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John deGroot

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John deGroot

Leal Lerma Linda
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Good Ole Girls
by John deGroot   
Rated "R" by the Author.
Last edited: Thursday, March 29, 2012
Posted: Thursday, March 29, 2012

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The TEXMEX legal system is Good Ole Girls not working today. Dirty little secret of how many people Americans process for profit with conviction of innocents.

The remanding judge says how do you plead to the charges of class A misdeamor assault causing bodily harm, Failure to identify and Resisting arrest and transportation. I say: “Not guilty on all charges, your Honor.” “You will have prompt opportunity to make bail at five thousand for the assault and five thousand for the resisting and there must be an immediate payment of two hundred to the municipality for the failure to identify; if and when you make bail, then you may leave.” “Will I be able to use the telephone, soon sir?” “Yes, I said you would have prompt access to make bail, That is all. Take him away.”
The fucking cops at the Jackson street police station do not let me use the telephone for three days. It is not until I inform them that I have another court appointment on the third day and that they would have to escort me there if I am still in lock-uP^. And I say that I will tell the judge there about their not letting me use the phone that is when they let me use the phone. The second night I am put in a large overcrowded cell with forty or fifty loonie-tunes trying to get through the bars by yelling most of the night. We are piled uP^ on the damp concrete filthy floor.

Through the Bars

Dark damp concrete coated with laying souls chained next to next to next in rows
How many links am I feeling are my new personal properties between neighbors
Twelve across me six to the left and six to the right and ends of souls on chain not in sight
Who created us why are we here alive crimes of times
Faint view of form dematerializing to vapors escaping and empty chain links concrete clunk
New prisoner to replace the place on the lane of chain of lain wasted what
How many others are created as the departed through the bars maybe me
Called to be here called to not knowing called to prepare the going I can do too
Watch his atoms separating in to ghost consistency and flying release
No one sees and notices that is two now and am I called to go through the bars
Manacles of minds of chained slaves thrown overboard for insurance policy
God points the ring at me I am created to be free through my body I can see
Whirling globes celestial components of my vaporizing body form through the bars
Flying flying flying I finally know why I am flying I am created to be God wants me
Through the bars

There is no sleep for the wicked. This is understatement in this place. The de-humanizing is of American monumental impressiveness. What really fucking bothers me is that most of those and these real people in this stinking place are merely remanded for plea; they, most of us are still and may remain innocent according to the law, yet we have the most harsh treatment in this police lock-uP^. We are citizens who are paying the fucking wages in this place. It is fine for another citizen to say well a criminal must pay his debit to society, butTt we here have not been to court yet and we all are already condemned by this fascist police force. During the night I spy with my little eye that there seems to be some sort of conspiracy directed toward the only anglo-wado in the pig pile. Then it happens:


About to be Pissed on in Brownsville Lock-uP^ (true )
(loook uP^ drip-drip)

40 Men on the floor mostly
innocent
Untried tied souls soles toes too curled uP^ on
cement
HEY! 4:00 A>M> rambler what you
doing with your pants
I'm the only white-boy-here
don't make any further advance
Rising^ Oh No You Don't! put it over there
Directed to the urinal hole he decided
to depart
His load upon a fellow Nation's Al
he had missed his Mark
slamm slamm guard enters deposits appropriate blows drags him away

