My face isn't carved in a mountain. I've never been struck by lightning.
I've never saved a crying baby from a burning house fire nor have I over come my misfortunes in life to acquire a name for myself. I consider myself a writer although all I've written is only pieces of torn limbs of my distraught existence. (a bunch of poems)
Have you ever been scared for your life?
I don't mean with a terminal illness.
You keep up your fight
Stay vigilant
Don't be afraid to let me know how you feel
And I don't mean startled
While white knuckle driving on a Michigan icy winter road
That only lasts a fraction of a second
I mean sitting in a stall
Pants down around your ankles
Hearing whispers on the other side
Wondering why are they whispering?
Listening closely
Did I remember to wipe?
Beyond the whispers is
the rest of the prisoners
watching the news
waiting to be called for chow
One voice sticks out more than the other's
As the news rolls the story of a black inmate killed by white corrections officers
Across the street
"It's about to get real up in this mother fucker'. Russell was chanting
"It's about to get real up in this mother fucker"
I came out of the stall at arms No one seems to notice Me
being freaked out
Except Earl Pullin
He said"what's up white boy"?
Don't let Russell freak you out
They get away with this all the time
Killing a man in jail
Striping him from freedom
killing him.
And getting away with it.
Happens all the time
Just write about it
It's about to get real
Up in this mother fucker
It happens all the time
At the beginning of the covid Epidemic I joined an online writing group to help pass the time. The site administrator would throw a title out and participants had until 5 p.m. to write a short story, Paragraph or poem using the words. Thus, my inspiration for "sorry I'm late".
Sorry I'm late
It wasn't that long ago
I don't know why
I didn't start it right away
Are homes were lit by
Oil lamps
I've been working on it
In my head for years
But on paper
It just doesn't look the same
I go to the ice box
To get something to eat
Why's it up to me?
To fix everything
The world's it's own place
Not so discrete
But people continue
To look the other way
Including myself
Let someone else
Be on the front page
The Lord works
In mysterious ways
I'm here
"Sorry I'm late"
Bob Jenkens
My dad didn't go to culinary school. He used to make a mean hot dog omelet which I also felt compelled to write about. I submitted it to the 2020 pandemic lock down cookbook. I'm grateful my submission was accepted. They even gave me two pages for the recipe, a picture and the poem I wrote. larry-clarks-famous-hot-dog-omelet.html
I'm gonna start over
Like I was just born This morning
A brand new day
The sun is shining
Birds are singing
A 65 degree spring day
A perfect day to learn to walk again
Freed from this cocoon
I've been rapped up in
I'm gonna start over
When blessings descend
And flourish in warm sun rays
Take a deep breath
Brush off my shoulders
Reach for the sky
And rise to my feet
Look straight ahead
It's a brand new day
Bob Jenkens
I wrote this in 2005 I was sitting in my truck at St Mary's at the lakes. I was going through R.I.C.A with the Catholic church.
Several times I've read the piece and wondered what about March and April?
May 1st is going to be starting over at a lot of things.
I'm being held hostage
Against my own fear
Of last hopes
Please leave
The girl of my dreams
In a small piece of clothing
On top of a bear skin rug
In front of a crackling fire
In a cabin somewhere
Far from civilization
P.s not a real bear skin rug
That's cruel.
Bob Jenkens
I've always told myself if the end of the world seemed eminent. I would just go hide out with a woman and die with a smile on my face. Back to work tomorrow.
I walked into the bathroom and immediately noticed feet sticking out from under the stall.
I knew who it was by his shoes. Should I hurry and leave? Why is he on the floor? I don't see any blood. I looked around and this might be as empty as I've seen the unit. This was my third day here.
I used my thumb nail to turn the thing on the stall door.
I opened the door cautiously. what the hell he has a garbage bag over his head. I rip the bag off his head in reaction time. Blue eyes are starring at the ceiling not even blinking. He's got his mouth and nose packed full of toilet paper. Wow he must have came in here and tried to kill his self when they called "chow".
I didn't want to touch him. In quarantine they tested us inspected us and told us story's.... Aids, hepatitis.
It doesn't look like he's breathing. Am I supposed to just ignore this? Like I said it's my third day here. On my first day I seen a stabbing while waiting for"chow".
I acted as non shalont as I could so other inmates wouldn't notice. The c/o on duty had the same last name as me.
"Did you do your rounds yet?" I asked him.
"I was gonna let next shift get them" c/o Clark replied.
"Well their gonna freak out when they find a dead guy in the bathroom" I said to him. He laughed at first then his face changed to panic when he realized I was serious.........
That was 33 years ago I remember more vividly then I'd like. It gives me a theory on Epstein. Epstein didn't kill his self you can't even kill yourself in prison. I watched them put that inmate on a gurdy and then shackle him up unconscious. I'm talking handcuffs, belly chains and ankle bracelets before they took him from the prison. They even drove the ambulance into the Sally port and searched under it with miorrs to make sure there wasn't an inmate trying to escape by sticking his self to a hot muffler.
I don't remember his name... His girlfriend friend had left him so he decided life wasn't worth living. The prison saved his bed for him. They took his sheets off his plastic roll up mattress put his chair on his bed.
Nursed him back to health and brought him back.
Of course now he was so medicated you couldn't talk to him. He couldn't defend his self he's an easy target for all the prison villains. Maybe I shouldn't have opened that stall that day.
I'm here to say Epstein did not kill his self!
I wrote this poem"hidden from reality" while I was incarcerated. I paced the yard on a foggy morning waiting for the PA to blow out my prison number because I had a visit.
I always had something to write on and while I walked the yard I wrote it. I took it out on my visit and I showed it to my mom. "I wrote a poem about you" she read it and asked me "how's this about me"? "Your the fog mom".
I don't know how I could have done this without you I love you.
I wish I could run away and hide
And only show myself when I write
Under a rock
Or from the mountain side
I wish I may
I wish I might
have the wish
I dream tonight
