Bread Tie Twisted

Past the equine serenity of expansive old dominion ranches loomed a gothic red brick tower. The boys stomach turned Olympic flips, ones found only in the grip of anxious fear as it came into view. His chains rattled like a confined rabid dog in bussed transport. Sentenced by the lackadaisical antithesis of balanced well-read justice, the featherless boy was Hell bound for punishment of nonexistent deeds in a castle.


Matthew was one more of countless children who would satisfy the elites political aspirations. Armani suits needed paid mortgages, and college tuition. Each of the Courtroom Work Group had to have the finest sweat suits for a keep up jog on the McMansion lined streets. To them there could be no bigger tragedy than to fall behind Mister and Misses Jones, or miss that promotion.


The formalities were over finally, and so were his thoughts on politics. With hospital sterility and equal lack of emotion he was Stripped naked to the bone and peered almost into by a jaded Corrections Officer with a juvenile friendly title. Now a child fully Violated, Matthew carried his bedroll to his bunk shaken and soon stirred. Odd that the entrusted with his safety would cause him the feel of rapes wrath before a resident. He would die before another ward ever stole what was left of his pride. But the turnkeys, well, they were Nazi City Hall.

Through the maze of his mind he pondered who or what he must become, and fast. Whatever demon dissociation conjured for survival he and surely no one else would be fond of. This archaic fish tank was eat or be eaten. A guppies flailing weak heart would not be found within his forced fearless chest. He would become a shark, even if it was secretly plush, found at a fair.

“Hey holmes, where you from ese? You a whiteboy or que Vato?”

Matthew steeled himself, quickly scanning the room for the dominant numbers. He found that today he would be Hispanic, and eventually in charge.


“Don’t sweat my program carnal, I’m one of the homies. Cliqued.”

“Orale, good to have you. That Vato over there on our table has the keys Holmes, his name is Smokey.”

Hispanic Matthew put on his best mean mug. A seamless transition, better suited for the profit of a Hollywood stage.

“Not anymore. Tell that Vato I want to see him in the stairwell. This is my lodge now.”

A worried look crossed the face of the young shadow, a soldier chosen to insulate the Chief.

“Bro, that vato can sling the dogs, you sure?”

“Don’t let the thin waist and pretty face fool you. You heard me, the stairwell. Fifteen minutes or he drops, either way he drops. You shadow me now. Everything runs through me, period. Mintiendes mendes?”

The young Visalia native born of undocumented Ag workers in search of the American dream, shook his head slowly side to side.

“Its your infirmary visit Blanco.”

Within the failed warning he had his name. Twenty minutes later he had his fame. The escape into novels taught him to always keep the high ground. A twisted trip down a flight of stairs proved more weapon than the skill of juvenile fists. Wits before brawn, keeps green the prison lawn.


A white cargo van screeched an unnecessarily brutal stop. Shackled again twice in the same day, his shoulders burned but that was ignored as his face struck the metal grate. Most things here were designed to protect all of the people, except the wards who slept there.

This time the same hairpin twist of bowel, only this time category five. Even in a place where the affect of weakness is intolerable, often a death sentence, he could not help but to gape in awe. Bram stoker could not have articulated the Iron Maiden that was this Hostel to Hades. The air was thick with fear covered by hysterical prepubescent laughing, a sound that covered the real desire to scream like a girl for ones Mother.

A prostitution of the word Counselor brought him to the bungalow of pain with a seasoned sadistic grin.

“Welcome to ‘The Rack’ HOMIE.”

The plain closed wolf in sheepdogs clothing enjoyed the emphasis on the word homie way too much. The play on the lodges actual label, Tamarack, also made him feel witty and in charge ever further. Matthew smiled inside, knowing that this one worked for revenge of lost youthful milk money or a freshly fucked girlfriend. The girlfriend who loves an outlaw, but keeps an in-law meal ticket.


Through not one but two iron doors he slinked into the first semester of learning to walk in shame, but still somehow remaining granite heard. This was a time to listen, learn everything about your enemies, and your enemies. They all were, but only one got an over glorified handshake and a fox’s crazy smile. The California Youth Authority or CYA for short, meant Cover Your Ass for a reason, whether ward or grossly mislabeled Peckerwood abuser of the slaves.

“You shower tomorrow HOLMES. Bright and early, then you go to rec in the cage. You don’t go, you don’t get through the program. Plain and simple. I get paid either fuckin’ way there whitesican, do my eight and hit the gate, be drinkin’ coors and fucking my wife while youre hoping the rats don’t take anymore of your Preston Steak Sandwiches.”

