Tight ropes, taut lines

In the past three plus years I’ve been in the SHU (segregated housing unit), I’ve been directly aware of nine hangings. That is, occurred either on my range, in my cell, or near enough that I could hear the body hit the ground. Some of these were “cries for help”, some were serious, all were scarring and devastating. Almost always BOP staff hides behind either indifference towards our lives, or bureaucratic policy to avoid actually helping… at USP Atlanta they rushed in and yanked the prisoner down (by the legs), slapping them, yelling to “be a man, not a bitch!” at other institutions they laugh, yelling to quit faking. 

Two years ago here at Englewood Levi hung up, and it took minutes before his door was opened… The guards who cared (there were a few), hamstrung by the policies they were too worried to violate. While some officers were distraught, others laughed calling Levi a “Turkish piñata”… rage swelling in my chest seeing how a desperate death could be mocked and belittled… at that time in the SHU we were not allowed radios, newspapers, magazines or personal books. We were told to deal with it “don’t come to SHU if you can’t handle it”. Neverminded the fact that for some..  the SHU came to us, we could not avoid it, escape it, work our way out. You handle it or become a “piñata”.  

A few nights ago, Englewood’s evening staff displayed its humanity and treated a human life like a human life. My next door neighbor hung from his sprinkler, his awoken cellt lifting up his legs to relieve the pressure, screaming for help… and it came…the C.O’s Rushing in to get him down, the Lieutenant wasting no time, there would be no Levi repeat. Bravo really. 

 Despite this redeeming display, there will be more acts of desperation because being in the SHU pretrial is an exhausting, deeply desperate situation. We are allowed radios (if you have $70 to spend), you can have reading material mailed in (if you have people to do it) but those things mean little in the late of the night, these tiny 6×8 noise boxes allow little comfort, yet plenty of despair. People who suffer withdrawal while the pharmacist refuses to institute the MAT  program ). People suffer anxiety, anger, migraines after losing access to coffee cold turkey, we suffer the loss of loving contact, going months or years being denied physical contact with our families during the most stressful periods of our lives. We still only see one hour outside a day, pacing around in a degrading dog kennel, most still only get one 15 minute phone call a week. My visiting situation is better than most (after a year plus during the pandemic with no visits or calls I have For the last couple months been allowed 1 hour visit a week) while the phone situation is worse… but for me right now visits>calls.  

The first time in my bid I can say that it isn’t even the staff that are the issue, back here right now we are being treated more decent, often guards will go out of their way to be respectful. The major issue is they are also constrained by policies. Personnel isn’t the problem, policy is the problem, the SHU is the problem. The bureau leadership and policies they author. The problems are limitless… the lack of information, the once a week chance to get any news only to be told “nothing”, the stress of trying to fight your case with drastically limited access to your legal team (and family and friends), the constant noise that refutes any hopes of thinking clearly for a minute, the being stuck and knowing all the kindness or good behavior in the world won’t open that door. That combination would break the strongest back and it often does. 

This (FCI Englewood) is the “easiest” SHU possible, and people still hang here, because even the softest SHU is a soul crippling death trap… we still have to beg and plead for medical attention, we still sleep directly next to our toilets… we still can’t hug or kiss our families. We are stuck.. long-term segregation must be abolished, the people who are chosen to write policies should not exist unchecked and have limitless ways to torture at their disposal, non-contact visits must be reverted back to contact, basic comforts like real hygiene and coffee must be allowed for purchase, access to information and those who have it must be increased. We need out of these cages. 

Abolish the SHU, abolish state domination.  

Anarchy Always (A)  

-EK  

“We Got to Get Out of Here” a poem by Eric King

We got to get outta here

But no one brought ropes!

The wall is a shoebox

And we are all heels

Tied up right

So we don’t slip off

If we snuck out, nice & quiet

We might end up seeing

All the slave runners

Who sent their kids to Uni

On the back of our 300 minutes

And once a week visits

Then who could tell

Which was the bad guy

And who maybe had bad luck?

We got a skip this pond

Did you bring the stones?

