Letter to Death Row

One day, about a year ago, I got an email from a woman named Esther. Esther from Germany. Esther works for this organization called “Alive.” They advocate for men and women on Death Row. Esther told me none of this. All she was said that she has a friend in Texas currently on Death Row named Kenneth Foster. And Kenneth loves poetry. She goes to different websites, print out their pages and send them to Kevin. (isn’t that grand?) She came across mine, printed out my pages, much of my poetry, and sent it to Kenneth. Turns out he loved my poetry. Shared it with some of his prison mates.

Esther was emailing me to ask me if I would send one of my chapbooks to Kenneth. To dismantle the book, to take off the card stock cover and pull out the staples, b/c they would confiscate it. So, I did it. I sent him the book along with a nice, encouraging note written on the inside. I also did some reading up on some of the ramifications on Kenneth’s case. Fascinating, befuddling and heartbreaking. To read all about Kenneth’s case you can go to these links: http://www.austinchronicle.com/issues/dispatch/2005-02-11/pols_feature.html and http://www.kennethfoster.de/.

Weeks later I got a manila envelope in the mail. It was a letter from Kenneth, a rather lengthy typewritten letter. It must have been about 7 pages, single spaced, double sided. The letter was gorgeous. This man loved my poems, broke some them down the way a college professor never would and never has. He told me about his life behind bars on death row. Turned out I had quite the fan base in the Polunsky Unit of Livingston, TX. Apparently my poems leaped from Kenneth’s hands and grabbed on to the next inmate’s hands and like Tupac, they got around! Kenneth told me about his dreams behind and beyond those bars. This man was more up on the current poetry scene than even I was! Behind bars, he was trying to link me up to other people and collectives doing great things in the poetry world. Amazing. After reading his letter, I remember feeling that that was the most human exchange I’d had with someone in my recent memory, that letter. This was quite some months ago—maybe 8 or 9. Quite a few weeks later, even months, I wrote Kevin a lengthy letter back—though no where as near as lengthy as his. I wrote this letter in journal format to him, over the course of several days. I typed it. Life got in the way. I never sent it. I often thought about Kenneth, Esther was very good about letting people know about what was happening with Kenneth: the radio show that a Texas radio station acquired, to read the shout outs of people of loved ones in the Polunsky Unit. And they would all gather around the radio at Sunday at 1:00pm or so to listen to see if they got a shout out. Yes, she would send out emails about the Texas radio show, to an appeal granted in Kevin’s case, to the recent Protest at the Polunsky Unit that is starting to get some press.

So, I recently wrote Kenneth a letter. I’ve felt abominable for not replying to his letter and I wrote a 6 page letter (handwritten ) and I found it to be the roundest, most honest exchange I’ve had with someone in my recent memory. It was much like a journal entry so I figured I would share this letter here, in two parts.

01.23.06

Dear Kenneth,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I apologize for my silence. I’ve written to you once before—a letter of incomplete thoughts—but a letter none theless. I never sent it . It’s still trapped in my computer, screaming to be exonerated and given to its rightful owner—you. If I could figure out where I saved this letter on my portable brain, I will retrieve it and send it along with this one.

So, I hear you brothas are stirring the pot up there in the Polunsky Unit, using the tactics of our not so distant ancestors. It always amazes me, how many worlds truly exist in this one world. This weekend, I tried skiing for the first time. Never had any desire not even thought about it. But I got an invite so I went. I fell in love with this sport that I’ve only looked upon (the Olympics, for instance) in indifference. I loved it instantly, just by watching it up close. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my recent life—the next scariest thing to going up on stage and pouring my guts out in front of a group of strangers. The interprise of performing myself on stage via poetry no longer frightens me. For the longest time, without even knowing it, I’ve needed something else to frighten me. Something to frighten me out of my skin, tap me on the shoulder and whisper in my ear “ mortality.”

So, I got to the top of the slope (the bunny slope, mind you) I looked down and was truly frightened. Truly. I didn’t know the last time I’d felt that feeling so thoroughly, so entirely. And I did it. Without taking a lesson, without knowing anything, I went down the hill, frightened the whole way down. But Kenneth, the wind on my face, the brilliance of the big blue sky, the realization of snow under my new 4 foot long shoes. I will never forget that fear I felt the entire way down. I got to the bottom of the hill without falling and that was it. I learned all I needed to know about skiing—and relearned all I needed to know about humanity. Skiing is all about letting go of fear. I watched other people around me fall left and right. They fell simply because they were afraid and they let the fear swallow them whole—little Jonahs. I was afraid too, but I didn’t let it consume me.

