Maybe a dream

My cell mates — last thing I would've guessed — are basically gentle guys. Fierce and cold to the world, careful, decent with each other. Woody, who I finally beat in chess & could break my jaw with his thumb, says “excuse me” when he brushes past.

Great news: Stew gave Cathy his last name on promise of free legal help. Good news: Jennifer had a private phone. Bad news: she won’t talk. Worse news: the number you have called has been disconnected. Smart not to tell Stew anything until we know who we’re dealing with. “We.” All I deal with is macaroni, beets, green jello, coffee-water. Reprimanded today for whistling. No whistling, singing, loud talking at any time.


Der Furor wears a monocle

over his eye plate.

Inside that prism, light

does not circulate.


Behind the lens a speaker squawks

in a wide voice, mean.

It says when money sleeps,

we are its dream.



Waked by (I think) the madman in the hole. But a voice more hollow.

— Where are you? it said. Then

— Willeee!

No cops running. No one awake but me.

— I'ng sorry. I'ng sorry. Willee’s dead.

Maybe a dream.