I read somewhere once that in the subatomic world of quantum mechanics a strange phenomenon has been found: It seems that whatever is not being directly observed, does not exist. So it is, or can seem to be, for a prisoner. Warehoused outside of societal awareness. Miles away from any urban or sub-urban lane, drive, parkway or street. Any circle, road or avenue. Held outside of the outermost side of existence, it’s as if we don’t exist in here. Left to the devices of decay, to the stench of stagnant life, to become catatonic in the catacombs of a housing that is not a home. A housing that is not a home but is instead a “there.” As in, “Is so-and-so still in ‘there?’” A place that is, yet is not – for distance assists in the denial of existence. So it’s just not a “where you are.” Where you be. Where you e-x-i-s-t even when not being directly observed… [T]here is beauty in those/these who are not observed…

Stamford

Looking up at the tree fort,
I still hear the laughter.
Ghost reveries.
Throughout the years of sunshine,
And hot summer nights,
Barking Spiders and,
Out ‘til street lights.
The thread which held it all together,
Now weaves my cherished thoughts.
Though miles and years have passed,
The timeless echoes remain,
Of the street I left behind.

…The prison building in which you consume this Alpo-grade slop is universally referred to as the “Chow Hall”. What exactly is “chow” anyway? Don't they offer it to puppies, dogs and cats? Isn't “chow” an amalgam of leftover pieces and parts of meat that are usually unfit for human consumption? Is “chow” a Chinese term translated as “crap”?  Whatever the case, the Chow Hall is aptly named. You simply shovel dung rejected by FEMA down your throat in reckless abandon with no regard whatsoever for the taste, which comes in two flavors: Bland and Salted Bland…