Once had something beautiful, you know.  Lost it, of course did, lose too many things and can’t find them fast like used to.  It was there, though, there and bright and big.  Not anymore, no; it’s close, but not here. Have a right for you to know it exist, do – a right.  You can’t take it away – you can’t, really – it’s locked down here, down here.  You can’t reach it, you can’t with those hands those arms those tools those things.  Safe, safe, it is.   Safe as it will ever be.
Let paint a picture of what’s going on.  Dark, cold, window – one – high up, past reach past head top hand.  Can’t see through – but can see up.  See reflections, see light there up in sky and see shine.  Tells when time, prepares to be ready. 
They come early.   “Get up, move off those beds and line through!  Breakfast – go soon or cold!”  And so get up, line up, file out and through and to.   Eat breakfast, but breakfast not food.  Brown, calories, fat, protein, not food.  Meat if lucky, but no food.  Keeps memory away but hurting – real food.  Like real food – love real food.
Once got brought real food.  Long, long time ago.  Before lights shown and before darkness quickened on.  Girl, knew her, same long time past.  Not then, but before.  Never knew, face kind, daughter?  Face broken, broken from hand.  Don’t know what hand.  She won’t tell.  Just bringing something – real food.  Muffins?  Batter, cooked cone, cream cheese, middle. Soft in center, hard outside like rock.  Said – Sarah? Emma? Jane? – just like the man who left her.  Don’t know who is.  Think it’s the man in front of her?   
Ate these rocks filled with softness quickly.  Forget fork.  Forget bars.  Forget anger.  Forget Amanda (Sophie? Mary? Jo?), forget fork forget pain forget fear.  Happened too quickly. She hold it, hand of man out, vulnerable?  Mistake?  Fork in her fist get put in hand, stab through, blood.  Cry.  She, cry long time scream at blood of manmade of rock.  Men drag her away.  No bother with fork, soiled in blood of man hard as rock on outside.  However soft on middle?
Last real food, last real face.  No remember who she is.  No remember why she there.  No remember words she screamed, cried, just don’t remember.  Not because of beat in head.  Not because of fist, not because of mush, not because of brown. Not because of blood.  It’s because of chain.  Chain make forget.  Chain make forget anything but chain. 
No beat here.  They don’t beat any with fist. But they beat with metal, they beat with mind. Key and lock.  Wish they beat, most for a reason to get out.  Get proof.  Inspection of the rooms come with inspection of contents.  Contents bruised?  One with fork in hand but all.  Man okay.  Man wasn’t stabbed, man stabbed self.  Don’t remember exact words but don’t make sense.  Say this man get out eventually.  But not this man.  Pass inspection but not pass in court day later.  Fancy day later, stain of blood on orange not fancy.  No pass inspection of sanity, of innocence.  Guilty.  Plead not.  But get guilty and get back. Can’t tell why anymore.  Don’t remember.  Only remember chain.
They remember, papers with words don’t have.  Use evidence just like try to have.   Keep in chain.  Keep chain around head.  Why, ask.  Ask every time they wrap.  Every time they use, every time they wear suit and sit in light half dark half see-through science half not.  Why.  They say because guilt against the law means consequence.  They protect world.   They protect all things beautiful from destroyers of it. Destroy beauty?  What destroyer do that? And what about man?  What about man after man after man?  Not beautiful?  Tell you, have something beautiful once.  Didn’t lose it from guilt. Didn’t lose it from girl before muffin.  Lost it from chain.  Like said before.
Had it hidden down, still do, it still there, but doubt sometime?  If it is still there within than it is lost.  Can’t find it.  Can’t have strength of pain to of arms of forks to bring it up into sunshine of window.  It is evidence, can’t use because don’t have.  They can’t see it so they don’t believe it.  Don’t believe until see the beauty lost and buried but not gone maybe gone probably gone but not.  No blame.  Can’t blame them.  Don’t blame them.  Blame the chain. 
