the prisoner, the inmate,

is more common than you think

he is hard to see

because he appears free

and is everywhere

but get to know him

and the language he speaks

and you will find at the bottom

a fierce need

for belonging

born of the fear

of the integrity it takes

to sleep on the streets

what is clear

—if you have retained

even an inkling of your own being—

is that the prisoner has spent decades

forming his own chains

out of the tongues of contemporary play

and no matter his intelligence,

his credentials

his pay

there remains a dumb, base confoundment

at the root of it all

—a tribalism

deeply in need

of the layers

and layers

of the chains it began to weave

so long ago

“Go to the group!” it cries

there you will be safe

and recognized

amongst all the others

who are doing the same

together, there, we can hide 

in cells designed

for the perfect denial

of ourselves

and keep the solitary predators

of those most vexing questions

—the ones that cannot be answered—

at bay

as we work towards the final prize

all the while

of forgetting, truly forgetting,

all of this

within the spell, quietly, ceaselessly murmured:

“welcome in, mate”

Image: Ryger