We got to melt this candle

We’ve misplaced the wic!

everything is backwards,

We are losing our grip

this concrete floor is a graveyard

Cold like are shaking bones

Relentless like our will to be free

Unmovable Like These Bars

We got to get free

We got to bring it ourselves

“What it Means to Me”

Photo of Eric around 18

I first heard your voice when I was 15
Had no idea what it was to be free
Sheriffs kicking in doors, leaving furniture in the streets
Learning you could starve if you didn’t have the means
All the saints taught me, listen to no worldly kings
Principal, coaches & priests, all the same things
When the police blinded me with war chemicals
laughter was my partner, I hadn’t broken my rules
After god went away, Anarchy never faded
Politicians love to recruit but I can’t be persuaded
My anarchy, grew with me, walmart & McDonalds Protests
Activism always went through stages
learn-act, learn more-act more, growth, always growth
Sometimes I was an an archo-fascist, forcing my freedom
with fists and knives, words and hated
the first dominant behavior I had to destroy
Was my own loud-always-right voice
To me Anarchy meant facing up to my own
Patriarchy, xenophobia, racism, homophobia
All of my most productive battles weren’t vs cops
But against hidden learned behaviors
Anarchy meant allowing growth, loving myself
to acknowledge being harmful
The revolution always begins between our 2 ears
& the more I open myself to experiences not my own
The better I become
For me anarchy is in the heart & in the streets
I meant friendship, not chances to be judge
I’ve failed in this aspect many times
Anarchy was a way to live free
A way to find what that means
then instill it in my everyday life
Anarchy means standing up when it counts
Being there when able
My anarchism couldn’t have existed
In a vacuum removed from action
There was never a movement for me
nor was I a “loan wolf”
Sometimes comrades joined me
other times the goddess was my partner
There was no attendance, roll-call
Just a desire to make the world better
Anarchy to me meant love, it meant calm
it was living how you want the world to be
Some took it in lots of opposing directions
that was ok also
No one owns an idea
although some swear to have the receipt
My anarchism loved plants & nature
wasn’t a big fan of consumerism
& hated genocidal meat “farms”
… My anarchism loved people who love people
Cops, military folks, government bureaucrats were not welcome
If your prerogative was to limit, take from or own/control people
we were enemies
Does anarchy still exist?
I pray so
I’m afraid of the internet swallowing it whole
& “clicktivism” overriding activism
Of sectarianism splintering any progress being made
Of Trump wearing everyone out
then some being convinced in electoral leadership
But only if Berndog wins
Prisons need to be burned, CEOs beheaded
communities need to grow & heal together
That’s what Anarchism is to me
Action based healing and growing

Write Eric at

Eric King #27090045
FCI ENGLEWOOD
9595 W Quincy ave
Littleton co 80123

“If Words”… a poem by Eric King

If words are as dangerous as bullets
and sharp as knives
Can we start filling the pages?
grinding our pencils to stubs
Turning ink into guillotines
prose the ropes onto their wrist
and rhyme these prison walls to paste
cause nothing else seems to be working
heads aren’t rolling, the streets are on holiday
maybe enough words can spark
a million fires in our hearts
which would create a million fires in the banks
a million convicts in the streets
Not giving a fuck about a voters box
Giving a fuck about having a life
our words can break these chains?
then gather our dictionaries
there aren’t enough thesaurus’ in the world
I need to fight more, I need to write more
My tongue has been shackled
I haven’t resisted, I haven’t insisted
More words, more battles, more victories
more poems, more struggle, more bumps
We’d be fighting w/our minds
dismantling the system that strangle us
Then turning those words into life
A life more important than burning & bombing
Enough magic, love, growth & life
We can grow into a space worth existing in
Our words can get us free

“Oh Prison” a poem by Eric King

Oh prison 

You must think so poorly of me 

Think I’m weak enough to fold 

tisk tisk 

I’m not a fucking inmate, I’m a captive 

even if I spend 50 years here, my humanity stays 

I won’t hate those that you sucked into your trap 

keep your ‘cars’ chap, I can’t be bothered 

you’re a petulant waste of time 

Not converting for me, no head shaves or Qurans 

God aint real, neither is white power 

my happiness is mine and you can’t lay a finger 

Didn’t you know you’re dealing with a fighter? 

Block the phone & the mail, you’ve accomplished nothing 

snake scum, maggot 

the beauty I see in the world wont be diminished 

by your hatred 

The love I share in my soul won’t be doubted 

by your procedures 

walls were built to stand, and this one doesn’t shake 

Oh prison 

didn’t you know we stand by each other? 

we’re not jesters, we’re unbreakable 

when will you learn 

Somethings were built to last 

You can’t win this fight because we refuse to loose. 