During my three days of torture and waiting for my entitled prompt court ordered phone call to bail bondsman there is a rather insane constantly yelling-kicking-banging inmate in my same predicament: “telephonOOOO guardia telephOOOO!!!!!” And I join him in chorus to of course no avail butTt I already know that it is futile to yell since they have proven lack of humanity already butTt he, Mr. Insanity, does think it will help. He has been “in” so many times that he has a regular bondsman that he calls the angel of mercy. A-one bailbonds and telephonOOOO # is relayed to me. And I finally call after much coersion. And I am out butTt I must pay twice the rate of interest because I am a Canadian and supposedly I am more of a risk for flight. The angel has landed.
I am to have a meeting with an anglo fuckhead prosecutor, Mr. Thompson, who will decide if they should preceed. He has made uP^ his mind before meeting me. I think that there is a Good Ole Girl hiding in the soup somewhere, I can smell the fish by my wasted trip of truth: She is a liar and a thief and I can prove it and I am innocent, is disregarded by this useless investigator and I tell him so. And I tell him what the Browntown cops are in the habit of doing and he only gives a shit where his paycheck is picked uP^ at the Ole’s command. “You sure do not suck uP^ to someone who can get this matter thrown out.” He says to me at this pretrial meeting. I only tell the truth I tell him. “Seventy per cent of cases never get to court; we offer a plea bargin if you plead guilty.” He says. “Innocent is innocent.” I have to see the judge for a plea and to secure a court appointed lawyer. Bobby Lerma is the son of an old retired Judge Lerma and he is sucking off and gasping on daddy’s droppings and drippings. Lerma gives me no appointments requested by me and mom at least ten times. Lerma gives me no correspondence. Lerma’s secretary hand me a cell phone with which he threatens me with get out of my office, leave my secretary alone or I’ll call the cops. This is my lawyer. I go to the county of Came moron court clerk to complain about Lerma and she tell me that she is the very secretary’s best friend and that I would have to call a meeting with Lerma, the Judge, and the prosecutor in order for me to complain so she suggests that I merely wait until the first time that these pigs are all at the same trough and I can tell them about Lerma’s professional neglect at that time. So I wait.
About a year goes by and then I go to court. The judge is sick and there is a fill-in judge so I must come back. The next trial date no Judge shows uP^. The next trial date I get the very new Good Ole Girl eX-prosecutor-UTB-alumnist judge, Janet Leal. This trial Is suspended because the prosecutor has not sent out any sopenas because he can not find Linda; she has given them a false address and phone number. Linda does not want to come to court to lie to cover uP^ her previous perjury of police statement. I have my first conversation with Lerma. “Do not worry, I can guarantee you that they will throw it out at the next trial, they can not find her or one of the cops will not show and the judge is a friend of mine.” “Do you want to know about the case? I ask him. “There will be plenty of time before the next court date on that same day, a few hours before. If it come to that. Do you know where she is?” He tells me and asks me. “Sure, not that I care, she is in Sulpher Springs working at the personal care home there. A so-called friend of mine came and helped her steal three cars loaded with things from the house right after she had me arrested and while I was tortured in Jackson Street cop fucking shop for three fucking days. He, Randy Stan, lives by there in Texarkana. I do not want to provoke any unfriendly testimony from Linda and I am not a rat so I am wanting for the outcome of these charges before I try to get her arrested for car theft.” There is to be another trial. I go to the municipal court for “failure to identify” trial and I win and My two hundred fucking bucks is refunded. Browntown mini-pig SerRata got his lies mixed-uP^ and he did not know the page of the criminal code book that I referred to which states that you have to already be detained or arrested before you have to identify yourself; or if you give a false identity; so I win round one butTt Judge Neece says stop harassing the cops and that he hopes that they getTt me in the next court. He is quite the impartial Judge. I think that if I did not research the penal code book that he would have railroaded me.

“Are an American citizen?” The giant brown clown blurts out with drool. “Yes” Henery walks through the turnstile. “And you?” “I am a Canadian.” I show him my passport and NAFTA certification for my job teaching at the local college. “You think I am stupid, I will show you I am not, Mr. Goodie two shoes. Come with me now, stand right there on that spot and move when I tell you to move.” “ I have not said a word to you. What gives you that impression.” I hand Henery the watch that I am holding for him and said I told you. I am thinking that they have the computer flagged, those damned prosecutors and judges got me looking bad on paper when I am truly innocent and framed twice by a damned fucking good OLE blonde sicko-psycho actress of a LIAR. I read his giant buffoon’s nametag: Heartnett. Yeah, like that is his name. I know he is an executioner hatchet man closing the net on the bridge with heartless intent.
The big fuck puts me in a chair in the front of his desk and he pulls out forms of formal charges even before he has interviewed me. He is filing the charges so he can get one more before his shift change and it is a white one for his quota balance too.
Heartnett is in consult with his white (or less brown) supervisor, Mr. Christian. This tiny in comparison to the hurried to condemn giant man is playing good cop bad cop with me. “I have complied with all immigration regulations and I have my T-1 NAFTA permit for upper level jobs with INS permission; which I do indeed have, the permission and the job as college instructor. I have classes to teach and it is the middle of the term. What will happen to my students?” I am overwhelmed by the unbelievable blunder of these two. My friends are already phoning the office to demand my release. The notions are pre-conceived by these goons as watchdogs for their own peoples: the mexprob. “I am getting angry with you and the shift is changing and now you missed the last bus to detention so you will have to wait for the next one eight hours from now. See what happens when you do not co-operate.” Heartnett keeps scowling at me and calling me goodie two shoes and a “man of moral turpitude”. I said that I do not recall that term applied to my misdemeanor conviction. Then I learn that Mimo Cicconne balogne and Capt. (wanna trip to Van) Walker, in Prince Rupert have put a probation violation warrant out on me. How could I be in violation of probation when I have never been placed on probation in Canada, nor have I had a trial in Canada except perhaps the illegal proceedings in my absentia, nor have I been assigned a probation officer? I tell the watchdogs these true facts and they disregard them for their term “man of low morals”. I have had the Liar Linda pay for the fine that she incurred for me in Canada. She paid knowing her responsibility.
The closet sized room has a plastic bag and a great green electric button on the wall. I sit here till dark for eight hours. Then, with that OLE slam, comes a green INS bus driver guard of nothing better to do that play nazis: “I saw your sheet, if you give me any trouble you will have the worst night of your life.” “Look, I am innocent and I may look bad on paper but they are wrong. I have never caused or done any harm to anyone in my life, so you need not worry.” “Get in the back.”
The bus careens through the valley night with many stops at many little jail stations for picking up the brown mexprob. We have only gone a few miles but it has taken half the night. I know that from Harlingen to Bayview is desolate with no stops and that time should proceed with haste but, no, the driver stops in Treasure Hills at some mansion of a watchdog for a quickie who knows what.
It is now twenty-four hours and morning of the next day since my false detention began and we arrive at the Bayview jail called Port Isabel Service and Processing Center (PISPC). What a nice hidden name for the tourists to see on the sign of the isolated, off the highway federal jail-like chicken coops. That is all the public sees is the sign. The place is rather secret and well kept a secret for reasons that will unfold such as: they, the fascists, are still amongst us, in US, here and now and probably always (although politics of Janet Reno and Elian Gonzalas (Cuban-inner-tube-kid would deny). We stroll from the bus to the main processing room with hoots and calls from the cockroaches in one pen and the coyotes in the other pen. The crowded wire room is where we are given cardboard boxes for our treasures and we are slowly sorted, photographed, staples, labeled, and stamped and shoved and yelled at, at tortured in a general inhuman way. This processing goes on and on and on and on for four days with us and other busloads of wretched souls of men, women, children, grandparents, and who knows maybe some real “illegals” as well. The remnants of those fleeing hurricane Mitch are now, some two years later being processed. Slow and chaotic with constant hassle is the order for four days with no ceasing from day to night with no sleep or comfort. On the fifth day I am sent to a pod of felons dressed in purple overalls and red overalls. Red is for violent felons. I am “put-him-in-red”. So I am in red although I am neither a felon nor violent.

