If the soul is a passport, stamped to substantiate where a body’s been,

then I present to you; a man named Punky.

I met him in Red Onion State Prison.

One afternoon, they dragged him into solitary,

after exposing his dick to a female prison guard.

His cell was across from mine, and I saw him beat his head;

against the 24×10 slotted window.

But that window, was more than a window.

It was Punky’s personal note pad.

Often, he’d mix mustard and feces inside a cup with a little water,

till it met the consistency of ink.

Then he’d stick a finger in, and begin writing the most beautiful verses on that window.

If there was a mistake, he’d use his elbow as an eraser.

How could beauty emanate from such insanity?

All through the polyphonic noon he’d write and erase,

until a small masterpiece graced the tempered glass.

This is what’s missing from poetry today.

The unfiltered grit which circles humanity.

Poetry is best when it plops,

like a morning coffee shit you can no longer hold.

When it fizzes like hydrogen peroxide on a child’s scraped knee.

Literature has grown plump from the fluff,

and pap of political correctness.

Lose the safety net.

Learn to walk the wire

with nothing below,

but the singular dark.