Matthew learned quickly that the only thing these asshole hacks respected was a quicker wit. If you let the glorification of a baloney sandwich in a paper sack make you sweat, you better never let them see it.


“Look at the fuckin creativity on Bullet Proof Specs Bob. How many fuckin ants you burn with those motherfuckers there turnkey? Tell the wife I have no problem fucking another mans face right after you welcome home kick your dog.”

Bob was his actual name. Bob Laughed so violently that his unauthorized Chesterfield cigarette flew missile like from his chapped lips.

“Son, that is the funniest fucking thing I have ever heard in my twenty years in this shithole. Im not shocked, I looked at your file. Looks like you’re movin on up, and fast in the clique eh? You’ll do just fine long as your spine stays firm.”

His approval of nefarious gang ties sickened what was left of an innocent mind, albeit briefly. Truth was, the only thing Gangster about Matthew were the admonished through parental bias memorizations of Dr.Dre, Easy, and Cubes concrete jungle lyrics. Valuable, the lessons of the ghetto were now his reality.


“Here, I got something for ya.”

Before closing the outer door, Bob place the now secured and smoldering Chesterfield on the ledge of the inner overkill door, then drove home the final outer lock with a giant brass key. With a comical look he continued on, mischief satisfying normally robotic unimpressed redneck features.

“Here you go funnyman. This’ll prime you for Tracy for sure. You know how ta fish I trust? If ya don’t you sure will learn fast. I can see you slobberin’ like a steak teased mongrel.”


Matthews head-rush was found just seconds later, followed by vomit. It had been too long since addiction, not necessity proved to be the Mother of all invention.

Young Matt couldn’t escape, but he would find escape some way. Calendar after calendar proved him a prodigal Son to the practice of subconscious detachment. Adrenaline and the psychoactive would be the closest thing he would ever see to a vacation on Turks and Caicos.


Preston Castle, bricks and bars. The only acting classes the village would ever invest in. With the cold indifference of a backwards investment in tough love by the village, Gladiator School was now his only Julliard. The boy would make an Hollywood Oscar blush and the applause of Iones disparaging red brick carpet, deafening for the love of breathing. But that was the point, recidivism in benefit of Reagans dream of fluoride teeth in white suburbia and Governor Pete Wilsons Prison Industrial Complex, and triple bunked slave ships.


Today was recreation. Seven thirty in the morning, January in the Gold Country Hills. Matthews hair was still wet from the mandatory six A.M. shower. The damp unkempt locks served as an improvised swamp cooler, adding to the already near freezing of the pine and oak scented air. Injury was found however in the twelve by twelve kennel, and pulling long socks up to meet your boxers to flail at the bite of the chill. Like an insane infomercial, there was certainly more. Matthew felt regret in a cranky wrong side of the metal slab outburst at a staff member. It just donned on him which chain link kennel he was placed in. Left and right they flanked him, enemies to his chosen crew. The urine and feces flew from empty Prison Industry milk containers. Ironic that they were made where he used to fish and ride skateboards, chasing the ice cream man with seventy five cents. Incomprehensible rage boiled within him. Helpless, the bodily fluids draped him thick from head to ankle.

Forty millimeter in hand, the once besmirched staff chuckled heartily, redeemed now in the passing of a twenty dollar bill with a wink from a fire engine red headed colleague. He was the kind of guy that made one ask how someone so soulless, could ever be seen as, or given the fond palm to back of a good ‘ol boy. While he shivered with rage his skin glistened in the sickness of a septic tank dress while the overpaid Hai Lai gamblers discussed the morning news King of The Hill Style.

“Why ya think that guy killed all them bunch of cops? Stupid 'bang-banger' Musta been outta King Cobra.”

“Hey Carrie!” Atop his uncomfortably built iron sack of a gut, rested the "Big Bertha" bean bag and gas gun. Epitomizing a lazy piece of shit, he looke like he masturbated to the smell of cordite in a half finished backyard gazebo.

In- articulatable tunnel vision, satanic rage shook every screaming fiber of Matts being. His thoughts on killing the cops first, never to be uttered. His attitude towards torturous criminals would surely be judged by a robed friend of the District Attorney. You know, the mediator between opposing sides of the courtroom. A societal, universal truth. One just CANNOT kill a criminal with a badge when the system has failed him. Damned if they’d blame the ripple of the stone dropped center of their own pond. That gang is endorsed, well-funded, and perfect.