Bench People INS

Bench People

Loudspeaker summoned asses placed
Rows a chattering Espanols
Chicks on red guys on green me on boards
in be ttt we eeeeen
Called by country number or name
Costa Rica Canada Ruiz 209
Defence in seconds minutes no
more
Visitations aplenty tale retold
We can not do anything
Resources low can you get some
money
Lawyer on holiday case is $ped here is
phone number instead
Mucho tiempo do your self
Guards talkie walkie battery
shout
New millennium will get out


Let my People Go Know

Happening on the rio bank
Welcome no tanX
Princess plays baby boat of reeds
All to die till age of three
Mud of Mitch contraband
opportunities in X land
Stand in yard listen for name
TV sit on ass each day same
Green bus come with another load
Linda Hondura deported no dinero
Machine gun fire on range North
Squeal appeal linger year more
Detroit crack Black reads Awake
Here so long cares not for his sake
El Salvador Janet at home waits
Deportee detainee husband makes
I go to Canada sell for cash
Rent beach house there to her I
dash
The brother wants she is for me


Sailing Walls Ship Home

Shore to sunrise sky
Muse moves I know not why
Ship sails full of machine
gun recoil
Palm trees two lean and wave
come to de port mannana
Withered arm one hair on chin
Many costs get rid of him
Opera singer learned in jail
Like the dog chases his own tail
Other side of fence lonely guard
Needs us he is conservation starved
Words and birds sky fly
Hymns Christo like surf crash
splash


Best Last

make me wait
Did not want to come here
anyway
United States built on Hate
Think it's great to be first
See them come See them go
Create their Hell inferno
$ick $ick $ick $ociety
Kick those praying on knees
Please please please see me
INsanity is a myth of the blessed
I refuse to be like the rest
Last here I come the best


Eight for the Eight

Homies cruisin riders low
In the wrong car got Gordo
Laughing Dudes already done
Driveby happened Gordo too late
All arrested attempted murder of eight
Gordo innocent serves all years eight
Year by year and pound on pound
Feet no longer can carry Gordo around
Never released gifted to INS
Wants deported make him wait
Weight increases every day wait
for Independence day
Weight of Gordo institutional food
Yet he is happy and light of mood
Those empowered want us soft
Glut the buttt and stuff the sloth
I am intent to lose some flesh
Leave the beans eat less and less

( "Gordo" = fat espanol )

US Packing

INS granny arm at side
Guard schooling crossing
ammo live
Gun belt LA to NY
Militia man not seen
wise
Toasted Waco OJ
free
Fuck the fucker
Fuck N me
Pawn shop stop
trigger my g-o-n-e


Last Lock-up^ Lost

Get the fuck out
Glad to be
This fucking cuntry is
not for me
Bus load of pseudo mexican
dogs one canadian
Mum the bum home
went
Mom will come and be
lonely
Spring will bring her to
see


Load of Shit

Say you will may be yeah
Mean the seem good for
you
Let him think release
police
Receive deceive the believe
good
Two turns to ten when and
then
Clean Unseen turd turn
around
To the prison within


Move the Blues

Lies of violation bitch purged
X turd of piece of shit in irritable
bowel husband
Moving deeper inside to perish
tall is this
Blonde bitch INS guard shouts
move the Blues
They put me in red clothes of
meant violent
Bad dude on paper that I am
Saved her life rats are hard to
kill
Asked for a pencil usa SKILCRAFT
med 2 (none-given)
Breakfast time spent with
waste of food
Move the blues for line of reds