Kennth, you should know that I’m quite arrogant at times about my fearlessness. Someone asked me the other day when was the last time I felt afraid and I couldn’t answer them. I walk in strange neighborhoods in NYC at 2 in the morning by myself without a thought. I have driven through the most redneck towns throbbing with the undead Klan convinced that nothing could or would possibly happen to me. But, this bunny slop had me shook. I went up again—the same fear gripped my throat—all the way back down to the bottom. And I ended up skiing for four hours and didn’t fall once. I taught myself how to maneuver, stop, slow down, speed up. I was reminded of the pungent taste of what it’s like to be afraid, truly afraid of something. And it was humbling. I never thought I would be humbled by a bunny slope on Suwannee Mountain. Blessings wear the heaviest cloaks.

I want to know what life is like for you these days. What is the climate like at Polunsky right now and how have you been dealing with that? I apologize for being so bad about being in touch. If you were to look up the word “self absorbed” in the book on inventions, you would see my face. Making a living, or “catching my ass” as we say in Trinidad, becomes a world all by itself.
Have you ever seen these wooden dolls? The ones that open up in the middle and there’s a doll inside of that one—identical, just a little smaller? Then you open up that doll and there’s one just like that and there’s all these dolls giving birth to dolls, and you keep opening up these maddening dolls until you come across one the size of a thimble. So, I’m that thimble-sized doll, so caught up in the world and I feel like I have lost all awareness of how layered existence is—how many worlds encase me. Am I making sense? I’ve said all that to say, thank you for your patience. You’ve reached out to me in a great and humble way and I haven’t reciprocated in any tangible way, though I think of you often. Esther is really good at keeping you alive in the minds of people far and near.

So, some random things I’ve learned as of late. I’ve learned that the “pachyderm” is another word for elephant. I’ve also learned that pachyderms mourn their dead; they cradle the dried up skulls of their dead in their trunks and moan like widows. Fascinating isn’t it? Another name for starfish is asteroid. Black holes were once stars. There’s a chemical compound called squalene that is found in shark liver. Squalene helps to oxygenate all of the cells in the body and scientists believe that that is what enables sharks to exist in deep seas thousands of feet below, years away from sunlight. In fact, sharks live uncannily long and have existed for over 400 million years on this planet—one of the oldest creatures in existence. Scientists believe that squalene is the key. Squalene, in minute amounts, is also found in olive oil. Dogs are being trained to determine whether or not someone has breast or lung cancer just from smelling his or her breath. I have no idea if this stuff is fascinating to you. If you tell me to stop, I will with no offense taken. Science is a recent fascination of mine. The only corner of science that I ever found even remotely fascinating was genetics. I’m starting to develop a reason for my recent fascination in my laboratory of ideas.

I serve middle school kids in Spanish Harlem—I direct an afterschool program. I love this job—but these kids. God, they’re gorgeous to the core. At the same time, I see all of this world’s mistakes manifesting in them. This school system, this horrid institution of delearning—the age of technology that turns the brain to mush—making it as obsolete as rotary phones and DOS. I see the rise of the music video, roaring its ugly head in the behaviors and proclivities of our kids. I feel like many of them are like beautiful science experiments going so tragically wrong. Children are brilliant—I admire their mind’s capacity to learn. Their brains outmatch ours. They can learn languages over night. Three year olds can take apart VCR’s and check for clues—report back in an hour.

Kenneth, when children are 11 and have already lost their curiosity, when they’re saying things like, “I don’t want to go anywhere that I’ve never been,” and “I know I’ve never tried it but it’s just not my thing,” it makes me wail inside. So, lately I’ve been turning to science, where there is a discovery each day—a new brand of toad or the revelation of planet in Pluto’s suburb. Though science always leaves plenty of room for chaos, there is a beautiful order in it—look at the machinations ecosystem (without our fuck ups, of course), look at the fact that babies are born with no teeth so that they can be breastfed—I find that brilliant! It’s larger than us, a design more intricate than a spider’s fancy web. And here we are, destined for madness.

So that’s where I’m at Kenneth. Just trying to expose kids to a life of imagination, expression and exploration. Continuing to teach poetry to whatever faces are placed before me. I started back teaching at the J-school last week which has been going great so far. My student’s minds are orgasmic—in a very non sexual way of course. Just trying to pay bills and save a little something for a sunny day (why always anticipate the rainy?). I can say that life is good to me these days. I love my work and all of the challenges it entails, I love the food that I eat, each syllable of laughter, and I’m drinking more water these days. And I’ve fallen in love with skiing.

Hope to hear from you soon, my friend.

Long Live the Poet

Trying to make the best of a three hour flight delay. I hear there is surly weather awaiting me in New York, something having to do with ice. Already, my ass (literally) smells like starbucks and my pinkie toe is throbbing. My head feels bowling ball heavy. As I approached the waiting area at gate C3, out of all the available seats I sat in a chair that felt damp. I jumped up, saw the wet spot. Hoped it wasn't piss. Grazed my hand over my wet ass and smelled South America.

