Under the wing.

His name was "Jimmy the Painter". I'd heard of him before I even went on the inside. A Genovese crime boss from NY, Jimmy's name rang bells across the criminal underworld. Young punks, like myself at the time, idolized him and his legendary background. Stories of his rackets, his knack for eluding the law until his senior years, and of course the bloody trail he left behind spanning four decades left guys like me in awe. He was The Man behind The Man. A shadowy figure manipulating the scene with brutal grace.

Since my childhood I aspired to be a man like Jimmy. No, really, when most kids at the age of 8 wanted to be cops, firemen, doctors, whatever, I always declared my burning desire to be a gangster. It truly scared the hell out of my family to the point where I saw mental health professionals that, after countless hours of psychotherapy, chalked it up to a fascination brought on by movies and media. I learned to pull the wool over the eyes of anyone at a young age, because although the Hollywood portrayal of the American gangster amused me, my desire was much much more intrinsic. Ever FEEL the need to be somewhere in life but can not quite explain why? Kind of like the concept of kindred spirits only this we'll call kindred belonging. I was thoroughly born bad and knew my fate was to embrace crime. To evolve into it like a pro athlete starts playing ball in adolescence, gradually gaining the skills to make a career out of it.

My first night in a maximum security prison was intimidating. I will never forget the dreadful silence that encompassed the bus as we pulled up to the enormous structure and its walls that would become our future home. There were 6 of us shackled separately. We were all classified "CMC", or Central Monitoring Cases because of the nature of our crimes and criminal history. Yet no matter how hardcore we thought we were, in those moments the pressing reality of what our lives had become burrowed deep into every one of us. There was no escaping it. We sat in silence starring at the giant wall before us, each man contemplating his own personal fears. They were long the minutes. Finally we were ushered to the front of the building, passing several security checkpoints. Automatic gates buzzed and clanged. We were strip searched and made to change from our county jumpsuits to the upstate prison greens that would be our duds for many years to come. The used button up short-sleeved shirt I was given had the initials "QA" written on the tag. The trustee who gave it to me told me it had belonged to a lifer that had recently passed away, now buried in the prison cemetery and forgotten.

After processing, we were all individually placed in our cells scattered among the many cell blocks. I was placed in A-8-6, meaning A block, tier 8, cell 6. The walk to my cell was cinematic. Holding my folded bedding in one hand, my thin Corecraft mattress slung over my other shoulder, I passed one cage after another. Mean looking men stood at their bars watching, sizing me up no doubt. I pretended to be seasoned. Like I had made this walk numerous times to the point where it had become an inconvenience. Inwardly I was gripped by a fear that grew as I began to imagine that my act was transparent. Once I stepped inside my own cage, the cell doors crashed and the guards walked off. Nothing but a small space of concrete and steel surrounded me. I immediately started to read the graffiti on the walls. Various tags claiming this or that set, names of people like "C murder", "Trey Dawg", and "OG Mac10" covered the walls in bold letters. There was even poetry in random spots. Most of it was violent and hate-filled. A couple pieces spoke of sorrow though. A kind of sadness that only becomes expressed when a human being truly experiences spiritual pain. A feeling I would become familiar with in my own time. I did what came natural and tagged my new home. It was an act of tradition that was tacit but felt right. Grabbing the pencil left on the locker by the previous tenet I assume I found an empty space on the ceiling just above the bed. Standing on the steel frame I sketched the words "Feed the Hate". It was the first thing that came to mind and would become a quiet mantra that I never shared verbally, but repeated to myself day after day. Somewhere in my subconscious I understood I would have to live out these words in order to survive. In these moments I was keenly aware that I had to be an instinctual beast. Hate would be my sustenance and my roar.

Hours passed. After cleaning my cell and making my bed I laid in it absorbing everything. Running all kinds of scenarios in my mind. "What if" scenarios that would somehow prepare me for any situation that might come. My self-coaching was interrupted by a shadow passing over my cell as a figure stood at the gate, blocking the sunlight. He was a shifty looking little fellow, resembling a weasel. He introduced himself as Woody and asked for my Rap sheet, a detailed legal history of all my crimes accused and found guilty of. He quickly skimmed over the paperwork and asked me to come to the yard when they ran the evening recreation run. He volunteered to show me around and introduce me to some people. I would later find out that he was sent by some influential members of the Italian American prison community. Apparently my coming was expected from newspaper articles, and some found my case impressive with the victim being a cop.