The ancestral remnant of constitutional Patriots shook himself out of such a universally bad idea, turning to the saving grace of septic assaults silver bracelets. Cuffs and a badge heavy asshole, his child abusing savior. There is simply no level of helpless, like the one that carries with it the weeks of a kangaroo grievance systems bullshit response. No stench like the stained nicotine breath of a child beater, one who took an oath then wiped his ass with a Father Sons small hand.



The Game of Woes





“…down in a hole and I don’t know if I can be saved, you see my heart, I decorate it like a grave…”



( Alice In Chains)







Matthews time in the “Rack” earned alpha position within the kiddy prison pack, violence of action and participation always won prized rank. Stripes to the sleeve that only other wards could see, it was the only language any of them understood. It was June now, and hotter than a two-dollar pistol post Dio De La Muerte Fiesta, Tijuana side. The tiny cell was paint dressed puke hospital green, with a large square window housing barred, joke flimsy panes of individual rectangular glass. During each sweltering summer in shadow of only an archaic blood red castle, each were now shattered to nothing. To ease the stifling heat, each pane was busted out for maximum airflow and utilitarian plausible deniability. Most of the shards lay just outside on the ground, aside from a couple of choice pieces nestled deadly, within the cotton batting of flimsy striped mattresses. The unconventional hide was known as the earthquake bank. The windows, the pawn shop. Matthew and his cellmate Augie wouldn’t be without weapons when they needed them. In crisis, It took just seconds to borrow from the fence.







History left a strange bounty of criminalized youthful heirlooms behind the razor wire line. Ingenious shortcuts from wasted bright predecessors of the finest chains, bequeathed the next subjugation generation the wisdom of small creature comforts. From cell to joining cell, wall to wall, holes linked each square of Hell from one end of the violence rank halls to the other. Through them contraband, dark humor, and even orders of unstructured finality, poorly planned violence in the raw, passed along fluidly to the doomed. Kid tested, Green Jeans approved. Each morning, the unspoken routine was for each of the alpha to exchange bullshit pleasantries. Pass a smoke, and joke. Even if you hated the Motherfucker. Especially if you hated the Motherfucker.







From San Jose, Tear Drop was the oldest ward on the Hill. By default, like the ranks of the Teamsters Union, tenure chaired him shot caller. Matthew affectionately, but not so affectionately, and absolutely to his face, called him: “Shot Swallower.”



Matthew loved playing professional poker with people, especially when he had a solid vest tight hand built of full suited, “Fuck You.” The confined memorized a prison saying, if in fact they knew what was good for them. Sage wisdom forced Junior Varsity level students of Gladiator School, to master blueprints penned in San Tzu inspired invisible ink. Matthews tutelage, his keen eye and tenacious interest eventually would earn a silver-tongued reputation amongst the Varsity subservient lackey. Those with a Mastery level of psychological comprehension, wore the easy head of a gold heavy crown. To rule meant knowing the difference between an inmate, and a convict. An inmate will fuck you, and you’ll hate him. Want to kill him for it. A convict will fuck you, and brother, you’ll come running back slobbering like a coked out Pavlov puppy for more.



Matthews premature mastery of the principal, was a work of prodigal art. So many bad digging pound puppies, so much gold.



Through the hole in the adjoining wall, a voice escaped through. “Yo Blanco.”



Matt fucking hated it, but it stuck. Particularly when he was shaken with it from the escape of another philosophical daydream by an echoing voice, one that was too old for its age just like his. He hated the moniker. Blanco. White was the new Mexican, serving rank and survival purpose for a rep jacket that he didn’t want but absolutely had to have. Unlike success and good deeds, the scarlet letter would label him for a fucking lifetime. Still locked in daydream, he remembered a Time Magazine article. Another group with another label, far bigger fish. Canada, a dude named Mom from the Deaths Head Crew with a saying that resonated the globe.

“When we do right, no one remembers. When we do wrong, no one ever fucking forgets.”

From the mouths of Angels to Matthews freedom jealous, reading ear.



The author told a story, one the steel horse adrenaline drinking outlaws allowed through the gracious invite of a journalist house guest. The well written word painting made Matt yearn for the hard pit bull bark of rubber ripping steel, and an until the coffin drops kind of brotherhood that the unbeholden took as prize. America owed the band of loyalty every privilege that hippie spit, could never dilute from them. Even now, they were soldiers.



