An excerpt from Fuck a Blue Moon

…Fuck a blue moon. Wasn’t even that interested in the first place. But the interlude between light and darkness on a clear summer night? That’s something worth living and dying for. That may sound like an over-exaggeration. Yet for me, it’s proven true throughout my entire life. Especially during these past 10 years, when dark days developed a habit of spiraling towards the specter of death. To put it simply, sunsets are a sign of hope for me.

When I was away in prison, the meat and potatoes of my release during our daily 1-hour recreation was to hit the pull-up bar then run laps around the yard until I calculated I’d done at least 2 miles. Though during the winter, when it got dark out early, I’d go outside with the sole purpose of sitting back against the concrete and watching the sun disappear. You have to appreciate the fact that in a place as hopeless and depressing as a penitentiary, it’s the simplest things that are conducive to survival. Headaches and annoyances like watching your back, minding your business, always being ready to fight and, for the love of God, avoiding gambling are all second-nature traits that inmates learn quickly and which go without saying. The purpose of the laws of the jungle are to maintain order amongst the animals. Yet as far as survival and avoiding self-destruction, it’s the things that bring you out of yourself that keep you going.

I’d be in the yard, sitting on the pavement, layered up in sweatshirts and thermals to keep me warm in the frigid temperatures, looking up. The shot callers and bangers would play basketball back-to-back religiously, roaring and screaming and sometimes flat-out fist-fighting, all in the name of the game. Some of the more shady cats would huddle up in the corners, plotting on who their next victim would be (sometimes they would just jump you. Other times they’d drag you in your cell and give you a blanket party with rock-filled socks. And then, depending on what you did, they’d hit you with a good old-fashioned shank to the kidneys). Then there were the junkies who’d walk around fishing until they found someone to sell them dope or Suboxone…

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