Dizzy from Ibprofen. On New Years Day I sprained my pinkie toe while doing karioki. I was doing some interpretive dance to augment my already stellar rendition of Boyz II Men's "On Bended Knee" and I stubbed my pinkie against a chair. So much for fame.

So I've been limping ever since. Yesterday I couldn't walk without wincing from the pain. I've been taking drugs and now i can walk. As a result, I''m in West Palm Airport listening to 90's music and feeling dizzy and drugged.

This time was so necessary. If not for my family, I would keep going, going and not take a break from the grind. I took 13 days off of work. I didn't ask for the time off, I just took it. If i had asked, they would have said no. So, I walked in one day and declared that I was going to be gone for 2 weeks during the holidays and had already booked my ticket and would prepare all of the activities for the kids in advance and make sure my staff was briefed. I did all of this before I left. I fulfilled my promises and felt no guilt on the plane ride to florida.

I left NYC in the midst of the MTA strike. I wasn't really affected by the strike, sorry to say. No stories of walking across the Brooklyn Bridge in the blueback cold. No tales of hitchhiking my way up town. All I could say was that I missed a doctor's appointment. I got to work by catching a ride with my friend Holiday, who works with me and drives. As Holiday and I cruised through the strangely empty streets of upper manhattan, we mused: what will we tell our kids about the historic transit strike of 2005? We laughed about all of the stories we couldn't tell with a clear conscience: the 20 mile walk to work in the snow, sleet, hail, rain. Tiny brown specks in that exodus across the Brooklyn Bridge. Riding with scary strangers, 6, 7 to a car.

The airport is a grave of waiting people. There are screaming children everywhere. I just saw a young boy throw a huge tantrum in the middle of the terminal. He was throwing himself on the floor and every time his mother tried to pull him up he wouldn't let her and would fall back on the floor. She was really patient with him. It's times like this I can't picture myself with children. But then I did. I pictured my wailing child. I pictured myself walking away without looking back, knowing he would follow. I sent the woman my advice silently. [I]Just walk away lady, [/I]I said. He’ll follow. Finally she did. Walked away. And he followed, bellowing, but he followed.

I don't do the New Years Resolutions thing. A lot of my friends don't either. Maybe we're too cool for that illusion now, tired of these shallow promises we make to ourselves just because a ball drops in the middle of Manhattan. Regardless of how cool we are I think that most of us have some sense of self reflection as the year slams itself shut. I think we all devise ways to improve our lives and find short cuts to our futures.

So, having said that, I'm not going to call this a New Years Resolution. I'm calling it a birthday wish. My birthday is on the 22nd of this month and I hope the gods don't shake their cold dandruff all over it like they did last year. That's one wish. The other wish is that this will be a better writing year for me.

Not writing much poetry has been my biggest source of unhappiness for the past few months. I've been working more on my novel and I'm constantly writing in my head. I'm constanly sketching and rounding out my characters, their intentions, their idiosyncracies. I enjoy this type of writing, but poetry is my first love and there's nothing like your first love, really. Sometimes, poetic lines float across my blue skies and I grab them but don't know what to do with them. When did it stop being so simple?

And I know this is all right. I have this conversation with myself and with others all of the time. Intellectually, I know it's all right to not be constantly writing. To marinate and absorb. I've been getting ample teaching jobs. But, I'm sorry to say that teaching poetry brings me absolutely no inspiration. You would think so, but it doesn't. I love teaching, the self contained joy it brings. But it doesn't enhance my writing. Never has. Rita told me this would happen.
The teaching, the children in East Harlem, the freelance work. Social life. I come home exhausted. I've been saying that life gets in the way of my writing. I've heard other writers/artists say the same thing. I think that's a detrimental dichotomy to establish, the idea that art and life exist independent of each other, that they can't exist in the same space. They are kissing cousins. I know this. But, there's the brain inside the head and the brain inside the heart. This creative quagmire has been hard for me emotionally.

I miss poetry. I can count the number of poems I've written in 2005 on my two hands--the ones I'm happy, on one. When I go through those periods when I'm writing heavily, after writing till 3 or 4 am, I wake up in the mornings like a woman in love. The poem is the first thing on my mind, the first face I want to see. I want to improve it and I want it to improve me. I carry it with me in my purse. Caress it on the train. Sneak in a few kisses at work. I miss that special sort of narcissism. That strange way of looking in the mirror.

I write now and I'm highly critical. Nothing is good enough. I'll spend a night working on a poem and wake up the next morning only to find that it has bad breath, a missing tooth.
A few nights ago, I recited a poem in my dream. I was on a stage and the poem was dark and it was beautiful and it was mine. It has never been written. I was so free in this dream. So free of self-consciousness. The images had the uninhibition of some of my older work. In my dream, I felt both the rush of writing and the rush of performing. The joy was combined. I've never experienced this feeling before. I woke up from the dream and I couldn't retrieve the poem. But I smiled. Because I knew that the poet still lives.