass bankruptcy or
And the woman was blessed though the breaking of chains.
Would you deceive yourself to be an auditor
of the wise, when your folly and idiocy, has twisted
And breached upon what was never said?
The flame burned in my heart,
which cried out in exhortation and admonition:
[“sancta mea amor crucifixus est”]
Father Juan, tortured and kidnapped,
a night of consecrated purgation;
wherefore, ascending the ladders of suffering,
did not confound darkness with the light,
light from the darkness, thick smoke from fire.
So did I fall prey to the imprisoned conundrums
of hallucinatory and spiritual vertigo, not like Father
She the Mystical Bride to whom
De La Cruz was wed.
at the shrine in Tagaste. . .
the martial mind of calm of the Tatagatha [aside]
history, culture and philosophy.
It is snuffed at the break of day to chase demons away,
Though rekindled within a lamp at nightfall…
Come l’augello, intra l’amate fronde,
posato al nido de’ suoi dolci nati
la notte che le cose ci nasconde,
For the world has become a stone pitted cherry.
Dehydrating, and rushed to the hospital, in steed of rails and barbed and quartered
Fenced halls, where I soon owe much more to time, than I shall ever know.
This the wager of Pilgrim’s Regress?