My name is Spoon Jackson in that New Folsom Prison. And the title of the poem I’m reading is “Go On.”
I cannot go on like this, but I will go on, on and on even when on is off. Something is stirring inside me, my soul wanting to burst out like a hot spring in the desert, wanting to come out, and I don’t know what it is.
In the moment, I hope it’s a poem or a song. Something vast like Euripides, something wise and funny like Aristophanes, something deep like Langston Hughes, so deep in the seas where no light goes. I know what it is. I want to create my way off this lockdown and write my way out of prison. They allowed redemption once, now only condemnation.
I cannot go on, but I will go on, on and on even when on is off. Melancholic and sad, they all letting some lifers go home, some I have known for a lifetime. And that is a good thing. Yet there is no end in sight for me. I don’t know anymore where to go to get strength to go on.
I don’t know where to go to leave this sadness and pain and make my heart sing again and make my spirit sure again. Everywhere I look, there’s a big sign that says no, no forgiveness, no love, no hope, no second chance, no dreams, no romance.
I cannot go on, but I will go on, on and on even when on becomes off. But I have nowhere to go. Nowhere that says yes. Yes, it’s okay to dream for some come true. Yes. It’s okay to hope for freedom for freedom is free. Yes, it’s okay to love, for love can be true