Jail Mail Poem

by James Guhn

Written on November 27, 2016

I scan inmate mail, reading men’s rhyme attempts,

And think to myself, “these poor girls: getting gypped.”

They drone on and still more about lovin’ and missin’,
With every cliché about huggin’ and kissin’.

From her neck to her nethers, saying things not polite,
These men of the jail think their ladies delight.

But all I can hope is these women turn ill,

As my stomach contents, my mouth they do fill.

Please stop writing nonsense ‘bout your lady’s looks.
When all you are asking is for money on your books.

And if she’s too foolish to see through your con,
Remember she’s sleeping with others while you’re gone.

Dead Bird = Gross Maggots Everywhere

First, this is a picture of the concrete area where my trash cans sit. Second, this is a close-up of just one of the score lines in the concrete area where my trash cans sit. Finally, this is a close-up of the maggots in the score line in the concrete area where my trash cans sit. This is the grossest thing I've ever dealt with; thousands of maggots drawn to a dead bird inside of a black garbage bag my "bug guy" found on the other side of my house. And do you want to know how I discovered the maggots? WITH MY BARE FEET, when I took out the garbage the other night.