Free George Martorano » George Martorano

America The Gray

George Martorano — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 23:46:46 +0000

His eyes opened. His nose smells. His right hand reaches out and runs along the cell wall. He feels pain in his lower back. He breathes in the years and exhales within his mind. He begins to pull, push, struggle, himself upright on the prison bunk. He lifts one leg, then the other and his feet succumb slowly to the cold concrete floor. In his torso’s lean. In his stooped shoulders. He stares at all below. He sees the draft blowing across the bottom of the steel door; pushing, lent, bits and pieces of this and that. With a moan he stands and shuffles the long, the short, distance to the steel sink. His hurt hands grab hold the sides and ever so slowly he looks, believes, into the tin mirror. Oh, what he sees. The age, as if the bent tree outside the cell’s window….. In time with worn old but clean prison clothes, he begins the journey. First he eases his head out the cell door. He looks left. He looks right. He begins to move. There’s no one about….. Finally, he enters the traffic of the living dead. The long red broadway of the prison hall. He does not look up at the faces. His mind ignores the sound. The smell of prison food his lungs reject….. Yet, he shuffles on. He moves with the set purpose within. He moves with the final judgment he has decided within. In time he’s there. It is where the orders come from. It is where they told him he must leave. He must go free after 52 years caged. He stands, backs up against the stone of the wall. Now he adjusts his stare, a moving stare, at what is about him. The waste, the human waste, as he. Then, the plan begins to develop. It is a simple plan as he himself. A simple prisoner and no more. He exhales. He sees a cut in the human traffic and he shuffles across to the spot he so chose. Before the set of steel bars he locks onto with his old hands. Then, with all the aches within, he begins to slide to that red stone floor….. He shimmies his arms through the steel and holds on for dear life….. “Come on Mr. Brown. You’ve got to go today,” delivers a guard from the group of guards around the desperate soul….. They see his head shake, the gray of it. They hear the mumble and whimper coming from he who sits….. “Clear the hall. Clear the hall!” And the prisoners are chased away. Now, just the man and his wants and uniforms with their orders….. “I, I, there ain’t noth’in out there for me.” And finally a clear sentence comes from what the courts have delivered from decades within the prison castle….. “Just leave him be. Come on all of you go on about your jobs.” Came the warden leaving the man when to he decides to unlock his soul from the forever grip.
********************************************************************
What I have just revealed to you I have witnessed. For I was one of those prisoners in that hall traffic that day. What I have relayed to you is occurring in prisons all across America. We are the only country that keeps non-violent prisoners forevermore in cages. Sad to say I George Martorano might some day find his set of bars and lock onto with all of my soul’s wants.

Bless Bond

George Martorano — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 23:40:21 +0000

If some vision could, would paint the likes of what travel along….. An old man set upon a donkey. An old dog following. Where they moved was the border country, now, at the closing end of sunset. The land scape of quiet cactus. The waiting shades of dessert ground. From minutes to coming minutes. The earth where they passed gave out colors of rust never known….. Finally, the old man stopped, eased his head up, looked around some. The eyes that had a squint to them all day now opened up more….. The sign of night. He then heard the sound of lapping. The old dog lying by a hidden pool. In slow moments mixed with time. A fire sounded low. The bent man stared into the yellow light. The donkey and dog , there, always within the fire’s glow. The same dented coffee pot with the scratched up letters, “BB”, on one side. Tilted opposite from where the old out-law, Bless Bond, sits….. The donkey’s head low, ears forward, waiting. The dog lying in a low cut, ears up, even the one half torn off, waiting….. Whiskey, a few swallows, then the low graveled voice began….. “God, I can still see her face, but clear, that was forty odd years ago. Me, up on a tall, black horse, fancy things upon me self, gun oiled, I was a ready back then.” And his eyes went to the gun in the chewed up holster at his waist. He shook his head, sad, and talked on, “The look that gal’s face when I rode on. She’s stand’in there by the porch post. Dark as he was them damn heavens put that star light right there on her face. Thee eyes, thee eyes, them the things that got me. As if all the hurt in the world was branded in-em. Her one hand hold’in that post, tight. Her look’in right up at me. God, it took all the strength in me to spur that horse on. I rode off. Me self a lookin at her, she me. That damn star light wouldn’t leave her face. Them hurt’in eyes a follow’in me, Oh Lord just a followi’n me…..” And as always he began to weep….. The donkey took a step closer. The dog shimmied up nearer….. Then, came a howl of a cayote a long ways off…..upon and within the dessert night.

