1990s Inner City America
By Daniel Sigler
He was enamored by the nocturnal nightlife which existed after hours,
hundreds of hooligans holding handguns with heavy metal hammers,
Heartless, hollow-tip ammunition for teenage Henchmen,
Gangsta group gatherings, engendering evilistic intentions,
Honing in on Haters, like heat seekers, hardwired for the hazardous,
Little hoodlums who inherited homages to handheld handkerchiefs,
From the cradle to casket, enrolled in the inner city school of Assassins,
Counterculture of violent vultures, embracing murder and madness,
Amateur armed assailants, drinking, joyriding with no guidance,
Druggin, Thuggin, Cuzzin and Bloodin, obliging as violence avenges violence,
Head Hunters in their heyday, juveniles doing drive bys and drilling,
Audaciously deadly adolescents engaged in demonic missions,
Demolishing enemies, with antipathy, and ambushing opposition,
Apprentices at adversary annihilation, in contrast to critical condition,
Faithfully following friends, facilitating fatalities, full-fledged forsakened,
With the foredoomed fate of the futureless, ever since their fetuses first awakened.
Within the Welded Walls
By Daniel Sigler
Within the welded walls of the Warden’s warehouse residence,
Warriors who were Revolutionaries have regressed into remnants,
water ripples which were once a wave are now washed up relics,
Residing under watch-tower windows where Rifles reflected,
As a wicked reminder of how rules WILL be respected,
No resurrection of the rebellion in a regime of repression,
Like Russian roulette for recreation, without resuscitation,
Warmongers amongst us relaxed, and would rather reconciliation,
Even with rogue rookies who roughed us up and restrained us!,
Yet, reprobates remain waiting on the weak like recoiled rattlesnakes,
watching with weapons in waistbands, while wearing unwashable war-paint,
And, the wisest of the Ruffians, re rewarded with revered reputations,
Like the Wolverine in the wilderness, righteous rulers of a wasteland.
Societal Stowaways
By Daniel Sigler
CDCR uses cruel contrivances to keep us in caged in cold corridors,
counting calendars til our cadavers are carried out by Coroners,
Kangaroo-Court causations keeps us contained in Kong-type captivity,
condemned to claustrophobic cubicles, constraining us condescendingly,
Cops kidnap us out our communities on Incursionary conquests,
causing countless Accused Criminals to coercively confess,
Convoys convey us on an Incarceration carousel like a kidnapping contest,
call us incurable incorrigibles and catch us like catfish,
increasing convictions and calumniating us as culpable culprits,
consequences of complexion, contumaciously callow kids with cornrows,
Accumulating us for countryfied chain-gangs like a conjuration of Jim Crow!
As Congressional candidates campaign on cutting crime as a challenge,
creating a counterculture of cutthroat cannibals and Komodo Dragons,
clever crocodiles, constricting cobras and condors,
Combative Comanches, killer bees and Carnivores,
chased by Constables since childhood, crisscrossing the chess board,
The creased khakis were crisp, and house shoes was corduroy,
Chilling as Chucky, criminally-active kids, consolidated in concord,
Children of the Corn, cultivated cliques into close-knit clans,
and out came cold-eyed Convicts, carrying curved cleavers like Candyman,
Compunctionless as they compact us in concrete cocoons of compression,
In Concentration Camps of carnage, we became our captor’s crude collection,
Til caskets, we clash with America’s corporation of Corrections.
YA 2nd Stint 1997
By Daniel Sigler
He restarted his safari, through the system of secluded settlements,
Stray strong while striding into a sandstorm, seriously strenuous,
Then swimming through a septic cesspool, and health hazardous holding tank,
peeling paint and a stainless steel sink that stinks!,
The chilly shower at the end of a cold corridor,
then a short stroll before they close the door,
It’s not an easy Sunday morning like the Commodores,
like a boy being locked inside a Jack-in-the-Box,
With an itchy wool blanket and a fish kit in a zip lock,
His sole solace was in studying his dictionary in the dark,
using the moonlight which casted an illuminating glow in through the bars,
like a Navy Seal with night-vision goggles,
he navigated through a nefarious necropolis,
A nation where negative nonsense is normalized,
then waiting with others, playing the guessing game,
Of “who’ll be next up to board the prison plane?”
Sitting around in the secret storage sheds of society,
Misguided misfits, ever since the days of Hide & Seek,
On an everlasting Merry-go-round, which won’t stop spinning,
So many traumatized children suffering from circumstantial conditions,
Striving to survive, similar to the ruby red rose,
buried barely beneath the road,
while waiting for the slightest split in the surface to expose,
Then the day arrived, Rise & Shine,
At the airport surrounded by corny cops carrying carbines!,
Imitating the movie, Con Air with Nicholas Cage,
Tiny teenage thugs, posing for pictures by prop planes,
Just like celebrities, with jewelry that’s makeshift,
Like shiny silver barbwire bracelets,
which extended from their wrists to their ankles,
Soon they were in the sky, staring at the city below,
before sightseeing miniaturized mountains and rugged rural roads,
Eventually landing on the tarmac of the tiny town time left behind,
Like here we go again, Let’s do this One more time….
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