Jungle people US

Deport import sort and staple
Hundred years no erase voice
place of face
Few years and months in milk and honey
Fleeing from bullets and flood
Houses wife cars and kids behind
to mud again
Green machine keep border clean
Now they crouch around me with
cartoon porno
Boiling pot of canned food native
line-up^
Conmigo the milleniums disappear
Intuition no reason poetic
meaning blur
Sell the car stereo cds everything
Wife and child away and bring
Back in time to origin


Man Go to Mango

X helicopter gunship gunner
Five years government rebel killer
Chiapas homestead taker
Needs a truck father-in-law mango
farmer
Guerrilla in-at-peace-in-next-bed
Both pray sing lesson circle join
Montoya left army don't like goin
His sister Janet is for my loin
Compadres meet in El Salvador
Houses like beads on ocean neck
Mango truck beach and Janet end
my trek


Wartime

Never wanted to be
Wartime
Why did they fuck with me
Wartime
Make them pay the bill
Wartime
Deadhead still Kill
Wartime
Do it too your own
Wartime
I am only one not wrong
Wartime
Starts when I am gone
Wartime
Take it to the street
Wartime
Use every act to complete
Wartime
No need for knife or gun
Wartime
Use guilt and fear among
Wartime
The life fight has begun



Thief You Know

Once stolen belongs to no-one
Can not be your own
Identity mi$$ing he has it
Should I leave the fucker alone
Thief knows the knowing
Pretending the not to be
Place the trace in his face
Fear and guilt the higher price
Return lost chance of gift
Could of had without the snatch
Be not a waster nor a horder
Learn the give and take


Language of One

Sit on ass chin on chest
Stroll with weighted feet
He has no words for us
Air passes vocal cords
For moan groan and sigh
Deaf and dumb he would be blessed
All his meaning is guessed
Solace safe in his soul
We are nonsense in his world
Sea swept survivor on our shore
Left his wife and babe behind


Last Look Took

Canoe suspended water so clear
Bottom scan invisible pool
Ripples on the surface reflected
On her round crystal green eyes
Magnify focus of vision
My whole world is these globes
See yourself paddling by
Upon the tears she will cry


War With Your Self

Wind up spilled intestines in spools
Snap the back strap of bra
Shot from sling strip of inner tube
Stone sinks in scalp pith of skull
Wiggled shorts flicked by foot in sock
Slaps with sound on papered wall
Stretched sheets of skin cloned for wound
Siliconed sacs onserted through slashes
Whined till she satisfies my sex
Slime slippery slong of sly me
Sneaks to sink for soapy scrub
Soon she joins in kiss of silence
Why should love want sure winning
Sin squeeze pleases cock by slit
Salvage seconds of shattered sensations
Swimming in streams of coarse choruses
War with you for errie eye ahhhhhhhh


People Counters

Arms moving in rhythm indexing fingers
Three pass in a row all in bed
Half a hundred room for wrong
Why not just count the empty cribs
Hour on hour off count our places
Move not till over again bad count
Count one extra release a prisoner
More alarmed with less than perfect
Count the counts combine for total
Soon count is over count again
Count laying and lying and lining
In beds walking up against the fence
Count the coming count the going
Count the ones on the way to here
Count the blues the oranges the reds
Count the men and count the women
Count the stragglers in between
Count those in places they should not be
Count those on shitters those in showers
Count those in processing those in
Laundry those in library those in
dining those in yard those in visiting
Those in lawyers those in pods those in
yards those in dorms those in offices
those in kitchen those in shop and
garage those in mail those on route
those in isolation those in buses who is
in the hole who is in the hole who is in the hole
Put the count on the daily chalked board
In come some new old come to see
Jeering shouts cockroach or coyote
They count we no count I know
Tomorrow is Tuesday the next free may be
None are voters they don't
count people people
counters vote
pay taxes
and are
Here
too



Jesus Three Hell One

Absolm Absolm Father
Why Me
Waterfall from slash
of Side
Hanging Dead by hair
In tree of life hewn
For cross timber
Earthquaked Hell It is His
arrival
Damage never to be
fixed
Eternal Now Well
Come on Down
Deny Love
Any One
Peace
T
.
Adventures of Brutus (the destroyer)

