Ahhh, the cell so dresses my soul
Dark and plain colors from bunk to hole
Scream up to any Saint to see
Me just me, deep within sorrows all can be

Such was I caged and caught never to walk
bow fool, bow to fault
Yet, we’ll give your due….. stand
You have stood you sentenced man
Beneath blue sky, oh, we’ve heard little of a sigh
Seems even bloody, comes that charm, all wrapped in strong arms

The years race, the years slow
Whippings and whippings all in a row
Oh there George, thy captain, thy fate
Funny, how you’ve not mustered hate
Funny, how you’ve… not… mustered …hate

By: George Martorano
CR: 12973
Date: 5-8-12

It is early. The summer dawn has just passed its state of loneliness. And here I sit in the very corner of the dusty leather shop. The barred – window is to my left. I see the prison compound….. waiting like a quiet zoo. There is a piece of leather below me. My fingers ache from pushing and pulling the long needle and its thread. There also is a pad and pen below. The needle and thread rest above it now. I’ve replaced the needle and thread with the pen….. and I am relaying what words your very eyes are picking up….. There is another in the shop this early. Old Jess. He is standing next to a work bench. I see the steam rising from his battered, coffee mug. He is tooling, designing, tapping with a hammer upon black leather. ld Jess knows what only he can do, exist. Taps, sips, then a pausing stare at the part of a forever wall. Old Jess is a lifer. With every sip of hot coffee he takes. With every bang of the hammer he takes. His prison life has its very own state of loneliness….. Now a cloud has blocked the sun. I can see my face in the window. My eyes find my eyes and I let thoughts have their own stage….. “I feel as though in this corner of a room, smelling of saddle. I have made it to the golden midst on top of the mountain. For I truly know myself, taught myself in deep dark cages across America. Truly know be it better and great to just shed one meaningful tear for the forgotten concerns of the world. Truly know it is an enriched understanding than to belly laugh resting atop a pile of gold….. Yes, I state sitting here with only the tap, tap, tap of the hammer. The movement of Old Jess’s his adams apple when he swallows as he trys….. So, I turn once more at myself and the single tear coming down for my lips….. For I care….. even chained to this state of loneliness.”

By: George Martorano
CR: 12793
Date: 5-5-12

Dear to all,
For I must say through decades of being kept as an animal in a cage. The very and only worldly thing, state of being that truly matters is, love. Please be so kind as to let me explain what I love now….. I love enchanting eyes of a poor mother when she sees her offspring, there, before her, at a sitting of a meager meal. Food of little, yet, devotion so full. I love friendship given within man’s creating storms. To not knowing the recipient, yet, giving one’s all in the face of danger. To do so, must start from a heart that loves. I love those that can look into another’s eyes so attached to the caring stare, then never comes a lie. I love those who march for right when they know thier backs are pushed by wrong. I love an official room where thee, those; deciding, do it in the just and fairness of mankind. I love the grumpy old with their wisdom, their non-surprise at every road’s bend. I so love the children, Dear God bring any and all thier suffering upon me. I love all hearts that know and knew much, and a bit of love. I love laughter for it reaches every part of the warm soul, even out to the high stars. I love a kiss, lips are simply bliss. I love all the small and tall wonders upon earth. I love beings of many legs, four, two, even those with pretty wings. For all those that continue the hurt , I would gladly face….. I simply love and not hate, even when I am beaten before this never ending sealed gate.

By: George Martorano
CR: 12793
Date: 4-29-12

A.) Gray: Walls, halls, and cells. Even the aging hair of the many numbered men. Skin turning gray as if the men lying in a unkept field of hay. Wake to a day complete of sun. Yet, the smell of gray runs. Running from mind down to heart. Making one’s soul feel the holy word, “apart”.
B.) Red; I know the color like no other. o glance and stare at the color year chained to year. Red blood on walls, floors, doors, stairs and ceilings. Red blood on grass, brown dirt, and white sand. Red blood on bunks, sinks, toilets, lockers, windows, trash cans, T.V.’s and radios. Red blood on shirts, pants, underwear, suits, and uniforms. Red blood coming out of eyes, ears, heads, arms, legs, torsos, crotches, butts, fingers and toes, etc., etc.,!!!

C.) Then color of tears. Drops upon every type of man’s flesh, face. Tears that have a certain shade all to themselves. Tears of rage have a rust color flow. This I truly know. Tears of sorrow can give off a blue tint. Tears of sorrow go ever so slow down the human cheek. Tears before death come with a yellowish glow. One after one, four at best then the convict is layed to rest. Tears of laughter, far and few in between; come just right, pushing and pushing away jail’s every day fright.

Yes, prison’s primary colors are there and there. On this earth ,so sad my friend ,they will always never end.

By: George Martorano
CR:12973
Date:4-21-12

The halls are endless. Even if we move fast. Vast, so vast, hearts and strength. Take heed. Venture forth and last.
Men are like wildebeest , all numbered just to flow here within hell’s row.
Moving along, water holes exist. Crocs, small and large, in the showers they wait. Jaws that grab, teeth to tear. They stab, and stab. Oh men of wildebeest beware.
Straight before the halls no more. Comes steps and stairs to climb as if mountains of the unkind. Man pushing, shoving man. Clawing arms like vines. Blood, runs like wine.
Pipe to head. Shouts, then screams, falling, falling. Only to smash, never to go on again.
Of caves and cells. Waits the hush of depravity. All dark, no light to see, the wildebeest man steps in….. Blanket to head , quick, comes pound after pound. Oh Lord, leaving skull all to thread.
Beast upon beast, the rutting now….. After spent….. Only left a dying howl.
Where does it end? The wildebeest run. Man with man, headed as one. Year to year these plains to cross.
Prison from prison the numbered men come, go, never to end, never a friend.
Yes, wildebeest am I. By the grace of me I manage the yearly run. Moving and moving, deep, the true of me.
Struggling to fight. Breathing to live. Never to exhaust. Never to kneel.
Go I must. Go and go is all I know.

By: George Martorano
CR: 12793
Date: 4-15-12