Letter to some forgotten god

January 30th, 2015 by George Martorano

Dear forgotten god,

So, my heart’s guitar strings pick and say…..”Truly my greatest fear of prison, old friend, is to die and no one knowing of I, prisoner 12973, thus I must write. I also practiced the slaying-of-emotion to survive the 4th world…..Gosh,and I know my pen hand runs dark at times. I guess it is thee imprint that comes from endless, numbered days; pushes the words such and that way along the cheap paper…..Well, do you know forgotten god that prison doors all frown; there is only, in, and not out…..And then the time enters when sorrow sits next to you, you shake hands…. Sorrow and you then watch the sun go down…..You start to think in unison as safely goes the Heaven light…..Aah, sorrow and I sit very still, opening our minds, seeking seeing feeling no touch nor taste of free life…..But wait!….. Geez, sorrow and I have taught ourselves to “champion slave”. Tis better than storming high walls only to be shot down…..Hours pass ,we will fill our lungs before sleep. For we sleep right next to each other; sorrow squeezing up close . Yet, my face to cold wall. Where my eyes stare…..Stare and wait, wait for another pick of my heart’s guitar…..And may and maybe and who knows, come middle-night…..We’ll sing.”

Alas,as all cell doors lock….. I’ll write again. So farewell forgotten god, farewell.

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973
1/29/15

Dream, Trains, and Tears

January 24th, 2015 by George Martorano

So be it. I had the same dream more than once last night…..There was a train. I, in a boxcar.The one sliding door had cell bars. Alone, only food and I were locked in. In the dream, it was always night, just dark no moon nor stars.The fast moving train only showed a black vastness leading countryside . The only sound, the clatter of steel wheel upon steel rail…..Staging through the dream, it would happen. The moving train would come upon a makeshift camp with many small fires with many down and out people. Tired, unkempt people mostly of women and children…..They begin running along side of that boxcar. I quickly begin tossing food out between the bars: vegetables, fruits, and various canned goods. Some of what I tossed got caught, some dropped to be picked up quickly. Passing the run down place those poor souls ran their hearts out;thin arms reaching out ; faces expressing complete loss, a languishing for only want. Especially, the children with those dirty faces and flopping hair as they ran to keep up…..Yet, this is not why I write about the dream that repeated so. No, I write such for when having the very last dream. The train did stop. The bars that kept me prisoner opened. Then just one hungry child stood there. I came down from the train. Stood before her. Went to my knees and hugged her so. The unkempt little, blonde child began to weep upon my shoulder. I held her tightly; she smelled of forgotten earth…..”This is what I wanted, love, not food,” she said….. And I wiped her tears away.

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973
1/24/15

Prisoners’ Tale

January 24th, 2015 by George Martorano

The bus like hated beast moves through American night. Inside, shackled men with unmoving smell…..The beast exhausts…..crawls, halts. The shackled men staring down shuffle off ,sound of chains drag….. There ,before them high granite steps…..Coming down upon lined-up bodies, hard rain. Held there….. cold, wet. A cold burn of metal up against wrist and ankle. Forsaken eyes on the large, incarcerating place; lights from cell windows beckon haunt …..With harsh, tall minutes….. A command! The slow climb begins; same leg lifts, other leg follows, same leg lifts, other leg follows….. Simple comforts wait within steel and stone ; pieces to live portioned out …..Aah, and there you have it ; sour memory stored, never to forget…..Prisoners’ rain.

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I so remember such a night of prisoner’s rain. Yet, I was convict-smart. I removed the thin, fabric bus shoes. I stood there cloth to flesh wet; barefoot, moving-in-place so my feet would not numb. Once inside, stepping onto dry concrete…..Lord! I did not cry. I did not cry.

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973
1/20/15

The Lap Of Waves (The Finale)

January 24th, 2015 by George Martorano

Then, the sex began, sex and the words. Of how he was going to blow my brains out after he screwed me…..He’s been screwing me for hours, entering me in every way, painful ways.

“…..now!” He has a handful of my hair, the gun is very near, I believe I’m going to die. My face is turned to his mid-section, he’s still hard, it’s very red, messy. I can’t believe the last thing I’m going to see, is that.

“Please, Blaze. I’ve been good to you, I won’t tell anybody anything, I swear,” and I pled. He’s standing there, I heard the cocking of the gun…..I squeeze my eyes shut…..what else can I do? Then, he shoves my head away, walks across the room, a drawer opens. I see a pill bottle, he’s taking pills with booze. There are several of his medications in that drawer. I do not know what he’s taking.

“I can’t whack ya with this,” he points the gun barrel at his thing. “Need it to go down, up like this. I still want to jam it in you. No, gotta let it settle down, you know, get in the mood to do ya. Sorry, but things are things wit’ guys like us. Now you relax…..and cut that fuckin’ cryin’ out or I’ll shoot from over here, stop it!”

I try to stop, all I can do is keep swallowing, maybe that’ll do it. Oh, my God! His hard-on is going down, no, no! But wait, he’s looking up at the ceiling fan going round and round. His, his eyes are closing, yes, he’s nodding out. Thank you, Lord, thank you! His head has fallen to the side, but his hand still grips the gun. His chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Yes, sleep, please sleep.

My wrist, have to get one free, got to…..

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The water is warm, it feels good. The island is far behind me, but I’m tired from brutal sex and no sleep. I got that one wrist free. The saltwater is burning the cuts. I left him sleeping in the chair. I quickly left, naked. I have not the food and drink I prepared, nor the cash. I have not the sun to follow, only the stars. Some of the nightly heavens above I remember, a lot I do not. My plan was for the daylight hours. Now I am alone and swimming slowly, heading, I hope, in the right direction for St. Bart’s. But I’m tired, so tired. I better float. The lapping of the water against my ears is so lovely, so warm and lo…..