Blake could not have imagined this dog
eater of roof of house of all I like
and smile because Him I still like and
then crawl an inch at a time thinking
I didn't notice when I did onto my lap
until he had his face around my neck
and hind paws clinging to my kneecaps
the day coldest ice streets Nova on
two passenger side wheels at hundred
miles per hour in short city passage to
the next bar where He ate the interior waiting
in parking lot before I arrived chased by
bouncers told to Fuck off retreating at the sight
of the blacker than black eater of missing
seat headliner and dash pad he left the
driver's seat he needed somewhere to sit
he was happy to see me and I him I just
bought that seat I needed a new headliner
anyway his brother Sam stolen aged
three months was impetus for Brutus
purchasing breeder cherished and
reluctant to part due to grand size and
purity of black everything but teeth
negotiated home stair boards loosened
by paws pounding three trips excited
to my one ascension amidst thunderous
arrival and his impatience and wonder
at why I had to unlock a door that he could
easily eat a hole through beats me in
every time paws scrambling traction-less
on hardwood floor check out his empty
pre-chewed-daily-replaced-pot-for-food
need another pot for tomorrow ah there is
one of left-over-spaghetti spied as a grab of
beer out of fridge light stringed pulled
to reveal returned ring of gift with note
don't want a piece of your heart read as
slow slump on bed is joined inch by inch
in sureness of light stringed second pull
brings all black and Brutus