Hate is a funny thing.  Hate the guards? No.  They have job - duty.  They have family.  They have to follow rules.  Well – don’t have to.  Prefer rules and orders to consequences of going against.  They scared, all everything scared into doing things.  Scared.  But know, hey, okay, they have something beautiful inside them.  See it like light from window.  Know it’s there, see its rays, feel its warmth but no identify origin.   Same with beauty.  Same with it. 
Hate this place?  No.  It has purpose, purpose not known but used to know.  Came here get filled with dread – did something wrong.  Only thing remember – the fear.  The fear of knowing that something was done that cannot be renewed and suffer because of it.   Consequence come.  Afraid of consequence but now maybe live it? Don’t know because don’t remember.   Can’t remember.  Or maybe can, maybe just afraid of the things that will happen to if do remember.  Like law.  Like guard.  Like chain.
But no hate this place.  No hate the gray, no hate the job, no hate the rooms and the locks and the bars and the beds and the toilets and the smell.   No hate the non-food, no hate the rules.   They all have reason. They all have thought behind them.  Consideration.  And if can’t remember how to locate knowledge no fair to say hate anything no understand.  No understand rules, don’t understand place, no understand guards, but no hate.  “Don’t” hate, not “can’t” hate – because not afraid of consequences of hating.  No consequences like being alone or being locked or being empty or being sprayed or being dark or being cornered or being covered or being stripped or being yelled or being skinned or being torn or being burnt or being frozen or being watered or being parched (no beaten; doesn’t pass inspection if leaves mark on outside, on outer peal of wrapper on outer coating of cake, sweet, good food like muffin not like muffin on outside being hard as rock like man like son like god like girl).  Or maybe am afraid.   Maybe are consequences on out.
One thing hate is chain.  Chain have no thought behind it – no family, no light, no beauty.  Human crave beauty, are they it themselves?  Not chain.  Chain is no human but is offspring. Human creation.  But no thought – no awareness – instinct.  Pulse from inside.  Chain make connection but only one, and only one important.  Chain to you, you to chain.  Nothing else.  Connection or bond.  No leader over chain.  Chain lives everywhere. 
Chain placed around my forehead when arrived, but chain always under skin under muscle under vein under fluid under skull under brain.  See chain as evidence – useless – but you can see it.  Roam, connect you to chain, chain to you.  Won’t leave.  Couldn’t leave.   It keep there like leach. 
Kill beauty?  No.  It wrap around thing that finds the pretty things, shows you different.  Makes those thoughts crowd back at you.  Feel it sometime, feel it at night.   Felt it that time and it seem like worms in my eyes and through my hair.  Pull hair out like fork come out of hand, skin no difference compared to metal.  Worms no leave, Writhe, wriggle, everywhere.  Spread to arms, spread to wrists, spread to hands.  No touch.  Don’t touch – bite.  In teeth, rot them out of mouth and onto floor.  Make food that not food even worse, feel more.  Worms kids of chain like chain kid of human.  Ignorance fueled both.
Worms eat at skin, eat at inside. No pain.  No hurt, or just forgot pain.  No like worms, but no hate worms.  Chain doesn’t think. But think about worms, and they have thought behind them, leads to purpose.  Have a purpose, to eat at the man who hard as rock outside and soft inside like cream cheese just like cream cheese resting on tongue swallow down sore throat with honey as child as kid as offspring as creation as growing.   No worms then.  Just the ones in ground.
Back to chain, around forehead.  Hate chain, love beauty, chain no let beauty in eyes around mind in ears around mind through fingers around mind in nose around mind on mouth around mind.  No let beauty through.
Hate the chain. 
Hate chain.
Hate it.
Nothing else.  Everything else have purpose.  Darkness, thought; room, thought; law, thought; fork, thought; alone, thought.  Full-proof.  Pass examination, free to the world!  Free. 
Let talk about the word freedom.  Don’t understand why it matters.  Apparently, currently am not free.   Because locked at night, because not allowed to walk in grass or drive car or…or…do things used to do?  Not trusted?  Not trusted with fork stuck in hand because could stick it there again?   Not trusted with visit anymore because cry, cry, and otherwise no one came to visit?  Visit why, because can’t see them?  Lack of freedom no mean lack of beauty.  Have beauty.  It there.  It somewhere.
