1 Dedications “I dedicate my appearance in these pages to Robin Hinchcliff, Mary Katzenstein, and Alison Van Dyke for their gracious support, and to the CPEP faculty and students who have enriched my life.” -Adam “For those who dare barter wisdom, at the place expelled by many.” -Julio Iglesias “I dedicate the CPEP Program to all the volunteer students and adults who dedicate their time and effort, especially Toni, Kyri’s mom – who among others – teach us to persevere in the face of adversity, value time and education, and become adult intellectuals we were meant to be. Also, to everyone who contributes to the elevation of the forgotten.” -Umar “Thanks for helping me be so much more active and inspired surrounding education! CPEP rules.” -Robert Lawrence “Life can often challenge, excite, disappoint, and remake you. Although it is you who can awaken, create, and motivate life.” -Raymond “Soldier” VanClief 2 “A measure of intelligence is the ability to think beyond the confines of one’s conditioning.” -Reggie “For those previous few, brave enough to dare – despite consequences, institutions, or contracts signed under subtle duress.” -Lucas “Expression costs nothing. Try it. Embrace it. Notice it. Free it.” -Two Beings “The CPEP program is changing lives one mind at a time.” -Mike “Dedicated to struggle, wisdom and, infinite change …” -Superb “I dedicate this to those who know the feeling of imprisonment and rebirth.” -Justin Kelly “For you Grandma, the strongest person I know. My heart, my best friend, my inspiration. This Too Shall Pass.” -Nicholas Hansen 3 Contents CPEP Voices 2 Dedications Kenneth A. McClane 5 One Editor’s Comment Adam Roberts 7 Let’s Get Biz-Zay Sheldon Preston Johnson 8 Colors Adam Roberts 10 He Was Around Before Cars Was Born Tyreek Williams 11 Survivor’s Remorse Anonymous 12 Feather F. Ashford 13 The Belly David Hartman 17 Love Tony Carnevale 18 Oh Wize Wizard Tony Carnevale 19 Volubilis Lusorius Will Izzo 20 Silent Voices Maximino Alvarez 21 Einstein Sheldon Preston Johnson 22 Bucket Theory Adam Roberts 24 Planned Obsolescence Just 33 Raindrops Nathan Powell 34 In the Wordshade/Under a Sky Made of Bars Robert Lawrence 35 Soundscaping in the Joint Adam Roberts 36 Good Old Porcelain Cody Testerman 38 Memory Card Lucas W. Whaley 39 TURN Nick Hansen 40 Frenemy Craig Johnson 41 Clocktower 4 One Editor’s Comment I began working as a co-editor of Writer’s Bloc a year ago, and it has been a high point in my life. Truthfully, I wasn’t certain how things would transpire. I had edited magazines before—I even helped create the longest still-running student-led literary magazine at Cornell in 1969—but working at Auburn presented many challenges. Would we get submissions? Would the men work with me? I wanted to be a true co-editor. I didn’t want to be thought of as other than a spirited reader and writer. And I wanted Writer’s Bloc to be a good journal. None of this could have happened without the brilliant editorial cooperation of Lucas Whaley and Sheldon Johnson. Our editorial meetings were true moments of intellectual give-and-take. Considering our different histories, we were in total agreement about what should be included in the magazine. At times, Lucas might argue for this, Sheldon for that, and I for something else, but each of us worked with an admirable sense of trust and good- natured raillery. In ancient China, the Emperor would ask his delegates to gather poems from the vast reaches of the country so that he might understand what his people experienced. In many ways, Writer’s Bloc, like any fine compendium of writing, fulfills the same function. It is our celebration of a time and a place, of dreams and aspirations, of fears and dismissals. Although there are moments of reality—and harsh ones at that—there are also lovely eruptions of the fanciful. It is a true literary gumbo. Let me personally thank the Cornell Prison Education Program for providing me the opportunity to work with these wonderful writers; the Auburn Correctional Staff; Kyri Murdough for being the indomitable inspiration to so many (not only we in Writer’s Bloc, but everyone at Auburn); Kyri’s wonderful mother Toni, who helped us, particularly at the outset of our endeavor; and a legion of others too numerous to name. 5 But most importantly, let me thank Lucas and Sheldon. This is their labor of love. And thanks also to the many fine writers and artists who grace these pages. I said that this was one of the best experiences in my life, and I was not being hyperbolic. It is a privilege to see something take shape, find its place in the world, and speak as only the heart