From the Iowa Prison Writing Project

 

Dear John Lennon,

 

I drew you a picture of A blue House 

whose walls were all black

and I sang this picture

across the Universe.

 

I drew you a picture of A blue House

whose walls were all black

and I sang this picture

across the Universe.

 

The house had a phosphorescent tree where as a

child I hid beneath and cried when the 

sun was my enemy and the moon was my 

enemy and From this place I told a sacred 

story to the sky———sky whispered back

white lies that tasted like crude oil.

 

I remember suicide and how the spirits sang

    me strawberry fields

It Felt like a holy Lullaby.

I did not weep.

Instead I sought courage From Eagle and

    he guided me back to this world. 

 

I watched a movie once and you were lonely

amongst the multitudes. They called you a 

revolutionary and they called you an agitator.

They called you a poet and then they

crucified you. 

 

And this is what I think

when the multitudes swarm like bees to a 

    hive 

and their words pitter patter like beating 

    wings

And their sencentes [sic] plague me until my spirit

    ignites.

 

And this is what I think 

when I can’t sleep,

when the sky melts scarlet

and its fiery drippings scorch enemy moons. 

 

Perhaps my sun will Fade, 

perhaps we will meet where the sky

whispers Forgotten poems

amongst the Lonely people.