I went to the yard later that evening apprehensive. At the time I didn't know what to expect, and wasn't sold on the idea of Woody's offer being a noble one. Still I put my game face on and walked the concrete playground with a hundred or so of my peers. Picture the typical movie prison yard scene and you're pretty much close. Basketball courts, metal picnic tables, weightlifting areas (called weight pits), and lots of people cliquing up. Sensory overload for sure. My eyes darted from one thing to the next. Eventually I located my guide and we spun the yard. Spinning the yard is just that: walking the perimeter over and over. It's a common practice in prison. Mostly used for conversation when the need for privacy is essential. He gave me the run down of prison life in a nut shell. Daily schedules, programs, who's who, and who NOT to cross were our main topics. We stopped a few times so that I could be introduced to some "stand up guys", exchanging superficial conversation and keeping it moving. Our final stop was at a table located at the furthest corner of the yard. Several big, obviously Italian by their appearance, guys stared us down and whispered amongst themselves as we approached. We stopped a few feet away and introductions were once again made. I paid little attention to anyone but one old timer that sat at the table, silently measuring me inch by inch, gauging everything I said and acted out. I knew I was in the midst of some bizarre interview of sorts. The old timer was no other than Jimmy the Painter. When he shook my hand he never broke eye contact as he told me he had read all about my case and was glad to meet a crazy mother fucker like myself. I was beyond flattered. Not many will every be able to fully comprehend what a compliment this was. Anyhow, Jimmy asked me to spin and I did. We had a long conversation, and truth be told, I was enthralled. I also caught eye of people watching us. As though this act marked my allegiance to a person and group that you simply did not fuck with. I was proud and energized.

For the next few days I met Jimmy in the yard and we took our walk. He educated me with every syllable he spoke. I was his pupil without it even needing be said. He had taken me under the wing and in an inexplicable way became like a father figure. He loved my company and I loved his status. I knew that I was being groomed to be a soldier, a pawn in the worst way, but I didn't care. I had made my mind up that whatever Jimmy needed done I would do, or die trying.

To be continued...

Reflective in Feb

I always become reflective around this time of year. No, not because of Vday or the passing of Black History Month. See, it was Feb 20th 1997, 3am, that my life changed in a drastic deluge of bad luck gone worse. Some internal clock triggers in my head, makes me recount the events, and causes my heart to get that achy burn that one often feels over regret. I walk from room to room, converse with person to person, eat meal after meal without paying much attention at all. I think... I punch imaginary holes in history, gnashing my teeth and crying inside.


At 20 years of age I should have been youthful, idealistic, full of amazement, and hungry for life. I was none of these. By this age I had embraced a nihilistic attitude. The world was senseless, purpose was not in my sight, and everything perceived as evil, uncontrollable, and insane I had far surpassed. I had given myself a license to do who-the-whatever-the-fuck I wanted. Stamped it with my middle finger and kept it in my waistband next to my firearm, challenging anyone, even God, to stop me. A judge would later coin the term "loose canon on deck" when describing myself as he heard in the courtroom. This was, in my thoughts, putting it mildly.

I was arrested that fateful night for attempting to shoot a police officer. after blowing trial I was sentenced to 71/2 - 15 years in NY state department of corrections. The media portrayed me as an animal. The system caged me like one. My family wept. I continued to unravel.

Days are insufferably long in prison. Time is a whore that fucks every man, every day, and leaves him with disease in the form of anger, depression, guilt, perversity, mindlessness, and lunacy. I spent many of those first days unaware of who I was REALLY and allowed instincts to take over to the point where I had little thought at all. Life had further dissolved in meaning and depth. I found purpose in the foolish intrigues of prison politics. I only found enjoyment in violence and extortion.