The Language of one is seen by myself during the meat-grinding hearings conducted by Fed judges with nick names like “El diablo”. Merek, from Poland, is a twenty-two year old male who has been caught for a second time. He has done no crimes other than his trying to reunite with his sister and her A-merry-can-I-stay husband. He was swimming across the Rio with two friends from Poland from Playa Baghdad to Boca Chica and they did not know of the portable INS station on the Boca Chica road. Merek has a lawyer who does not speak polish and INS has no Polish interpreter and no one spoke Polish, but Merek is a student of English with myself as self-imposed instructor. Friends had brought to the joint for me English instruction books and Spanish language instruction books. The INS sports director tried to keep my books until I cornered him. He is misplaced and de-placed and newly married with a wife and baby still in Poland.
A ship has entered the Port of Brownsville to discover four Cubans who have yet to put foot on American soil. They hid and starved in a ship container for one week. Most Cubans are given asylum when they sneak into USA but these four made the mistake of interpretation of not disembarking from the ship so technically they were not eligible for admission because they had not put foot on American soil before they were apprehended. Back they went in a flash because Cuban immigration is a hot topic since the demonstrations in Miami for pro-Elian-Cuban-cause.
The Haitian Negro has a lump of AIDS on his neck the size of a grapefruit and he and his girlie friend spoke only French-Haitian Creole and with the assistance of no translation they too were expedited “home”. The little Sammie Sosa from Dominica has lived and survived in Washington DC most of his young adult life with the rest of his family being well documented but they ran out of legal tender for legal parasites of documentation so Sammie went without papers to his demise except for on-going bond and lawyer money that was footed by his family.
Pedro got in an argument with his common-law-wife in Miami and she ratted him to INS. He fears for his adolescent daughter’s well being since momma is of no-account rat that leaves his daughter at various “cousins” (broad term). Pedro is from El Salvador and he is desperate to get a bond to return to Miami. His family in El Salvador can not raise enough money.
Maestro, from Guatemala, sings opera and spouts Dante and many Spanish people consult him. He is penniless and deported only after he is well stripped of his dignity through insult, rape, beatings, and generalized hatred.
I am learning that there are two fractions within the chicken coop of coyotes and the separate chicken coop of the cockroaches, they, the two fractions, are the Mexicans and the all others (mostly Central American countries). I find myself gravitating around the Central Americans because theirs’ is of a detention mostly involving no crime other than their trying to make a better life. These CA’s do not associate much with the Mexicans because as it is explained to me that the Mexicans only talk about drugs, murders, crossings and crimes. This style of crime the Tex-Mex do in a routine fashion back and forth. Post deportation they are back in a flash. The “gangbangers” would get deported after so many weeks or months and then they would re-enter USA again illegally. But, and this is a very big but, the Central Americans would get only the one chance to come because the getting across (US border) is easy but for them to get across Mexico is very very dangerous. Mexico has many (fifty or more) mobile immigration inspection stations that robs, rapes, and murders the Central Americans on route. The non-official Mexican non-federale general public bandito-rats-border-rats-macquilladora-rats would prey on these passers-by as well. Therefore being sent back and trying again is too much of a danger and overwhelming for those caught who have risked themselves once and would not do so again.
The Colombian drug dude with his bald rich head is known to me by sight only from South Padre Island where he owns mucho property. His mistake is that he was caught with sixty pounds of cocaine. His deportation back to Columbia is a death sentence carried out by his failed to succeed in smuggling compadres back in Columbia.
The detention center is much like a very low class school for smugglers, for Mexicans. The most predominant method of smuggling is by family car. They get the gas tank altered to look empty by camera but there is a second compartment. One druggie was in too much of a hurry and his tank alteration was not allowed the needed time to rust and become dirtied so the border inspector saw the newly grinded weld and took notice to the smuggler’s demise.
Many under the constant rotating camera eyes heavies would pretend to behave like good Christians thereby their thinking is that they would gain a favorable reputation. So, these good people would sing hymns and pray together. Some were rebels and some were government soldiers combined in the peace of detention from their war in El Salvador. “Hermanno”, brother is one such rebel. A military school trained him for militiamen in Maryland. The helicopter gunner who used to shoot at Hermanno was bunking right next to him.
The old man who raised seven American born professionals was deported for no-papers and DUI although he has lived in USA most of his lengthy life. Many years ago an elderly man was given the option of pleading guilty to falsifying a paper at the airport from Belize to New York and he was given a ten dollar fine. Some years later with changes in laws he is deported for his indiscretion causing him to leave his family. Being married to an American is of not advantage since 1997 the marriage law with regards for immigration purposes has been disenfranchised (no more grandfather clause). All thank Janet Reno.
Each morning between constant loudspeaker and machine gun blasting would come and so would the laundry for the mind of repeated and repeated and repeated immigration regulations. All people are to receive legal representation. There is none. There are few para-legal assistants to lawyers, who, as part of their legal training, do some pro-bono representations for the most needy. I am not of the sort and I speak for myself at all hearings with Judge Tovar, a fairly fair man or so I am told.
The guards are nazis bitchers and bitchies and the company of federal security company patronage are all wannabee INS guards so that they may gain power and more than their meager minimum wage. The same security company guards all Federal installations ‘cause some politician has granted a contract. They create a tension and they depersonalize us all. We are/and/are/or blues, or oranges, or purples, or reds, or coyotes or cockroaches, or called by country as I am called Canada because I am the only Canadian there. Me…they call frequently. I should never have been placed there. I am also called “Barbie” or “ponytail”, or “you”, or any other depersonalized and inhuman term. It makes the Nazis guards think better of themselves by becoming de-sensitized for the crimes that they are doing to their own people, the Tex-Mex brownies of desperation.
The medical trailers are of some amusement to me since I have some medical background as a LPN and RN. The TB is of some interest. My X-rays were lost so many times (at least three) that I refused any more X-rays. They lost or re-filed at least three different medical charts of mine. Each time they call you to the medical station means that you will be sitting and waiting on concrete bench for at least one day or more and more and again and again. Then when you enter and vitals are taken they may wonder why BP is high. “Maybe it is because you made me sit on that bench all day?” I would respond with astounding accuracy. A doctor responded to my complaints regarding a political comment that I made: “Canadians do not do this to their own people.” With: “Yeah right, you guys send them to us, USA, I had one the other day, a man from Bangladesh.” I do not think that this good doctor got the point. The one nurse took my vitals and recorded them as normal even before the thermometer had beeped. In a hurry, I guess; samosamo hurriedness that got my files lost. I reported to other medical professionals about the lack of efficiency and accuracy and I was ignored until I explained that my INS case should be expedited due to my hypertensive BP of about twice normal. I said I was a risk for their medical insurance plan and if I stroked in their detainment of me then they were going to be responsible for my lifetime’s worth of medical and living expenses. It was at this time I refused (to dismay of these pseudo-clinicians) any further medical interventions. “You may be punished and put in isolation for this decision.” The doc warns me. “Not if you mark my case of medical file as to be expedited on your recommendation.” “I will see what they say; see this sticker that I am attaching to your file? I will put it on the pile that the director sees and they just may speed-up your case for better or worse.”
