Smoke more than fire between gang zealots,
three or four tussle the chow hall.
Lockdown 11:15 till 9.
Grillings by some of gazillion cops,
who were bussed in for a TV primetime crisis
where there was not really nothin.
Every person in camp interrogated
about what each of us knew ‘n when—
it reminded me of Senator Baker’s
epic Watergate Nixon question.
We knew nada, couldn’t care less
except if shit devolved into Attica.
Incessant hassles so I couldn’t snooze
or read at my bunk…then next morning
waking to the stink from arson in the hills
between here and the beach,
which had been raging for days
but that now is visited upon regular folk
‘cause of changes in our wind.
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