Dreams of savages, of barbarians straightening out life itself at the roar of 100 plus on lifes, no, their speedometer. Unlike the heroes he denied having, Matts dreams would fail to find him home in lifes generic can. According to fate, young Matt was really just unpopular “Beer” trying hard to stand out in a well inventoried grocery isle full of colorful but trapped diversity. Plain label, feelin’ pup SEAL Team dangerous, only smaller. Bland without a tan, a dog without a bone. A Nomad Gypsy drifter, forever convenient. One, surrounded alone. Someday Matt thought, ill take a fucking home of my own. Ill show him, them, that the breed of me only takes a boss, if he lets you. A forever family will find me fast and dirty, baptized in the guts and the mud. The kid in him drifted on the writers words. Matt Hated them, they were truly free, they were fucking Gods.



















‘You gotta be some kind of bad motherfucker, to chest a name like Mom Holmes.” Dreamer returned to stifling pea soup box. Blurting admiration wrapped in the veil of resentment, and the helpless jealousy of a kid.



From some tattered Louis L’Amore paperback, Augie looked up puzzled, it had been at least two hours since his Bunkie had uttered a word in his direction.



“You talkin to me Carnal?”



“Naw, im talkin to the ghost of Wyatt yer Mom.”



The shorter tubbier, clearly more well Taco fed purveyor of perfect ese pompadour chuckled lightly, he was used to Matts version of “You’re alright.”



“Hey, you aren’t funny Holmes, this Lou-is…” He pronounced it, Loo-iiisss. Matt didn’t correct him, correct grammar was for the weak. Besides, it’s a Cowboy book. Careful now, horse skeletons and ten gallons of bullshit filled hats in that closet. No Tequila, no hairnet. Definitely no Mariachi.



Matt interrupted him quickly, before his thoughts met tongue and whitewashed his burrito into yard lawn irrigation. No Saltines allowed in the Preston Salsa.





“Like, how do you mean Aug..?”



Augie broke into another set of now uncontrollable, belly jiggling giggles. Matthew wondered to himself how someone so fucking jelly jovial hilarious could ever be a gangster. The brown smooth faced boy finally found its unnatural set of resting: “Ill fucking stab you face”, as he read from a timeless, tattered portrait of gunslingers drifting through the wild of the West.



“….the smoke of the campfire brought the burn to his eyes and rest to weary haunches. A tired Appaloosa tethered unbit, ground small tufts of grass from around the sage. The tired ranch hand took a battered tin cup from the fire before the boil, and from his oilskin tricked drops of cold water to the top of the brew. Before the grounds fully sunk, he took a full pull.



“Boy Howdy! This here could grow hair on a saddle…!”



More giggling. “What the fuck is this fucking Gabacho talking about Holmes!!??” Still, more giggling. Now delirious, tear filled, and absolutely uncontrollable. “…hahahah!!! THE FUCK ESE??? Hahaha!! Fuckin’ Grow hair on a fuckin…fuckin’ s-s-s-saddle Holmes? These fuckin’…what the fuck is up with your folks ese? Ahahaha!!!.”



It was Matts turn now, these were the few, the proud, the giggling good times.



Through hysterical tears Matt conveyed very convict safety wise, the code of his actual, well, heritage. Or something.



“It means the shit is strong, stupid.”



Augies voice went as suburban picket fence as nuclear family possible.



“Stupid? Orale, ill stay stupid as long as you pinche crackers keep this gold coming vato. Fuckin’ yee-fuckin tumbleweed eatin’ haw!!! Its ok Vato, your fuckin Pillsbury bleached white picket fence is safe with me.”



“That’s mighty bean of you. Next time, im takin’ your whole…butt-rito.”



“That’s alright Vato, I got more homies than you. Don’t be mad when you call home and Sancho, Nacho, and Pancho answer all at once. Ahaha, thats Nacho motherfuckin girl anymore ahaha!!”



Ever quick on the wit, Matt knocked the stale off of that tortilla with skillet fried hamburgrese- ese.



“That’s alright homie, I never lose my bitch. I just lose my turn.”



The laughter echoed riotously, temporarily extinguishing the stale fog of a misery marinated hall. Blissful escape from the torture box of Hades, a moment of purest rapture. Fine fair weather, fresh breeze in the drive in and popcorn smile of youthful innocence. Amazingly, their light was not yet extinguished by the resident employ of State funded violence and hate. But give it time.