Guards?  They free.  Judge?  She free.  Visitors? They free.  They come here too.   The difference is they don’t stay. They always leave at one point, stay until allowed to leave or until escape or until pass evaluation or until fail evaluation or until die or until go to sleep forever and never open eyes to see beauty one more time just one more time!  Not even beauty hidden deep inside which know have.  Know have.  No doubt about this knowing and having.
Because used to have the girl.  Used to paint pictures, used to watch the sky.  Used to talk with students, used to ask questions.   Used to have voice that could sing, used to shower with a door closed, used to sleep away from toilet used to see women used to see hair.  Used to have hair – ha! – used to hear music used to make music used to see flowers and smell flowers and think – to think – about what it would be like to become a flower.    Have roots, stay down, stay down on ground, but see the sun and see the rain and see the leaves all around, feel the world below on and above for whole life and never want different.  No have consequences.  Never afraid.  Shadows are friends but only a little while.  Sometimes, shadows kill.
But that chain talking for.  Frustrated because chain talks just like always have.  No disguise.  Not hidden.  Camouflaged.  Masked, however clear as day.  Frustrated because worms gets worse.  Reproduce out of instinct and crawl through brain, making tunnels and holes and memory leaves.  Tell the men in white what mean, tell them when evaluation.  “Eating at inside, eating there and getting bigger, need them gone to think need them gone to sleep need them gone to eat need them gone to stay here in this room they say is new home for rest of time,” said to the men in white.  Men in white shake heads and turn away.  Laugh? Cry? Sigh?  Can’t tell.  Disappoint? Anger? Fear? Joy? Optimism?  Can’t read emotions anymore. Chain blocking that part of beauty from reaching eyes from reaching head from reaching mind and heart that wants to understand.  Can’t these men see want to understand? 
No anger – frustration.  Every day, do the same thing.  Every day, say the same words.  Every day, stay the same place.  Never change.  Stabilized environment?  It’s what the worms like.  They eat my toes now, as talk to you.  As answer questions.  Hear their little voices yelling at the others all at one time because they like the sameness of same and the irregularity of mind because they like to eat it and make it regular.  Munch munch munch as they screech and screech and screech.   No like it.
Start to hate                            it.
Hate the worms.
Make
                                                                    them
                       stop.
Afraid they eat the beauty.  Afraid they reach deep down inside where this little clock ticks where hid lost beauty before clock goes off and mind explodes but so do worms.  Better go off or harvest beauty or get out of here get out of here get out of here before worms go munch screech and multiply all over the beauty had; the beauty want so desperately to keep!  The one thing put chips in for betting, all the cards in hand with fork perpendicularly bisecting through a midpoint of imperfection so imperfect the worms want to eat that too but haven’t found their way around the metal yet they’re eating away at that as well but it takes longer it’s like the hard crust of muffins of rocks of man but soon they’ll reach the soft gushy middle and soon they’ll be munching and screeching and multiplying and ruining my scars the lines the bruises the evidence which can’t lose can’t!  Ticket out of this place and ticket to freedom that apparently have and they don’t and everything is falling everything is spinning but have to stay on feet or get kicked but maybe good to get kicked but only hard enough to leave scar for men in orange coats to see and evaluate and inspect and take this place down in flames and put hay under the barn and light one match just one match and watch the heat raise to the heavens coming from hell watching the heat as it burns your face but not as burnt as the sheep as  the sheep squeal with despair as their wool melts their skin to the bone and their eyes dribble to the ground!  What a glorious feeling what a glorious smell, the smell of beauty burning and ending and resulting to nothing, a whole family and a whole livelihood dying and no one being able to do anything about it because the phone line got cut in the prairie home in the morning by the “useless immigrant” who doesn’t know a word of the language especially the bad ones the man likes to call and call and scream.