It wasn't until my 4th year of incarceration that I began to surface from this madness. I began taking college courses through Ohio University correspondence. I read savagely, finding comfort in the escape, but also further increasing my loneliness. I had no one to discourse with on the level I was beginning to desire. I hid my academic mind from my so-called peers for fear of being different. For fear of no longer being feared. I would NEVER be a victim.

Once my classification dropped from Maximum to Medium security I began to relax a little. Came out of my shell, so to speak. I was no longer surrounded by men who would never see the outside, but men, like myself, who were going home fairly soon. I delved into getting one Vocational trade after another through the various institutional classes offered. I bought in to administrations assurances that with these certificates I would be eligible for all kinds of gainful employment. Until they're out to experience it for themselves the ex-con has no idea of the discrimination he/she is up against.

Eventually I came to a point where I felt I had genuinely "rehabilitated" myself on my own. I say "on my own" in the most literal way I can stress it. The system is not built to rehabilitate like many would like to think. It is merely containment. What happens with that containment is entirely up to the individual. I had begun to clearly see what had lead me to my current situation, blamed no one but myself, and knew exactly what I had to do to prevent myself from coming back. Avoid the monster I am so easily capable of becoming. The monster we ALL are capable of becoming given the right circumstances.

I have not feared much in life. Done quite a few things that should have left me leaking in a giant pool of my own blood. Gone through periods where this might have been a preferable outcome. My point is, I do fear the person I used to be. I am scared to the center of my Self at not just going back to prison, but going back to existing as the man I left behind those walls. Although I surfaced through the muck and the mire to breathe better air, the fact remains, I am and always will be a subterranean creature at heart. Out of element. Out of things to say.

Letter to a Ghost

I take you as my soul mate to love and cherish for always and always.
Let this love be continuous as waves upon the sand.
I will be there for you as a lover and best friend
with unconstrained passion.
I give you all that I am.
All that I am to become...
When you need strength I will give you mine.
When you need words of encouragement, I will listen and provide support.
When you need solace and the silent speech of love i will understand.
My aim will never be to change you, but rather grow with you.
I bring a stronger heart to this choice than any other I have made in my life.
Stay with me.
Learn with me.
Live by my side.
I will do the same with unshackled faith.

Why so Lawless?

The social contract we must all subscribe to assures us that if we surrender a portion of our liberty we will be ensured the rest. That in order for us to coexist, under any government, we must relent a piece of freedom so that others can enjoy theirs as well. My whole life I have struggled with this concept. Not for lack of understanding either. My beef is this: Liberty can not be divided. Like a living thing, if you sever a piece of it the whole organism suffers. Often dies... That little piece you have taken is all I want now. I will always resist and curtail anything that stands in the way of what is mine. For it is the Human spirit not just liberty that has been Novocained.

My right to embrace the disadvantageous is what makes me feel alive. Why should I be or feel obligated to do that which is good or advantageous to myself and mankind? Sometimes, certainly, but on my own terms I need it. True that it will never be so. Many men, such as myself, learn the consequences of vulgarly attempting to exercise this belief with a stint of confinement. Man's solution to the restless spirit, the dissatisfied human heart.

Testing, Testing, Testies...

Ok, so this is my first crack at blogging. Honestly, I don't know what I am supposed to do. Other than ramble. This should not be a problem at all. I am talented at throwing up senselessness on a page.

The only thought I have to share at the moment is the thought of happiness. We won't make it a complex and philosophical issue. If you're interested in that I suggest you read the "Symposium" by Plato. It translates from greek meaning "the drinking together", and it's basically a bunch of old drunk dudes sitting around discussing the nature of Love and happiness. Good piece...

Where was I? Oh, the thought! I don't intend to have many answers within this lifetime, an expectation that I hope will save me much frustration and insanity. I don't claim to have volumes of experience. I am more like a wood chip set adrift in the ocean. I float from one area to the next with no real destination, but not necessarily lost either. Just comfortably bobbing. My only real concern is the occasional patch of seaweed that could possibly ensnare me and slow my journey. It is this drifting that has brought me happiness most of my life. My allegiance has been only to the ocean around me. It has offered safe passage and rocked me to sleep many nights. It has also thrown me in the most violent of maelstroms. It has been my provider and my beautiful destruction.