and mind can. As the spiritual reminds us, “It is we who witness. It is we who love.” And as my mother often told me, “Learn from the past; live in the future.” Writer’s Bloc is a mighty preachment—a testimony. Let me put it succinctly: The walls without need not be the walls within, and dreams, even in the darkest of places, speak powerfully. Writer’s Bloc reminds us that there is nothing more irrepressible than the human spirit. When one writes, or paints, or plays the saxophone, he or she is proclaiming a resounding I am; he or she is celebrating, just as powerfully, that you are present, too. We live for each other: we are indissolubly connected. None of us came here as an isolate; none of us, just as truthfully, can exist as a spiritual citadel. If nothing else, Writer’s Bloc affirms that nothing diminishes human hope and the need to be corroborated. I am mindful of something that the esteemed poet Gwendolyn Brooks once said while contemplating the Cold War, with its grim possibilities for nuclear annihilation, “In this terrible time, the human heart can outweigh and countervail the atomic bomb.” And it can. And it must. Kenneth A. McClane W.E.B. DuBois Professor of Literature Emeritus 6 7 Colors Sheldon Preston Johnson Blue skies, Green pastures Black clouds, Beige grams. Yellow Daffodils blossom from Purple rains and the sweat of Melinated hues. Ebony stones and a Whitewashed face. Clear tears of Jade envy from Blackmailed hate. Dark-hearted from Chalky outlines souls lost in an interstellar Milky way. 10 million found unity in Red Clay. Sand blasted Pyramids confirm they have forever been led astray. Black Cat bad luck? Why not, Black Streaks on a Brindled Dog? A stampede of consumers on a Black Friday A Translucent temper followed by a Black whimper in Ferguson. A glorious portrayal of serenity Speckled by Coal emissions. Snow White lies drift like Manna from an all Silvery Sky but with hair like wool and Copper skin was Jesus just another European guy? Was it Black magic that led the way for Harriet’s escape? Was it a great white hope that greeted Natives with small pox, Azure waters and Mahogany docks? Olive leaves in Hazel trunks. Permanent Wine stains on Slate Grey dumps. The Black HOOD-IE that left Trayvon slumped amongst RAINBOW skittles. How bout’ The Chrome guns and Black talons 8 from ‘Car 51’ that left Shawn Bells’ widow in an Inky suit instead of a matrimonial White one. Diverse hues of Faun and Camel, Caramel and Chestnut camouflage Iraqi soldiers while dust filled tears streak the Cocoa faces of Iraqian Mothers’ Black Love once superseded all others now, its Black-on-Black crime Batson juries federal grants and the clangin’ of Blue Steel gates. Green uniforms that radiate Ice Blue hate. Sapphires and Emeralds for the price of Crimson Blood! While one White Hope diamond brought clarity to Sierra Leon’s abysmal disparity. Cinnamon freckles on a Frosty judge in a Jet Black robe left a ‘Man Child’ in a promise land: BROKEN. Alone, with an Electric White Tamper contemplating the square inches of a DOCCS nuclei forever! 9 10 Survivor’s Remorse Tyreek Williams Crazy ole’ Dave from Backwater Country. Rock n’ back and forth In that rickety chair. On the shabby porch Of his Victorian abode, Surrounded by woods and rustic roads. Timber-wood fills the firewood stove; for winter brings the freezing cold. Crazy ole’ Dave remembers the war; blood-stained livery on charred legionnaire’s flesh. Moonshine drowns these Wounded souls. In cornfields doused in survivor’s guilt, As flowers wilt in shaded eyes. Crazy ole’ Dave from Backwater Country, rock n’ back and forth in that rickety chair. Moonshine drowns these Wounded souls. 11 12 The Belly F. Ashford The recreation center conveniently turned reception hall specifically for the day’s event was carefully decorated to suit the occasion. There were flowers of all sorts, paintings – nice paintings like the one of Jesus sitting at the table with his disciples for the last supper, and an area sectioned off for gifts – mostly stuffed animals. Tears flowed while guests consoled one another and although the mood was somber. This was just as much a reunion as it was a memorial. I saw Gary. What a loser. We acknowledged one another having gone to school together but I had long stopped fantasizing about him years ago. We shared a kiss once. Senior year, Tessa, my sister, had said it was just a phase I thought was incredibly ridiculous considering things then. It sparkled still. The pendant. I first took notice of it my junior year of high school. It was a gift to Tessa from our father Frank for her 15th birthday.