“to Chelsea Manning” a poem by Eric King

Chelsea chelsea chelsea

They kept the keys within reach

Desperate to hurt you

Fiending for vengeance

The main news focuses on a rapist

While you focus on justice

Unbending in your ethics

Maybe they thought you soft

Forgetting your iron core

Striking while most vulnerable

Promising, if you talk then you walk

How they rage out at your reserve

A jaw welded shut

Only allowing out dissident words

You’ve seen their hatred, felt the venom

Fox called you a traitor

Deserving of the guillotine or dungeon

Wearing their weighted shackles

With your neck never falling

Hopefully your freedom

next time

Will be longer

“Can I live” poem by Eric King

here is a poem Eric wrote more recently:

 

Can I Live? 

One time  can I touch this grass
Feel that breeze
That refuses to blow down these walls
Can I be angry, break anything!
Or passionate?
Can I let that passion grow
Like a poisonous vine
To be wrapped around my enemies necks
Can I live MY anarchy, even if I’m flawed
Can my rebel heart pump revolutionary blood the way I FEEL it, may I feel it?
Without my leashes placed to reel me in
Can I fight my daily oppression
Without having to duck fist and spittle
Can I live wild a little?
Can I be fucked up, cry sometimes, because convictions don’t erase fears
Can I bruise my fist or color my body without a permission slip
Can I speak without a ball and chain
Shackled to my tongue
Can I let loose my spirit
Let it flourish, watch it destroy
Can I refuse to be submissive
To any state or movement
That puts tacks in my boots
To keep me constrained
Can I get a sip of water
If I’m forced to be stale
Can I spit that water in every face
That’s dipped my wings
Can I sing? Top of my lungs until my one neighbor in the entire unit bangs on the wall
Can I pretend I’m every atom even the ones hurting me
Can I just live without control
Love with all my heart
Insurrect with all my desire
Laugh with all my being
Cry with all my worries
Can I be loved if I fuck up
And just do me?
Can I live just one time.

“Pacing in my cell” a poem by Eric king

A poem about Erics experience at CCA

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am pacing in my cell

My skin is still on fire from the paper spray

that I was bathed in 8 days ago

No clean clothes have been provided, no shower either

I am scared because I don’t understand the process

or the noises, or the smells

Don’t understand why they aren’t giving me a shower

or a fucking towel, or fucking toothpaste

My jaw still hurts, my eyes wont’ stop watering

It hurts to swallow anything

I am pacing my cell letting ever pig know

that if they open this door I am attacking

If they have the gaul, I will provide everything else

8 days ago I charged into a group of COs

fist swinging, refusing to let them disrespect my cell mate

I didnt make it far, multiple cans emptied onto my face

Punched, kneed, slammed down

A knee on the back of my throat, a CO grabs my hair

and lifts up my face, while another pulls my hair back

and eyes open

to ensure I get the full affect

This is my 2nd time in seg here..this time will last 10 months

I will be stuck in a cell with no lights

Served spoon sized portions of food, be denied medical care

I will meet some of my best friends and I will fall in love

My spirit will enlarge and my rage at the system will deepen

I received my property a full 3 weeks later

My first shower came 10days after the spraying

skin still has burn spots

I am pacing my cell, waiting.

Eric Update and Poem from a time in the S.H.U

Last week, Eric was thrown into the hole and his cell was trashed. Among other things, a bunch of letters went missing and were destroyed. He is now out of the hole and  wants to let folks know that if you wrote him in the weeks leading to the 1st of June he lost your letter and that you should reach back out if you would like :).

Below is a poem written while EK was at CCA Leavenworth, now three years ago.

I am pacing in my cell

My skin is still on fire from the pepper spray

that I was bathed in 8 days ago

No clean clothes have been provided, no shower either

I am scared because I don’t understand the process

or the noises, or the smells

Don’t understand why they aren’t giving me a shower

or a fucking towel, or fucking toothpaste

My jaw still hurts, my eyes wont’ stop watering

It hurts to swallow anything

I am pacing my cell letting ever pig know

that if they open this door I am attacking

If they have the gaul, I will provide everything else

8 days ago I charged into a group of COs

fist swinging, refusing to let them disrespect my cell mate

I didnt make it far, multiple cans emptied onto my face

Punched, kneed, slammed down

A knee on the back of my throat, a CO grabs my hair

and lifts up my face, while another pulls my hair back

and eyes open

to ensure I get the full affect

This is my 2nd time in seg here..this time will last 10 months

I will be stuck in a cell with no lights

Served spoon sized portions of food, be denied medical care

I will meet some of my best friends and I will fall in love

My spirit will enlarge and my rage at the system will deepen

I received my property a full 3 weeks later

My first shower came 10days after the spraying

skin still has burn spots

I am pacing my cell, waiting.

