Notes from the esophagus

J. Copeman Notes From The Esophagus The Big tubuncular circulation fan sits alone; spinning, churning, pushing gray dust motes and jalapeño flavored hairballs on down the same colored MDOC halls in summer. This dull passage known as "the rock" in correctional vocabularies is a throat of constriction full of long and dull days. Moving us with up and down reflexes; our up and down moods; climbing up and down steps-— are always the same. Before an up and down gulp releases, Ah, peristalsis! They've swallowed some more! Meanwhile, those tumble-weavers go bounding; rolling on by the same shower-shoe shufflers scritch-scratching their way across a galaxy of vanilla cheap tiles with their cinderblock uncertainties. They wonder, not wander, always: What's on t.v. tonight? What's on the tray three times a day? Those milk for juice trades make them wonder away. Wondering if time does indeed make for a tasty tenderizer? Or are they still raw, half-chewed chunks on the way wayyy down? For these saw-horse carpenters or card-counting cowboys are really just measuring their red-lined boundaries by wallowing on shelves; by swallowing themselves; becoming roast-beef-thin slices that are now lodged down deep and stuck with tears in their eyes. (the Only running allowed on the rock) Unable to breathe, clutching their throats through handcuffed-Heimlich's double fist pumps: so suddenly turn'd blue. As now more wonders, for their long long why's? -------- MDOC -- Michigan Department of Corrections