A thunder of thick gangland accent. A voice angered, resurrected from the cemetery of his home, the ghetto varrio. “Yo Blanco, what the fuck ese?”



Curt, the barked question shattered the ease through the circular catalyst of drama in the wall. “Shit, back to reality.” Matt whispered to himself.



“Hey holmes, dispensa. Me and my cellie got caught up in some shit and I spaced our rap homie.”



“All good, just don’t let it happen again, ese.” It was a joke, but it wasn’t. This motherfucker played poker too, with knives.



His anger at the nerve, the audacity hit first. Then the tiny tremor of adrenaline that he loved. The fear woven into a slice of surgical talent, healing to a scar of survival. The voice of Danger Mouse, put its tiny dukes up in his head, offering a silent but not to him challenge:



”Keep it up Teardrop, Ill give your bitch ass something to cry about…and you wont know what the fuck hit you. I don’t need a reason, truly. I don’t even fucking like you. I raise you. Smooches.” Matt chuckled, noticing that his minds backbone, included no Spanglish.



Teardrop, satisfied that he now had at least the vision of the attention that he required from his constituents, continued on.



“So hey homie, while you and your smelly were busy fingering each others culos, they moved this vato in. Check it out…”A”.



Danger Mouse, he had senses too. The spider kind. Right now they said: “Oh fuck, this isn’t going to be good. I smell pretty, or money.” The declaration, subtle but deafening. “Check it out…”A”. Fuck this train, but I cant keep from rubbernecking the wreck. Easy teardrop, know your fucking role man.



Teardrop knew his role. Matt knew it too. So did the rest of the car on The Hill. “Oh yeah? Trucha, lemmee see the pescado.” Notice motherfucker, there was no please in that. Not even in Spanish. Poker. Matt eats elephants, one bite at a time.



“Orale, watcha.”



That’s right motherfucker, do what you’re told for the incog-cracker that infiltrated you.



The inspiration from a psychological sparring match won, was short lived. Under the hard façade, the boy was still very much human no matter how hard Preston tried. Matts heart dropped into well worn shower shoes. The new cellmate was what they called: “Featherless.”



But it wasn’t just that, everyone was there once. The innocence of his face said that a trusting soul didn’t have a single clue how much his hand of kindness would be took, stripped in the gentleman gesture of a handshake. This ones learner was slow busted, and everyone could smell the burn. Even the hacks could, and they were certain to exactly not help with the curriculum, a lot.



Matthew cleared his throat to address to young guppie. Would he see the outside of the bowl when I talk, was Matts last thought before choosing the new boys words carefully for him, and everyone else. Pray the crying clown, don’t notice.



“Whats up homie, where you from carnal?” The return voice wavered, unsure, unstable, nervous. Fuck, and from a nowhere town with little to no disparity or strife. Fucking wonderful. Might as well said fucking Irvine. Downright fucking in fear. God dammit man, work with me here.



“Yo, your balls drop yet little brother? Put some fucking bass in your voice, a little glide in your stride, and slap some gravel in your travel before Teardrop mounts your fuckin saddle ese. Cerrio homie. Tu sabes?”



This time a clear of throat, a little better. Not by much, but better. “So yeah, youre over there by those other vatos right…fuckin what is it…45,46,…..” Matt prayed to himself silently. Motherfucker DO NOT FUCK THIS UP! But he did.


“Hey Drop. Im not playin with you ese. And neither is that kid if you feel me. Tu Sabes holmes? I cant speak for Blancs…but im sayin holmes, listen to yo palabra ese, cerrio, grande orejas homies. If you do this, im going to the bank. Mandatory.”



“You aint got no bank holmes. Its all gooooood homies. Its just a game.”

Too many o’s MOTHERFUCKER, Matt don’t like the O’s in this fucking fruit loops bowl.



“Hey Drop, just to let you know. I don’t have a bank either. Buenos Tardes. Ill see you, when I see you.”

Less, well, its more. Big hugs Motherfucker, Matt thought in a final farewell, and Fond letters from home.





Mortified, they waited. Matt and Augie were helpless to help, powerless young gangsters with a conscience. Split in half, torn by a sick wall. Traumatized through a hole.

Damned if that wouldn’t turn out to be the single most selfish emotion that ripped to strips binding sheets, and the sickly-sweet smell coco butter lotion ever ejected.





















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