I have been told and instructed by Probar, a pro bono legal agency, that I may be eligible for release on bond if I petition the assistant director, Mr. (you know who) Ruiz under certain prescribed conditions that I do indeed fall into. It is a lengthy and difficult process to make this personal appeal especially when you have no pen or pencil and the library is filled with the same six cocksucker each and every day. And I do not want my cock sucked. The underground friends supply me with writing materials and a friend on the outsies (visitor) enables me to complete the exhaustive and vast appeal for bond package for Mr. Ruiz. I get no response. To this day: no response. Thank-you very much gestapo Ruiz.
The day of my second kangaroo meat grinder hearing for INS during detainment comes and I know that I have lost my job, credit, my viability to function as a bono-fide citizen and taxpayer; so I am rather disgruntled with the Judge and I spout-off: “Hey go ahead and deport me to Canada.” It is a better place to go, right? Free trip; and, that is what your two lot-casting INS guards want is a free trip to Vancouver, one of the world’s ten best cities, go ahead I am sick and tired of what you people are doing to your own people…. I do not want to participate in a country that does these things to people. Deport me now.” Judge Tovar is reassuring: “Can you wait here two more weeks, I will give the prosecutor two more weeks to find anymore charges on you, if he cannot then I can tell you right now that he has no charges on you for immigration purposes.” I am beginning to like this man and I say: “Yes sir.” “Will the prosecutor make available his new report so I may prepare a defense?” “Yes. I will give him one week to prepare and you can have his report for the second week so that you may prepare.” “Thank-you, Judge.” It never comes to me despite my daily efforts to secure this potential alleged report of further charges. I know why. I have done no wrong so how can he find other convictions. Nevertheless, he was supposed to make me aware of this.
The “cockroaches” are kept in a different yard than the “coyotes”; this is necessarily so (as Orv puts it). Like two fighting rosters the individual yard would confront the other’s yard. The one yard, attached to cockroach prison, has a large circle for endless walking enjoyment, it has a “library” with the same cocksuckers in it (one place, the library, that is not on camera). And it, the whole massive yard for hundreds of pissers and god help us shitters, has one toilet for about four hundred wanderers so a mighty piss stain has evolved in this yard that is years-n-the-making. The other yard is kiddy-corner to the other yard. This yard has a walled in bathroom area good for grabbing enemies. It has twelve toilets and one small sink that does not work.
Chicken pox is the bug du’jour. Red Cross matron has the dinner crowds lift their shirts about every few months. These days of AIDS and its (HIV) promotion of re-active-ate-ing TB and TB is a concern of PISPC medical unit. This former premise is evidenced by our endless sitting and waiting for X-rays/lost/found/and/re-rayed.
When a cockroach was treated for trauma to his face because someone kicked the soccer ball in it; he was put in the hole for three days. And the “kicker” was not questioned.
Lasarge large is only large in his own mind with his constant bullying and condescending as If he slowly can TCB of all the business of which I am sure he is fearless. Your deportation officer is not to be trusted. He is not there to help you and that is one of Homer’s best lies: I am here to help you. Upon given favorable-to-you information and details, he will lose the facts and lie that he assisted you with the information. His main function is to arrange the terms and conditions of your predetermined re-fucking-move-all. He says he helped but what he does is phone your outside contact person and tell them that you are indeed fucked and there is no hope once you are in detention. False hope is spread by the perverted bastard.
Ruiz, the head-jailer, and his prosecutors, (both claim to be of two different branches of INS Department of Justice tree rooted in Janet Reno so they can pass the buck), never share information as in “disclosure” thereby making it difficult to prepare for your defense of charges at the on-going hearings that are spaced two weeks to six-weeks apart. Any documents exchanged by me to any INS official, guard (security and INS), trustee, deportation officer, are as good as “discarded” in the trash. Visitors are screened as to prevent co-operation with the outside. Close families are distant behind the INS bulletproofing glass. There is not sentences or sentencing. You are merely dropped off the end of the world and detained for an indefinite term of time. You are not in USA; you are in no man’s land that is still stuck on the bridge. Being told: because I was on the bridge at the time of my detainment I was an escaping criminal and therefore I was not entitled to a bond as somehow, I do not know how (maybe Janet Leal and her gang had the border computer “flagged”), I got labeled as a fleeing criminal since I was entering USA from Mexico and not the other way around.
“You got bond? I no got bond! You go Washington! I go Washington!” Little black Sammie Sosa would greet me, greet each other, each day with the same plea and then we would sing “daylights comin and I want to go home” and “mother Mary comes to me, let it be”. But each day was the same until one day Sammie Sosa calls out: “I got bond, I go Washington.” I did not tell him (language problem) that that does not mean that he has won his case.
The two little faggots are sneakin and snaken around the yard. I know them to be bad. “What you doin?” I already know I have been following them. In a hole here and a crack there I find items of weapon-like invention; they are a sharp rock here and a sharp piece of fence wire there, a club, a piece of glass, and others as your imagination for attack may lend itself. “We goin to kill someone, we do not care who. You will see, you afraid.” The one goof of the pair tells me in all the English that he can muster and I doubt that the other goof has any English at all. I go into the one can of the one can yard later and a big broom closet is blocking my departure. As I shove it over with some effort the fag pair giggles with pushes and they try to enter as I am trying to depart. I grab the bigger one’s throat and I hurl him into the other. Next, I inform the yard heavies of my encounter and they promise to keep an eye on them. I am not troubled again but the maestro is tied to the bed during his sleep by the same two so I receive permission for maestro to change pods and bunk next to me for his protection. The goofs are infuriated by my concern and I hear and see them attacking their vending machine in the night as some sort of recompense for their lost efforts of fag-hood.
My reputation as a college instructor and a rare person of “degrees” is to my absolute benefit amongst the felons, INS guards, and those heavies seeking asylum. The mass illiteracy and poor English language skills is debilitating for these desperate desperatoes . All forms must be completed entirely in English. Well, I can help you with that and I do. Much time is spent by me reading the charges of others and the outcome reports of their ongoing hearings. As a result of my efforts many heavies want to see no harm come to me because it would result in their incomplete petitions. The barn-boss tough gangbanger is jealous of my noteriety and he makes his demonstrations of defiance toward me be known with his threatening of hands and glares and words such as “wado panoucha” (blonde pussy). He thinks I do not know what it means when he says it. But I do and I grab his voice-box with a twist of my wrist and a whisper I put him into passive mode. “Want to see how many people stand up? Look around. Think they are goin help you or me?” Behind his right ear under his scalp he has the gang tattoo marking his killings and I give this sign a smack with my middle large knuckle as I swing my hand off his throat. No more trouble surrounds me.
I even help a few INS guards with interpretations of the etiology of their depressions. “I do not feel like getting up in the morning and coming here, I hate my job.” These are the no-good-goodguards of INS watchdog kennel. “Teach school or anything but change jobs. You are in here too and nobody wants to be in here except that you sense all the hate and disgust for you. I do not have that problem. You are sponging-up all the bad vibes of this place for all time and if you do not leave you will become permanently damaged in your psychology.” These are my usual comments to these paid souls from Browntown and Los Fresnos and Bayview and even the Island. The female guards are beyond redemption that my words for them may instill. They are too involved with trying to keep the stink of this place off their INS fucking asses and they are not too bad of fucking asses either; after all that is how they got their jobs (with good ass) post hacking around playing with the male officers in their 4X4 trucks burning up federal gasoline during their working barbecues and running over fleeing wets who may lay for potential escape in the tall grass of King Ranch that is owned by the Roman Catholic Church. These are more good ole girls who do not even know where and what Canada is but they would gladly except a free INS escort-trip there for the distasteful pleasure of accompanying me to Van..


