The hours waiting…
waiting on the bench
cement and puke mold
bench, after finger-ink-
smudge-shove-printing,
while I witnessed her,
shoe-less, bra-less,
patch-toothy grin like sin,
cheap dye and tat job,
resisting and they, bitch
cops, pushers, shovers,
kicking the shit out of her,
who was out of her mind,
uncontrolled, and they,
shit-bitch-dep-pukies,
clubs and punches, her
forced with her head
shoved down by gloved
fists, face between her
legs, until subdued,
no breath, so violent, so
much violence, shouting,
berating, beating, negating,
every bit of it, all of it,
dystopian, institutional,
blues and grays, painted
cement walls, filthy dinge
cages and cages, and the
continual influx of human
fodder, walking lines, room
to room, to room to room,
walking lines, room walking
lines, walking–no room
for poor players out, no
way out, no way, not for the
poor paying prison prices.
credit: ktla.org
