I waited in the cage in court for my hearing with a dozen and a half other men that go in and out of heavy doors that click when are shut.
“You should get off easy man, you’re the right shade for court,” said Flacco.
“And listen homie when you get out tonight can you swing by my pad. Tell my old lady I am here in the county jail por favor?”
The man named Flacco was kind and sadly lost his chance before he was born. He was the wrong color. Born under a Brown spell
“Sorry Flaco, I got my White Card revoked. I am the wrong kind of white;
To them I am white trash at best, And according to the man who arrested me I am a White Trash Junky and, to the Deputies I am a White Trash Faggot”
(because I have hair and they have a cul de sac at best, a Glossy dome).
They found me with my face smeared against the driver’s side window, ripened to an ambivalent shade of blue, looking like Sloth from the Goonies.
My lip curled, pressed on the dirty glass.
I smiled at myself, eyes closed cooker in hand needle flopping like a fish; A stripped out stick-shift, dancing like Chris Farley on my dying arm.
Now I wait in court in the cage with The Others who are captured, the Black Sheep who awaited their sentence
Guilty until proven innocent For having a disease as bad as cancer, while Chester Molester does a year with half for playing with Tommy next door.
A true murderer.
I don’t know who I despise more, Chester? Or the judge who decided to let a soul killer walk free? Sauntering the local parks while our cancer spreads to our brains.
Until the endless growing units, CC’s and abscess’ make perfect sense.
Poem by Jon Vreeland Art by Alycia Vreeland