So early as it is now, I sit on the edge of my bunk. I have the thin prison mattress lapped over the edge of the slab of steel I sleep on, to make it more comfortable. It is mid-summer, so the bright sun has already taken over my cell. So strong, so hot through the barred window.

Time to prepare. I move over to sit on the low trash can. I have a thin piece of plastic in my hand. There to the left of my leg… they sit. All three lined up waiting… An onion, a pepper, and a potato. I am preparing them for a “jail-house stew”. Little stuff, much water.

As I hover over the three, I pick the pepper first. It’s a red pepper, not too big, not too small… I begin, I slice very small pieces. For this must feed two. Patiently, slowly, I work. The bright sun upon the red of the pepper heightens it’s colors. While bending over so close, one can see multi-colors so rich. One’s mind can begin to drift. Mine does. I see places and things, on the side of a vegetable. I see sunsets, and the redness of the hair of a beautiful woman.

Finished with the pepper, I move on to the potato. I pick it up, bring the brown up close to my nose. The sun upon the brown becomes earth. I drift… I see a brown path through the woods. I see me upon a spirited brown horse, and I ride. I slice into the potato, now there is an off white color to the inner potato. I see sand, a beach, me upon it jogging to its end, till I run out of sand.

Last, thee onion. Slowly, I strip the thin skin. It makes a sound. I drift… I think of silk garments, those of a perfumed woman…I begin to cut small pieces, I stop; I reach for my cheap-sunglasses, the fumes you see. I begin again. The strong sun hits the onion’s flesh. I drift… I see diamonds, I see blue diamonds, yellow diamonds, clear too … When I get to the core, it is much shinier. So white, like clouds, puffy white clouds.

Finished. I stand up straight, look at the piles, and smile.

It is hot. The cell is cooler, but not much. It is June in Central Florida, and, yes it is hot. I’ve been watching those caged here with me. Seasons change many. Seasons can make a man do both good and bad things. A change in climate does something to us all. Yet, here it is somewhat different. I watch them as they get loud, quiet, their minds doing this and some of that.

Sickness increases during the summer months. The line to medical has tripled in a week with the heat. 90 degrees all week.

Tonight, while walking, I passed an old black inmate I have known for years. Just an old prisoner, gray, bent, weakened, just sitting on a ledge, staring down at the ground. Since I have known him so long, there is an ease between us. As I stopped, he began to speak… “she was my grandmothers sister – can’t for the shit of me remember her name. All the sisters had L in their name – think it was Lois, or something like that. All the Reed woman were big, real big. Lois was young when they locked her up in Alabama. She’s pat now, but I gotta tell ya this Georgie – she stole something from a little store and they put her in some back0woods jail – she was only 12 – as I told ya before all the woman in my family were big, Lois was real big – this caused the guards to really mess with her – Grammy said she did not talk much, guess when she got with child she don’t tell no one – (he got a little choked up here, but I encouraged him to continue) Georgie, imagine how it musta been for a 12 year old if it’s like it is today here?? Here she was, ready to have a baby and because of her weight, no-one even blinked, no one noticed-they found her next to the toilet with the newborn in the bowl-they brought her in front of a judge and said she killed her baby – she went back to jail for a long time. (He stopped talking and just stared down at the ground – I tried to imagine, picture, all that he had conveyed to me – I pictured her sitting their trying to remain silent as she delivered her baby, not knowing, not knowing much of anything, hell, she was twelve!!!)

I think about all the stories of sadness these prisons hold… Remember not all Lions attack, some just run past you on their way to the field.

Yes it’s hot. Tomorrow I will drift around the compound again, looking for the one that is just pondering. Maybe I will hear another story. Usually if the inmate is old, the story is sad, and of others. If the inmate is young, the story usually is of him, but I will listen just as well.

As I look around here and see what I see, hear what I hear – I can only HOPE and PRAY that Senator Obama will make change – especially with the warehousing of NON-VIOLENT drug offenders.

I wonder what’s better, the cruel chain-gangs of yesteryear, where you were brutalized for X amount of years and released, or today’s jails and prisons where you are locked up FOREVER with no hope, no hope in sight. I wonder, yes I just wonder and write!