Art Room: Walked up

Now that the most vicious and outlandish bird hater has been transferred to another prison, I hope to convince my geese family pair to stay again on the small yard to nest.
Yet there are still a few bird haters around, so a native American brother and I are trying to get the geese to nest in their area, sacred grounds where the bird haters cannot go. I'm trying to figure out how to communicate to the geese that just 25 yards away from where they nested the first time, it's safe for them to build their home. Just this moment my geese family walked up. I must go.

Art room: Peanuts

Today it rained all day, a lovely sweet rain. My bird friends came out and shared food with me anyways. I found out all of my bird friends, crows, black birds, cowbirds, sparrows, pigeons and sea gulls all like peanuts and will venture out in the rain to partake in the treat. The peanut butter pouch was in a puddle of water yet the black birds fished chunks of it out over and over again. The geese were the only ones that did not care for the peanut butter. So I fed them the fruit and bread I had.
The weather folks had predicted a slight chance of rain after noon. Yet it had been raining all morning. Mother Earth doing her thing.
The blues band played in the art room today and practiced a batch of new songs. I think blues and jazz is perfect for a rainy day. After blues there was the R&B band, but they still have not gotten any songs down in years and seem directionless.
Tomorrow is my poetry class and we shall have a guest singer song writer come in. So we shall do a poetry/song sharing session. Perhaps, I'll even read a poem.


Prison food: Breatharian

Another new essay by Spoon, who is now writing on a regular basis for both SJRA's The Advocate and Teachers Artist Journal's ALT/space.

Yes, I know, who cares what food you feed the animals? To look at the prison menu and how the food is described, you think you are getting delicious and real food. Only what is served is nothing like the menu. It is like getting a big bag of chips with a pretty picture on the cover, but inside, only air. The so-called cheese they serve does not even melt. The chicken, beef, fish and turkey are all 99 percent soy mixed with...Read the whole essay at The Advocate monthly newsletter, SJRA1.com



Today I prepare and gather my wits, thoughts, and hopefully wisdom to write an article and to teach my poetry class. I have two deadlines. Despite how dense the tension is in the cell block, I must still prepare to go out and run my class. Despite almost getting into a fight with three other prisoners, only moments ago, I must create an article for the Teaching Artist Journal.  I have a deadline...Read the full essay at ALT/space


No Winds

Mighty strange how the dust
appeared in the desert
one day, no winds
under an orange sherbert sunset

The dust did not trickle down
from any mountains
or circle down
from the sky

It did not come
from the Dust bowl
or Grapes of Wrath
or Mother Earth

The dust appeared
from unseen places
it slows down your breath
and marchmallows your heart

There is no sense of time
no sense of speed
no sense of space
you think you are moving
when you are not
you think you are seeing
when you are not

You think you are stronger
than you are
that you could shimmy
through stone
and stroll through
cactus high flames

You think you could fly
The dust did not come
from angels
or alien ships

The dust was created
to kill
the poor and fill
the American prisons
with black and brown people

The dust was brought down
to the desert
from the cities
from white, black and brown gangs

Dust that had been
dropped into their hoods
out of no where
like manna

© Spoon Jackson 

(for Michka and Gil Scott Heron)