Poetry by Daniel Mopkins

The Hole (An Open Letter)

By Daniel Mopkins

The Hole. Not even a respectable one. They give you a cellmate, someone to talk to, I guess. Boooo. This is my second trip this year, won’t be my last. I come intentionally for the solitude. It’s like getting away from the hustle and bustle of the city for the countryside. I use it for refuge. I’m a writer. So when the prison separates me from my work, I become Dr Jekyll, not Mr Hyde. Either way, it gives me juice when I’m in a rut or stalled or stuck. Suckers. They’re just doing me a solid. 1.29 was the infraction I was written up for on July 18, 2019. 1.29 is a refusal. Technically, I didn’t. Everyone loves the First and Second Amendments, I’m sticking with the Fifth. That was the juice afforded to me after writing “My Muted World”. Moreover, my expansion of the practice, to the story, back to the practice. I refused to speak. Still do. “No questions, please, Mr Jailor.” Retired from society, check. I’ve no more words for the people, so I write. I continually get written up for simply no communicating with staff. They threaten me with a PCO (protective custody order), slap cuffs on me, put me in the Hole, restrict privileges (i.e. lose mail), take stuff, slam doors, “find” cause to write me up or move me on and on and on. From more on out, if the conversations aren’t about books, writing, or following your dreams, I don’t want to hear it.  I’ve wasted too long not trying to discover my life’s task, which I’ve done, to be bothered with any conversation not conducive to writing. So when I’m in the Hole away from my work, it haunts me. Keeps me up. Finishes itself in my mind, filling in gaps. So when they give my books, pens and  paper back, I’m so juiced up that my mother nor God could deter me from writing, from finishing my life’s work. Almost done. I wonder if I’ll die when it’s finished? I’ve written several acceptance speeches. I can hear the silence of the crowd. I tap the microphone. Hold the award. Brush my shoulder off. Point to my mother and father… 

I’ve currently gotten myself into a pickle. In all the moving around, this is my last pen. They “lost” the others, and the colored pencils, and the regular pencils. Four hundred and sixty, roughly, is the amount of pens I’ve gone through in eighteen months. Four is the number of tips I’ve used. Four is also the number of cartridges I burn through in a week. And now I’m down to one. One! This is for you. This is to all those locked down. Come one, come all. Especially the youth. I hold you deep in my prayers. I, we, all want to see you win. To follow your dreams. “There is no such thing as evil, only the absence of good.” I believe that. You should, too. And grasp a complete understanding of what that means. I encourage the youth to read more than hood fiction. Expand your mind. Your horizon. But also write as much and as often as you can. Writing is how I take out my aggression. Works better than working out for me. When the prison system is discussed, I never hear about youth authority, group homes, foster care, women’s prisons, alternative schools. For that, you are not forgotten. I see you. We all do. Locked in here with your fathers, brothers, cousins, sons. I see how society tried to sideline the youth in poorer areas. You are the future. Writers, poets, journalists, artists, cooks, moms. Pick up a pen and go to war. Put all your passions, frustrations, ideas, plans on paper, in the form you so desire, and declare war (creatively) against society, being average, sidelined, the hypocritical unjust “correction” system, so the future behind you won’t be subject to oppressors. Know this: I write, not just this letter, but all my literary works, with you in mind. The most negative things – people, places, ideas – can be counteracted, transmuted to the most incredible pieces of work. Mine happens to be the Hole. Just know, matter-of-factly, that you can’t lose. Because you’re restricted, you’ve got to use what you have to get what you want. As you should. Wherever you are and you read this, hold your head high! Don’t stress the things you can’t change, and hold steadfast to your dreams. This is written from a cell block, the location I now use to inspire my dreams. Gorilla habitat. They say ‘a rose grows in the concrete’. Well, I’m growing a forest like Red Kloud City, mystic-like. I dare you to follow yours. Take no prisoners, don’t back down, and don’t take no for an answer.