My name is Joseph Burgeson, and I'm a 43-year-old prisoner of the State of Connecticut, serving a sixteen-year sentence for burglary, robbery, and escape. I'm a man who has spent 23 of the last 25 years in prison, and have been locked up more than I've been free since I was 13 years old.
I'm presently in a 12-Step recovery program here at the prison I'm in, MacDougall. I m doing very well at this point, having finally found ways to grow out of my insanity, the most obvious manifestation of which has been drug use/abuse, and am now working to effect my release from prison, which I'm also finding very hard,. I will, however, persist and persevere until it happens.
I've been writing poetry for some 20 years, but never really worked so hard at it as I have within the last year. My aim in writing about prison is to convey to people in society what prison does to a person, to people, to human beings like themselves, which is something that, despite its understandable thirst for revenge against criminals, society should be interested in, because the majority of these offenders will eventually be released among them again. And that is when and where the effects of years of Living in a prison will manifest themselves. It takes an almost superhuman effort to overcome oneself in a negative environment like prison. The various media like to point out the high recidivism rate for released offenders, while avoiding the obvious cause - prison itself.
But to realistically expect people who are already evidencing anti-social behaviors to overcome their problems while living in an environment that reinforces those behaviors is pure self-deception. Prison, by its very nature, ensures its own continued existence. I write to reveal this fact.
WINTER SON
The glacially etched panes in the frost cornered window frame a picture of a frozen white landscape. Icicles hang from the eaves in their soft, silvery gleam, with the snow cover spread out like a great downy quilt, thrown deep and in muffling thickness.
Snow crystals dance a swirling ballet around pines peeking greenly from boughs laden low, tinsel fairies aloft on the wind.
Amidst the clean, icy beauty of this wintry array, a cardinal sits perched on the mailbox, juxtaposed with the red metal flag that's up to signal mail in.
As I think of my trudge out to fetch it, I remember sled riding under the orange winter sun, red nose and rosy cheeks in the sharp, biting air, snowflakes on my eyelashes, and hot chocolate
in the warmth of my mother's kitchen. Like the cardinal, her voice is a winter song that I can still hear.
RECIPE FOR RECIDIVISM
Ingredients:
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Directions: Mix man with measure of justice in cubicle. Stir. As culture shock is attained, sprinkle with fear. Let stir. Survival should occur, with a color and consistency of hate. Bake at high temperature in crowded oven for years or until hardened. Serve while hot. |
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