The guards have finally brought me to this last place. I stand at the very end of a plank. The plank extends over a deep chisom. Below is hell. I see them down there. Their leather’d arms, extended high, their hands of clawed nails, waiting for me. Yet, I breath. I close my eyes. I begin to imagine a tree branch, beads along itself of rain drops giving off rain bow colors. I feel my toes over the very end of the splintered plank….. One at times has to summon up deep within and command one so just to keep going. Just to make these moments now before me. I open my eyes. I look to the right. I see the good bye salute of aligned cell doors that wish me no more….. Only the words come, from below , ‘ come our living son, fall to us . Yet, I still smell the wonder of the prison behind me. Yet, I listen and through the cries from below of the insane….. I see, Lord God, my soul even running across some field, abandoning me. I see dark birds upon a worn, wooden cross watching my soul flee…… I hear the squawk of the birds ; voices as if a snicker….. I cut from those thoughts, even any thought of a glimpse of freedom. I even manage to look up at some ugly sky.,,, my eyes following the ever so movement of the purple mass….. giving off the most unholy shade. I even feel a hot wind trying to push me off the plank’s edge. I stand fast. For truly I wish not to tumble below. I bring my eyes level with is there before me. The dark fire barren land on the other side of the chisom. Staring hard, some orange light brings lettering…. appears….. The word “death” calls in a whisper ….. My God, my God, it has come to this. I release a long, deep sigh , a sigh woman give but once in a crushed life…. So, it is time to leap. It is time to forever die….. But wait, there, I see an Angel sitting upon a marble chair. She looks bored. She does not look my way. I swallow and I pray up to her….. the very last prayer of a man standing before all the very worst can be…. and…. without my soul.

By: George Martorano
CR:12973
Date:1-8-12

It is late. It is the night of the new year. My head still lays upon a hard prison pillow. Whence my eyes peel open, it shall be the 29th year. I feel as though I reside in the country side of the condemned….. Yet this is not my thoughts to write….. Dear Queen Mary of Scots: In my dream I am writing to thee. For I know that you had spent most of your entire life in prison. But yet you found romance, a romantic, as I. For, we are simply lovers of love. We are something that they wish to lock away. They hate the hearts that beat within us. For they cannot see the dying flower in our eyes. Eyes that full, that forever longing grail with tears. I so know those long years that they had you locked away, oh Queen Mary of Scots; hope was thy only food. The large room and its thick wooden door that kept you was as a town, ever dark. Like I, your love, lost as the far off fading laughter of children. And I know there were times you thought someone from the heavens poisoned your soul. Yes, poisoned by no love and only that mad man in your head, telling what he knows of the long prison night. Oh Mary, Queen of Scots, I know how you wished free wind on your very sweet breath that leaves your two lips that sigh….. There, as I, always a long window to pull, draw, those eyes to the moon. Giving a spreading of such hurt across the eyes upon your heart. Yes, how I know what they put you through. How you would give all of the blood flowing within for just a kiss from him. It is still the same Mary. It shall never change. They will always push, shove, us so merrily within the four walls. Never to release us to love, live, forever more….. So I shall close my letter to thee on this night of year’s changing. Thee are to know that I promise I will find you some day and move ever so close to your scented neck and whisper a poem ….. just for you.

Your’s Whence We Meet,
George

Copyright: 12973
Date: 1-1-12

I came into the cage at the age of 32, today, December 21, 2011, I am 61 years of age. I have been living the very human dam of an unnatural life. Blocked off from the very meaning of real love. Between, and along the gray decades of high, hard, walls….. the cries of men are many, sounds of the very worst, few sounds of the very best….. Last night I made myself wait til the barren hour of midnight. My strange eyes locked upon the clocks dials. Whence, the unfeeling arms both reached directly up….. Suddenly, I felt the air ease from my lungs. And no, not even any kind of whisper from an Angel came, came low and calling down the cell block tier….. And all I could do was stand in the center of the cell’s uncaring four walls as if a mad man. Just standing. Just stretching out weary arms as far as I could….. And opened up my hurting hands….. And, by God, I tried, believed, I could hold onto the night….. Hold it back, never bringing the dawn. For dawn only means….. each new day I die a bit more…..