We’re gearing up for International Day of Solidarity with EK on June 28th. Join us in supporting our friend! Thanks everyone!

EK Statement on Dry Snitching

I had never heard the term ‘Dry Snitching’ before coming to prison, but the concept is very clear, it’s indirect tattling. Dry snitching is telling on someone in an oblique, round about way. That may sound low key or not a big deal, but trust me when I say that dry snitching will get you hurt, it is fucking hell. If you do this, you are ratting.

Let’s say you’re not supposed to have pillows in your cell and some pig jams you up, takes your pillow, but no one elses. You, feeling indignant and entitled then barks at the cop, ”why are you taking just mine when everyone has a pillow!” You just dry snitched on everyone. Or the cop is looking for a broom and you innocently inform him, ”oh it’s in Joe’s room”…sounds like nothing but who knows what was in that room and you just sent the cop there.

In the feds we have emailing and phone usages. Both of these things are always very heavily monitored. A slimey and accidental way to snitch on someone in the feds is to email your family or friends about something going on here. You aren’t officially telling the cops but you are 100% snitching. Like if you were hating on someone’s hustle and you emailed your partner that so and so is hustling back onions or something from the kitchen. That dude would get hit for that guaranteed. Ratting. That can seem harmless and just sharing shit with your family, but it could get the kitchen dude jammed up. We can always avoid accidentally dry snitching such as above by MINDING OUR OWN BUSINESS. Staying in our own lane. This is so important and crucial in prison. It isn’t a game. It can prevent so many potentially ugly situations.

Recently I heard of a prisoner purposely dry snitching and it broke my heart and made me feel sick to my stomach at the exact same time. This person apparently felt unsafe with his cell mate, and thought he was in danger. This fucking sucks and is an ugly reality of prison. We have all been there. Being a Political Prisoner doesn’t make you immune to the daily grime, violence, and ugliness of prison. No one is going to hand you a pass. We exist and function in the same reality as everyone else, to think or expect otherwise is classist and gross. Our friend had a handful of options: he could have spoken with and maybe caught problems with his cellmate, could have tried to switch cells, he could have checked in (checking in is when you go to the cops and say you are unsafe and are put in Protective Custody in segregation), whatever. He chose what should have been a non-option. Either by email or phone our friend hit up his loved ones and told them in monitored communication that he was in danger FROM HIS CELL MATE. He did this knowing that he would get rescued by the guards, this was not an accident. This wasn’t his first day in prison. That is ratting. He may have never have taken the stand in a courtroom, but he just put evidence against his cellmate and got them put under investigation.. he may as well have had a fucking badge on.

Think of the serious implications of doing this. What if that dude had a weapon or drugs on his property and he got searched or the room got searched, that is extra YEARS to his sentence! What if he was close to transferring closer to home, that would be out of the question now, or if he had a visit coming up, a child’s birthday or something like that. Your tattling just robbed this person of that chance to be free for that moment, you just took on the role-no matter how intentionally- of being the police. Your fear was more important than oppressing another human. He may as well have ratted on a comrade or been the person who told the cops where I was staying when I got arrested, that is how it felt to me. There is no excuse for this from anyone, let alone someone that espouses anti-oppression, pro-liberation. Our fear does not give us permission to snitch. You can be proactive in your safety without telling on others. No one in the free world gives a fuck about checking in. By doing this our friend got a safe transfer an an easy yard where no one will check his paper work to see what happened, but if he had got sent to another serious joint, he would have had tons to answer for, no one needs or wants those problems. If you believe and live a life of anti-oppression, anti-authority, etc. etc., you cannot tell on other people to better your own situation, at least not in my mind.

On the flip side of all of that, while in pre-trial there may be people who will try and rat on you if they can, hoping to lessen their own sentence at your expense. This is called ”jumping on someone’s ship”, i.e. ”Josh jumped on Noah’s ship”, just to use two random names. This person goes to the states attorney and says they will become the states evidence against you so that they can reduce their sentence. It is something I faced at CCA when I was there. When my plea deal was all but signed my lips got loose and it was brought to my attention that one of the cats I was cool with was trying to talk to them people about getting a reduction, telling them things about me. This made me feel like a fucking cold chump for letting my guard down, for believing in some romanticized ‘convict’s code’. There is an inherent desire to talk to people, to share things, maybe to posture and brag. But pre-trial we need to be so careful with the information we chose to share and who we share it with. The pigs will go to nasty lengths to jam you up, and people get very desperate to shave time off their own sentences. Everyone inside is not our friends, sometimes smiles hide fangs.