By: George Martorano

Opus Of Prisoner 12973-004

George Martorano — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 01:56:20 +0000

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

The Dream Story

George Martorano — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 20:31:43 +0000

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

Between The Prison Cries

George Martorano — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 21:28:38 +0000

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

Chicago Connie

George Martorano — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 01:11:25 +0000

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 Mr. President

George Martorano — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 13:19:02 +0000

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

The Tab

George Martorano — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 22:52:22 +0000

As I look into the tiny, tiny, pond. There isn’t much of the way of things in, down and around the liquid. Yet, there is in the center, bobbing with the wind from my own lips, a small, golden island….. As I stare at the island, floating a little to the left, a little to the right, I stare and I think of many things. I think of freedom, of course. I think of what it’s like to love in a natural sense. Or, I just think to stay alive. Yes, this tiny, tiny pond that I hover above is so sparing. For all I have is the tiny, golden island from the tab….. You see, I saw the tab from afar. It caught my eye. So I approached it. I looked down at it. It was of two colors of yellow. The top, a bright yellow. The bottom, darker from being smashed. Yes, the tab, you see, was a lonely and alone just a tab of butter. Of which I took and placed it in the bowl of my watery soup. And there you have my day of a life of a prisoner, of a fool. Yet, I’ve learned to appreciate the glistening, small, golden island that floats below me. After all, shouldn’t I exist. Shouldn’t I be there for me? Oh my God! Possibly thee….

By: George Martorano
Cr: 12973
Date:11-19-11

THE LAW

George Martorano — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 14:56:17 +0000

Well, good evening and I have just come in from the night yard watching an orange moon so slowly rise from behind tree tops then longing more from up above….. But, as I looked up I had legal issues in my mind….. First, the 7th Circuit has come down with a recent case on general sentencing in our favor. The case, US vs Molinaro- U.S. App. Lexis 14060, of which we can use in the reply brief.
Also, I have reviewed Statute 21 U.S.C., Section 848 under U.S. vs Jefferson, 714 F.2d 689, 7th Circuit, Jan. 19, 1983. In this case it shows the two statutes under 848. One, that reflects me under the 1970 drug act. And of course, my indictment in 1983 states that “…Any person who engages in a continuing criminal enterprise shall be sentenced to a term of imprisonment which may not be less than 10 years and which may be up to (life imprisonment)…” As you see it does not say ,”..without parole”….. Now, it also shows in the Jefferson case, the 1987, November revised statute where it states, “life without parole.” The Jefferson case clearly shows two exhibits. Of the first exhibit under the law under a life term, I was eligible to see the parole board and the max is two thirds of 45 years, which is 30 years….. The latter shows life without, but being indicted in 83 clearly I am under the 1970 drug act and the first statute written for 848, not the 2nd.
As I have layed out please be so kind and to see what I have seen.

I subscribe myself,

George Martorano
Date:11-12-11

Yourselves To Know

George Martorano — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 14:53:18 +0000

You think to know me, is to see me before your eyes. You think to hear me, is to listen of the words played from my lips. You think to understand me, is to read what I have composed….. Thus, yourselves to know. Know it is truly a cost to bear, to knoweth not fear. For, then one has to struggle to humble before God….. Such, it is yourselves to know that they. Oh yes they, truly have mastered the use of the cell’s four walls. It is yourselves to know that forever so long I have smiled as they slowly seal the steel door before me. Yourselves to know what it’s like to sleep soundly when your celly has went to Heaven or below during the count of the gray hours. Am I sinister; callous; beyond mankind….. or am I…..? But let me, George, continue on a bit. Yourselves to know what it’s like after hanging up the phone to the very worst of human loss. Yourselves to know how I can then approach the slab of a steel bunk, ease myself down and daydream of lovely things….. My God, my God! Yourselves to know what it’s like to swallow all of the emotions instilled in the breathing of humanity’s given nature. Thus, yourselves to know. And be cursed to learn how to close the faucet that flows right from your soul….. Tis, yourselves to know if you can wish; even fathom what I do….. then you will know the very meaning, beginning….. of leader.

By: George Martorano
CR: 12973
Date: 11-11-11