I felt myself choking, swallowing water. I’m kicking hard now, fighting to find the surface, fighting not to drown. By falling asleep, I began to sink, die…..Air, oh, God, to breath.

Now, as I swim, I do not know if the stars are my friends, my guide. For I have to keep looking up. There is great strain in the back of my skull. At this hour of watery night, I truly wish to stroke and fan my legs…..and not look up. To do so brings the shooting pain in the vertebrates of my neck. It is best to believe I’m going forward, straight to the land I seek. It is all I have, this little bit of belief and nothing else. So I slowly glide along, my thoughts in my past life, the wrong of it. If I live this night, these long hours of darkness and sea, I swear I will not be as I was, either good or worse. Maybe a nun, maybe an assassin, who knows. Just swim, damn it! Swim of die. Funny, I can’t believe I just giggled, swim or die, isn’t it march or die, those desert movies.

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“God, oh, God, can you hear me? I can’t, I can’t…..no, no, don’t give up. Mommy, I’m seeking again…..”

The water is about me, I am drifting down and down, the end…..”No…..!” I scream through bubbles and sea. “No…..!” I wail and struggle, kick up and up.

“Oh, God, yes! Air, oh, sweet air.” Now rest, go on your back again, but do not sleep.

As I float, drift, drift in a direction I know not where…..I hum, hum a sweet song…..”What’s that…..My God, a bird, a little black bird. He’s hovering right above me.

“Wait, wait.” As I turned over, the bird flew off, leaving me alone, so alone. I am choking again, because I am crying. Crying is not good, it only makes me eat more water, killing water.

“Bitch, swim!” and I yell at myself to force on. I must, I truly must. I am still young. I have not a child yet. I have no family. Who will miss me? No one. Yes, I must live, love and live on through my child, children I hope. I feel myself grow a little stronger and I stroke and stroke and stroke…..

There, I see, see something. It’s, it’s black, big and black. It has stars, it has its own stars. A ship, yes, a ship…..but it does not sail, move. No, it’s, it’s an island. Yes, light, I see lights.

“Swim, bitch, swim!”

The Finale

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973
1/17/15

The Lap of Waves PT2

January 15th, 2015 by George Martorano


It has been three weeks since I’ve opened the briefcase. The last week he hasn’t come near me. He sleeps in another room. I asked him if anything was the matter and got coolly stare at. Christ, these fuckin’ mob guys, so lovey-dovey, then bam, they’ll turn on you.

He’s been drinking more. He’s not a crazy drunk, no, he’ll just drink and sit there and stare off across the sea. Then, those eyes will catch me when I pass. I wonder why he’s waiting. He can kill me and have those guys from the bar bury me or let me float off across the sea.

I haven’t slept much or eaten for that matter. I know he’s noticed that. I wish I could sit down in front of him, face him and tell him I had a good mom before she died. I went to college, never used drugs, and can run. I ran many marathons before moving to Chicago and the worst life to pick. Worst, now that I’m alone on a small island with a killer. No, I could talk for days or until he kills me. The dye is cast. I’m the only person who will see him last. If he knew I had unlocked the case, the next island he’s heading for, he’d blow my brains out faster. I wonder why he waits here, who knows? Yet, I’ve searched this house high and low for those bullets. Just yesterday he said one sentence to me. He said, “been busy around here, hey.” Been busy around here, imagine that. He screwed me for weeks, laughed and kissed me; said hey baby all the time, now nothing, silence. Well, fuck him. He ain’t killin’ this broad. For the last three weeks as soon as i felt the change in him, the no-loving from him, I began, began as soon as he left. I began jogging and swimming, I don’t smoke and I eat right. The booze I never really indulge. So I’m fit, I’m in shape and I’m going to do it. Do something he’ll never expect. I’m gonna take that cash in the case. Some water and food in a small plastic bag and swim out of here. If I don’t make the seven or so miles to St. Bart, so be it. He’ll never think I’d do that. No, he’ll search the island or have them do it. All I gotta do is swim the way the sun sets every day, follow that route in my mind and the sun as long as I got it. I been watching it every day just where it fades over the horizon. Then, those stars at night, the same ones every night, just where the sun sinks. I’ve swam up and back across the cove for hours, those hours he isn’t here. So if he came back, he’d only see me swimming in back of the house, he’d expect nothing. But he never came and I worked out. Funny, how things can be done, have to be done, when you’re gonna die. All I can hope for tomorrow is that he leaves early, I’ll have to start early to stay with the sun. If he doesn’t leave early tomorrow, maybe the next but I don’t know if there will be a next. I look in the case today, the gun’s gone.

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“Please, stop it! You’re killing me!” But my pleas go unanswered. Have been for some hours now, long sweet then sour ones. I never made it…..It started the very next day after I saw the gun was gone. Blaze got up early. I heard him moving through the house at first, then quiet. Then he put music on, low, and the beat of it rocked the home as I still laid there naked in bed, his bed.

It was when the bedroom door flew open, the look of his eyes, the shiny barrel of the gun in his right hand. There was white on the tip of his nose, powder. Then I knew he was coked up, we never used it before. Yet, he stood there naked, the hard gun in one hand, and between his legs, hard also and powder there.

[to be continued]

By: George Martorano
copyright: 12973
1/10/15