And then with the walls burnt down and the children crying and the worms writhing knowing they’re about to die because knowing how to count is a blessed thing thank god they teach that here and thank god they teach how to tell time because really needed that to program five seconds down and five seconds only to escape – be free and all can go to the world like the rest already could and enjoy the life all were blessed with by the sake of Jesus Christ and every man will be equal like they all told.  No man will have to stay in one room by the hand of another man with a chain tied tight around his head and only a rock in his stomach and a face gone by that might have been a girl but might have also been an actress or who might have been the girl in tears outside (inside?) the burning barn with the sheep that were making a wonderful smell and a wonderful sounds that were resolving to a heavy crisp that lays on the ground and feeds the worms in brain who make the most beautiful voices when thinking about and wondering about this girl and these sheep that are now mush and some are crust. 
With this place – this horrible place – that I’m starting to hate
Hate
Hate
Hate
Hate
Hate
Hate hate hate hate
to pieces all gone from the fire they light to burn their flesh and their socks and their shoes,  never have to listen to orders and labels and truths and lies they tell, things they say because they’ll be gone.  Not dead, that’s not enough, but gone.  Away.  Not in head, not in heart.  Heart hurts because of wanting.  Wanting to get out.  All need – swear! – is to get out of this place get out of this world get out of  head get out and away from the rock in stomach and the worms in my soul and the chain on mind squeezing tighter and tighter combining something with the thing it can’t have – silence.  Silence!  A thing that’s filled with the twisted kind of beauty the same kind saw at eyes of girl as they bled onto her cheeks as the heat popped her neck into knots and father yelling grabbing at kiddies grabbing at lambies grabbing at mommies.  No reach.  Can’t reach.  Too many consequences when reach.
You see? It all comes down to beauty.  It’s all want.  As humans, crave closure and beginnings (want a magnificent ending like a magnificent beginning full of beauty and light and a slight shadow of darkness for contrast because every little thing in the middle is all a screwed up mess full of death and explosions and drool and holes and traps and blades and blood and inspections and bruises that go away too soon!) and randomness and perfection all in one and die for it every time see it here see it how they can leave here – they bargained with this man made of rock and gave him two options.  Burn at the stake like uncle and savior and brave and noble or stay in cell with chain glued to forehead with blood and puss from wounds disappear right before inspection and never leave until the end until no more light no more window close eyes but don’t sleep and never open them again until at the morgue they slide one lid up to check you for pinkeye but that’s it.  Gave him bargain, he choose hell.  He choose to sit and think because no way can be like chain.   Need thought.  If thought kill, so be it.  Thought also live more than chain let live beauty.  Look for chance of beauty and hide it – pretend to lose it so they don’t know where to look.
But now it’s too late for beauty to be saved.   Beauty was found by worms they snuggled their way to hiding place under gut next to the clock with seconds stuck on five.  Stuck on five – hah! – can’t move hand is stuck like fork stuck in hand of stone.  What good will knowing how to count and tell time be now?!  All it needs to do is to go from five to go through four to go through three to go through two to go through one to go through –
And then finally would get magnificent ending, folks.  American Dream. It would be a beautiful thing, because to tell the truth, want ending now.  Don’t want to close eyes again if have to open them again.  Without beauty intact, without opportunity to bring up, not able to have an ending filled with anything at all.  Is that what freedom is?  Being able to end it with beauty?
Let’s say could’ve harvested the beauty out of my stomach carefully around the tick tock clock with the fire hidden inside waiting to come out and eat more than just mind, what would do with it?  You want to know?  You want to know before you walk out here and think about freedom and the chain inching up around own neck and sign in door and pinkeye and muffin with your little pad of paper and pen and sunglasses on and job and big values and donations and life and family?  Lambies of your own to give you fantastic smells and sounds as you burn them and turn your back never to be bargained with and only to sit alone with too much thought and too much freedom to pay your dues?  Tell you.  Tell you good.
With the beauty kept inside all life, would hoist it with strong arms that don’t look to strong but are – trust, they are strong with pain and burnt ends and evidence – and hand it to the chain.  Say “please chain, take this beauty away.  Show what being here really means.”
And chain take this.   Chain think for first time.  And chain hide beauty far, far, away.