Fruit of the Loom
By James Terry II
Wait one cotton – picking, Eli Whitney, Cotton Gin – inventing moment! I know this incarcerated freeman, James Terry, a proud Frenchman and descendent of slaves, isn’t about to make a mockery of the very Egyptian 1,000 – thread count cotton linen drawers people wear on their behinds! This tale is not just about fabric but about history, resilience, and the curious characters that weave our past and present together.
All of the ripe and spoiled rotten ” Food of the Gods ” fruit had assembled for a grand meeting of sorts. They held an impressive 86% approval rating on Rotten Green Tomatoes! The California Raisins were up in gloved – armed revolt, tired of being left in the sun too long, while Fig Newtons’ tears baked into raw cookie dough, their sweetness mixed with a hint of salty rebellion.
Jovial lyrics of merriment, resonated from Bunches of Grapes, straight off the vine, who, having made the cut, survived Bacchus’s sensual stomping into port. These grapes, once destined for wine, celebrated their liberation from the vat, singing songs of freedom and fermented dreams.
Golden Delight Apples found solace in receiving a 24 – month sobriety chip after a tumultuous two – year stint, marked by multiple relapses, in a recovery program at The Betty Ford Clinic. They felt indebted to the compassionate intake staff, whose efforts assuaged their fears of potential fermentation and further humiliation of being garnished on an Apple Toni.
Oh, this motley crew was all tighty -whities briefs, stretched and waistbands aroused with excitement to join this satirical underwear ensemble, a mockery of wife – beaters (Stop The Violence) t – shirts. They were crossing their hearts, brassieres, to become a crew neck ensemble, each fruit adding a thread of fabric of unity.
Citrus fruit, Florida Oranges, after irrationally becoming fixated with Victoria’s Secret and Fredrick’s of Hollywood, fell victim to a loom sex worker’s exploitation ring. They began prostituting for Tang! Tang, the astronaut’s breakfast, had them rolling in the streets at night, selling pulp out of all four quarter slices of their peels at $5 a squeeze!! The price of juice was at an all – time low, pushing them to desperate measures.
Tang, the cunning instigator, resorted to pimping in Lake Grove, FL., due to the market’s collapse in value per bushel for Florida’s Oranges. The non – consumable, inedible Cotton thought reconciliation might occur based in his story, believing that history would vindicate him.
Benefiting western colonizers and slave masters on the backs that burdened African slaves, Cotton lamented on the history of Race, Violence, and Law, concluding America’s founding sin as inhumane and calling for reparations due descendants of slavery.
“Wait one cotton picking minute! You’re not going to be the hero of this story!”, bruised with raw emotions, cheeks plumped the hue of blood, The Cherry Red Tomato chimed in, its vibrant color reflecting the passion of its words. “Catch up with racial equality, you Chris Harris, ex Bachelor host, wrong side of history, antebellum South supporting, and cursed for eternity, weaved behind fruit!”
“Your destiny is brown – nosing, nut – hugging, and shit – stained arse in need of a Clorox bleaching to maintain the facade of when Cotton was King dung hole!”, Tomato added with a juicy punch.
“That’s why, edible fruit, we laugh at your dust bunny, skid marked behind. Nobody manufactures Apple, Grape, or Crazy Ass Orange weaved drawers! To the looms is your only legacy aside from slavery, you Cotton fruit!”. With a smirk, Tomato or Tomatoe challenged the cotton narrative, bringing the story back to its Roots.
Only a Tomato could roast Cotton! In a world where fabric and fruit collide, only the boldest of flavors could spark such a debate. Point to ponder: Silk underwear starting to look like a better option?
In this whimsical world where fruits and fabric converse, we see reflections of our own societal struggles and triumphs. The satirical lens highlights the absurdities and injustices of history while inviting us to reconsider the legacies we leave behind.
Seasons Are the Reasons
By James Terry II
The seasons have become the reasons, the steel in my constitution. Summer’s the crest of the sparrows tattooed across my chest; Winter’s the frost that emboldens my heart, from the very start; Spring from out this cell, as I YELL as in a well; and Fall y’all, is my refusal once you’ve answered this call.
For this ink pens my life blood. Entrapped within this fortress of solitude, I wish that you may receive my long – lost forlorn – led words of wisdom. The stark white paint. Rank, dank and that stink! Concrete, cement and metal doors have become chores. Inmates screaming – correctional officers day dreaming – while third shift, earning pay for sleeping.
This prison system globally is a pigsty. Administration’s a goat’s head and Lucifer’s appeased. Satanic worshipping, Ouija Board playing and Séance attending officials have fooled no one. Gathering us valuable humans, treating us as if disposable – like a trash heap – We get lit up and turned out!!!Violence begets violence, but our spiritual war rages on against these Devils that try oppressing us. I feel the isolation of decades of loneliness, abandonment and tearstained pillows that wrenches at my very soul. Crying out, ” Dear Momma! ” Pillars of salt are at stake here. Never turn back to witness the abhorrent destruction of a cathedral of humans scattered like marble statutes in the Potter’s field of graves; ” But Carry on My Wayward Friend “, has long been the battle cry of those who came before me, blazing the trail of the prisoner.
Incarcerated because of the judiciary’s insensitive and illogical attempts to rationalize the false narrative of compromise. How many have pled guilty to avoid cruel and unusually harsh lengthy sentences? Contemplating scenario after sophisticated scenario, prosecutorial misconduct is par for the course, legislative statutory traps to oppress neighborhoods of color and judicial hijinks to hoodwink the very people the police claim to serve and protect.
These gray hairs don’t alarm me, nor does my dark skin offend me. It’s with Black Pride, that I rise in the mornings, break my fast, wash my face, brush my teeth, say my prayers, stomp my feet, plan my attack, write you this prose, wait for your response, nourish my body, lift my weights, flex my brain and remain the same.
A forever changing entity, clothed in flesh.
Seasons of change are upon us .
Reach out, support incarcerated authors and realize that, ” Second chances don’t discriminate”.
How many Minutes Before Six?
No Comments