New Work from Northern State Correctional in Newport, VT (Second of 3)

“I’ve Made Some Changes”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

The address remains the same.

You still turn left at the old Lovelace farm, and you still go about a mile before you come to the farm house on the left.

The trees are taller.

Driveway’s in the same place.

But the mailbox is different.

Who or what ever took down the old fence that ran along the driveway did the property a favor.

So did whoever finally mowed the god-damned lawn.

The landscaping is no longer controlled by wind and gravity and the junk pile is now behind a couple of old cars which are now begin a small workshop.

If you’ve passed this way in the last 20 years, you’ll ring the bell and when I get to the door you’ll say “The place looks good.”

“I’ll made some changes,” I’ll say. “Want a beer?”

“I Have a Better Idea”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

I have a better idea, let’s try science!

Fuck all this politics bullshit.

Want a better world? Listen to the data, not the pundits.

I don’t care if you want another Jet-Ski™.

People need to eat.

Got a fancy car?

A big truck that makes up for a small dick?

Good for you.

Stop complaining about the price of gas, you’ve obviously got enough to cover it.

IN fact, let’s raise the price so we can plant some trees and your grandkids can breathe in 50 years.

Got a nice house?

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Want to keep poor people from stealing your shit?

Pay for school.

Pay for re-hab.

Pay your fucking taxes, you selfish piece of shit.

You actually think that’s your money?

Really? You made it all by yourself?

Seriously, who do you think “paid” for the infrastructure, the security of the monetary system, or the cheap-ass agricultural and consumer goods upon which your entire business model is based? Who fought and bled and died and innovated and immigrated and worked and rebelled and agreed to a set of rules that even made your greed possible?

So why do you think it’s acceptable?

What if I’m Wrong?
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

I turned the corner, my bike tracking perfectly with the tire marks left by the truck through the fresh snow.

 After about fifteen minutes, which seems like and hour with frozen fingers and a fogged-over visor, I have convince myself that he didn’t know I was back here, following his every move as he trundled across the county on every back road that looked passable.

As the road climbed toward the transmitter tower for a long-dead radio station, a tower which sprouted microwave transmitters and a cell phone repeater over the last twenty years or so, it dawned on me that he would soon either be force to backtrack or risk some pretty nasty trails if we had much farther to go.

I put down a foot as I carefully stopped, put the bike in neutral and put down the kickstand.

The road was more slippery than I thought, and I wonders how a worn-out set of Dunlops could do better than logger boots.

I paused to warm my hands on the top of the engine before fumbling around to lift the seat and pull the headlight fuses.

“Stealth mode enabled,” I whispered in my helmet, fogging the face shield a little more.

I mounted up again — carefully — and got on my way, hoping he couldn’t see me coming…

(But) what if I’m wrong?