Chicago Books to Women in Prison

In 2007 we published Bound Struggles #6, our occasional anthology of writing by prisoners, including two poems submitted by Elizabeth Cardona titled “Junkie” and “Prisoner”. Recently we learned of a poem by Jeffrey Bardo, “I, Junkie”, that appeared in the 2005 Journal of the Prison Arts Program, published by Community Partners in Action, a Connecticut organization. (See below for the cover of this edition and the page on which his poem appeared.) In comparing “Junkie” and “Prisoner” with Mr. Bardo’s poem, it is clear that his work was plagiarized.

We are glad to give Mr. Bardo the credit he deserves and to publish his poem.

~ ~ ~

I, junkie

1. I, junkie
   Hopeless, Godless Hollow eyed and Gaunt
   Under cold violent moons, suns that always seemed too bright
   I was rabid.
   Foaming at the nose, chasing dragons, in search of the land of nod
   and the place where the angels sleep.
   Running, racing against myself
   and time and everything else.
   Telling, lying to myself that today I’m fixed but tomorrow I’ll quit —
   everyday until weeks turn to months to years
   yet tomorrow never comes…
2. I, suspect
   But the police do. And sirens and the sound of keys. And the
   click click click of cuffs. Tomorrow has arrived with pain
   and so much more pain.
   And God. And Hope. So bittersweet.
   The cell is as cold as I am scared.
   In hindsight, God has me. The junkie’s dripping nose and
   runs are with me and I want to die.
   Close my eyes and never open them again.
   Just black.
   The cops are proud “well guys we sure made the streets safe
   from another drugdealing shoplifter.”
   The nights at the P.D. are hungry and
   all echoes.
   There is despondency yet God has my hand
   as he guides me to my larvae
   to mutate in my cocoon.
3. I, prisoner
   My awakening to the prison.
   This place, a purgatory between never never land
   and the real world.
   Down in the gutter among
   the freaks, hustlers, faggot, dealers, murderers, thieves,
   Only those who were caught,
   I found myself. found truth, kindness, compassion.
   In with the Muslims, Nazis
   is where I began to listen to life’s poetry
   Calling, calling, calling.
   in the walls I was never alone
   yet lonely always.
   I became a man again. A son again. A father.
4. I, father, I son
   The cocoon is opening. I am struggling
   to free myself. To mesomorph. The shedding
   of skin is painful. These new scales feel
   so foreign. Yet that’s good.
   I see my family,
   over the border of an endless table.
   My father and son are there
   and I am Icarus and Daedalus at once as they are.
   Even though my wings melted so close
   to the sun, I will one day soon give my
   boy his own. Am right now readying them,
   In my father’s soul is the epiphany
   that the gift is not the waxed feathers
   but in letting the child fail in his flight.
   My mother cries and I hold her hand
   as I dream silently of the day
   I rejoin the butterflies.
   After, as they drive, I go back to the cocoon
   to shed more skin.
5. I, poet
   Fluttering, my wings feel incredible.
   Gorgeous they are. I say this not
   out of conceit, but wonder.
   I have exited the keep of the cocoon.
   From darkness to the brilliance of the garden.
   I am now alive.
   I junkie, I suspect, I prisoner,
   I father, I son, I man am now here.
   Everything before, the anguish, despair, the memories
   are all a requiem of my former life.
   From within the soot and ashes of
   this mass I am resurrected as a
   muse, jongleur, bard, Apollo.
   if ever I publish a word has no relevance.
   I now can see the songs in all things.
   The hymn of the sky
   The verses of light
   The ballads in the hands of all.
   I hear and sing the song of myself.
   I fell therefore… I love therefore…
   I hope therefore… I believe therefore…
   I am.