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Ice Cold Tank

Updated on September 12, 2012

Ice Cold Tank

I sit on a concrete bench in an ice cold tank. The frigid temp subdues the stench, vile and rank. Used band-aids and filth swept casually in corners like the flagrant racism we pretend to hate yet perpetuate with separate standards of justice and a big house to accommodate children we don’t educate and men we don’t rehabilitate because incarceration is big business in the Lone Star state. Steel bars await those who realize that it’s not so great. Voiceless people hardly escape many bogus charges and plea bargains that replace the old contract between master and slave. I don’t give a damn about Get’mo Bay. Our promise land tainted with agents checking freedom papers and without warrant do create reasonable suspicion to fill the belly of the beast with it’s own children. Alive in the bowels of Leviathan the only solace is faith. Forget gay rights, men are sodomized in broad day light by judges and DA’s alike, that make a living putting people away regardless of circumstance. And they say “crime doesn’t pay”. There are millions of inmates, each body equates to dollar signs, nickels and dimes in a piggy bank. You can’t relate until you feel the chill in your bones. A urine filled commode inches away from the water you drink. There is no comfort on a concrete throne in an ice cold tank. PWIV

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