I Subscribe myself: George Martorano
Date: 12-21-11

It was cold as hell in her closet sized bedroom in the large closet sized row home. A home up the narrow rickety street where once the winter wind met the beginning of that street it became a howl, a growl, and whipped through it. The pint sized dwelling had an address, 99 1/2 painted on the chipped front door. Yet this early morn, little thin Connie Chicago was oh so happy. So much so that it was difficult for her to sleep in the cold room even though it was warm under the pile of old coats and a large piece of horse blanket. Yes, this early morn, the cute child with short hair cut from just a bowl upon her head was delighted. For today, in her joy, she would become 10. And since she learned how to read, a very important day in a the life of a poor, undernourished child. A child who didn’t mind the stares, as she walked through the cold wind to the run-down school on the corner of Melhigh Street, because once in the old class room sitting behind the old desk the children were dressed as she. Dressed in clean rags….. So, as the windy city’s dawn began to creep through the boards of the no-glass, no pane, bed room window. A smile that would have opened the gates to heaven grew and stayed across the thin, cute, face. Yet, her eyes repeated themselves upon the clock, being broken and tilting to one side. It was no use concerning herself about breakfast, for she never had one. Only the free lunch at school and then what she would bring home from Mr. Gasonia’s grocery store where she worked from after school until way past winter dark, bringing home the almost spoiled vegetables and fruit ready to be tossed in the large barrel in the alley; along with the bread with just tiny spots of mold….. Then the small clock did its job….. Then she was up racing out the door, putting on the patched up coat as she ran….. She ran with such a sparkle in her eyes. Connie Chicago ran with an expression on her face of love for all the world to see. She got to the city library as the large key was turned in the large lock of the heavy bronze door. She slowed a bit. She tried to slow a bit, running to the counter….. “Hello, Ms. Brownsly, Ms. Brownsly, I am 10 years old today. Now I’m allowed to check out books.” And Connie Chicago stared up at the librarian who she knew. For she was only allowed to read in the library because she wasn’t of age to check the novels out, but never had the time to be there due to the struggles in her young life. Yet now, a whole new world would be opened to her and the young mind that wished to drink its fill of all the places, of all the dreams she wished upon….. And Connie Chicago, her thin arms, her calloused hands, held the books of many a girl child’s wonders and oh how she blessed God for being 10 today.

By: George Martorano
CR.12793
Date:12-12-11

Dear President Obama,

I am writing to you through my uncle, George, because I am very little and do not talk so good. But my uncle understands me if I hop up and down and keep at it. My days are long and of course my nights are short ’cause I go to bed early. And this letter is about my long days. ‘Cause every time my mom makes me a play-date the play-date does not want to play-date again. And being a little guy who doesn’t understand big things, grown up things, I need my play-date. ‘Cause I only started having a play-date not too long ago in my then country where I lived, Peru. Now I am in your country, so I writing you ’cause it’s your country. Now, you might hear some things about my play-dates. Like the ear on Tom, oh Tommy getting pulled and twisted and getting all red. But how was I gonna do the cow boy stuff if I didn’t twist his ear like a cow? Now, he don’t wanna play-date no more. Oh, I don’t know what happened with Morris and all of a sudden his little toofff was in my hand. Oh! and that girl Betty-jean who I didn’t know was a girl. And I’m tellin the troofff when I say….. she bit me first! And ’cause I’m only in your country not too long. I only had one play-date with the boy up the street….. and, I can’t remember his name ’cause the play-date was so short. All I did was do like they do on T.V., what they call foottt ball when I ran through the front door and tackled what’s-his-name. ‘Cause I’m jumping up and down and talking alot to my uncle George ’cause I want you to make a law where kids, not girls, have to play-date with me. When I used to live in Peru I even wrestled all the kids in school who said bad things about America. So, if I did that for your America, you can do a play-date law for me. Oh! my name is Paxton Club and I’m little about high as….. No, no, almost as high as my grandma’s kitchen table where we live in your country….. Oh, I gotta go. Talk to you later.

I Subscribe myself: Paxton Club with my uncle George typing. Thank you Mr. President Obama