Social Media
I prefer the twitter of sky and branches
to the twitter of our phones
which has become the twitter in our palms,
the animal-machines we are
holding arsenic and opinions,
punch lines and beryllium.
I prefer birds to Instagram, golden robins
singing their duets. Tree connectivity,
as they signal danger to each other
through the Wood Wide Web.
Despite all we’ve done
the world is still sweet—
tweet tweet. I’m nostalgic
for Tweety Bird, obscenely yellow canary
in a cartoon mine. Looney Tunes
before that meant conspiracy theories.
"I tawt I taw a puddy tat!"
Tweety Bird’s matter-of-fact lisp intact.
Prison Poetry The Day After Prop 4 Passes in Florida
The first thing I see when the doors clank behind me—the sign
WE DO NOT TOLERATE RAPE with an emergency phone number
though inmates aren’t allowed cellphones. Their pastel blue uniforms
look like hospital scrubs. Most of them wear New Balance sneakers,
some dirtier than others. They differentiate themselves with tattoos—
sleeve, neck, teardrop, wristband, letters nestled under knuckles,
maybe a beloved’s initials. I try to imagine what they looked like
in their civilian clothes, visiting Ocho Placas or Inkaholic.
They differentiate themselves with Dollar Store sunglasses,
prescription bifocals, a wheelchair or cane. Their mess hall
meals are provided by the Cheney Brothers—I saw the truck.
They tell me, because of religious inmates, there is never any pork.
I give them their first writing prompt and hands fly up.
How many words, professor? Do we need to use alliteration?
Do I need to have a main character? We should show, not tell,
right? Is it OK if I am graphic? They kicked me out
of a trauma writing class for being too graphic—just saying.
One sullen man must think my prompt is stupid. He reads
on his tablet, given to him by some corporation though he can’t
get on the internet except to a site with books in the public domain.
He can also receive and compose emails but they are intercepted
by the prison before they go out and he is charged $1 each.
I miss you! $1 Will you come visit this week? Another $1
An inmate working as a law clerk tells me he wants to write poetry
but frankly is too tired of writing. He has all these cases—
trying to get innocent men out. That is such important work, I say.
He must think—who is this white lady in purposely baggy clothes,
no makeup? Or maybe he knows the rules I’d been given—
no leggings, no flip flops, no halters, no revealing necklines,
no visible bra strap or cleavage, no skirts or dresses,
even long ones. Maybe he thinks I am like his mother.
Or his wife or girlfriend who has given up on him.
How many of these thirty men have been raped? How many
have raped? I look at the smallest ones as they write. I look
at the biggest ones. I want to tell them about Prop 4
restoring voting rights to felons but I’ve been told
to stay away from politics unless the inmates bring it up
in their poems. How many are on antidepressants? How many
are anxious? How many are enraged? I ask how many
write every day and more hands fly up.
It’s hard to write, they explain, because it’s so loud.
They all sleep on bunks in one big hall. Only the most dangerous
inmates have their own cells. I don’t know who’s in for three years,
or who’s in for life. Or with what they were charged. The guard
knocks and says it’s time for lunch. The do not tolerate tardiness,
though there is no sign saying so. Come back anytime, professor,
one says on his way out. I’m always here.