School Fool

It is like casting lots for the clothes of Jesus. They are having lottery on who gets to travel where. The DWI car accident deportee from West Germany, Chris Damher, born much “witness” to my suspicions of travel greed. His so-called necessary two guards planned their days off to coincide with their guard duties. The better the trip the more high of a rank, in there order of ranking, got to go along. I began to think that I was going to be re-moved simply so they could travel and Heartnett is at the front-line core of this premise of mine. He, Heartnett, sends them the needed victims for escort and they do not merely want to go to Reynosa or Houston airport; they want world travel and I fit that profile. In my first week I quiz and ascertain that at least fifty inn mates have fallen to Heartnett’s blade on the Progreso guillotine-bridge. I later learned that later he moved to the Matamoros bridge for some Christmas rush action. The word is out on this giant and a bounty could exude from his slime-y actions in the form of canal or the old blanket trick, or so I am told. Samosamo is with his supervisor of good Christian name, the other swing of the pendulous blade.
When these goons spotted me on the bridge with my legitimate documents in hand and I was asked: “Are you am American citizen.” And I answer “No, I am Canadian, with a NAFTA T permit for teaching college.” Heartnett’s response was: “So you think I am stupid, don’t you?” I responded: “How can you say that, I have not said a word to you yet, I do not know you.” His antagonistic comment was: “Well I went to school to get this job and I got A’s. Most of the others around here do not even know how to “run” a Canadian, but I do. You will see, come with me.” I suspect that novice public opinion-appointed-Judgie, ex-probation officer, ex-prosecuter (still advisarial) Janet Leal and cronies have flagged the computer. And that Mimo Ciccone, in order to protect himself from his revealing of his own incompetency of not knowing how to put someone in USA on Canadian probation with an order never signed by the judge on a person who was tried in absentia who has no probation officer; so, he puts out a warrant for probation violation for the probation that I was never assigned. His warrant and that co-signed my RCMP goof Walker (he, good const. Walker with his cell-phoning rats wants a trip from northern Canada in Prince Rupert into southern Vancouver) is on the computer as well. The bureacacry is not working today and I linger because of it’s not working and no one will accept that they are working in a ludicrous system. So I get stuck with the blame it on me so they can continue grabbing their paychecks. Are you getting it yet dear reader?
Day after day routine may best be related with a list of near non-activities. They like to keep us soft and subdued. I even wonder if there is something in the alleged food and/or drink:
Wake 6:00 a.m.
People count
Screen comes on with same daily US immigration regulations and propaganda
Beds are made as seen in photo
Una Linea Por Favor muchachoes
March with guards single file to mess from lock down
Enter as other prison (one of six or seven) leaves in similar fashion
During entry people count
Seated to eat usually tiny box of cereal, box of milk, orange or apple
No time allowed to eat fruit everyone searched at exit for sneaking fruit into yard fruit then fruit and people are discarded by guards, fruit in garbage people in yard
Enter one of two alternated between coyotes and cockroaches yards
People count up against the fence
Listen for name call on loudspeaker, mandatory, carry ID card
Walk in circles behind wire or lay on dry pissed-on-grass with conjunctivitis contaminated dirt ceaselessly blowing into reddened eyes
People count up against the fence
While against the fence the female detainees walk as mysterious angels una linea muchachaes to dine while males hoot and call like roosters from both yards on each side of linea of angels
Wait till cockroaches pass by after women exit with threatening opposition on both sides of fences
Una linea to dine while counted again enter again
Lunch noon no time to eat fruit searched and people counted again as departing
Enter one of two alternated between cockroaches and coyotes yards
Listen for name on loudspeaker may get called for mail, Sunday visitor, medical, or processing or some other meaningless mindless activity
Walk in circles or lay on pissed-on-contaminated dirt and dying grass
Watch colonies of ants and spiders
Up against the fence for people count
Return from fence to walk in circles or lay in filth listen for name on loudspeaker
Up against the fence for people count
Watch as procession of angels enter una linea muchachaes for supper
Hoot, mock, call like roosters, from both yards as females pass
I watch for the wada from Russia as she glances at being one of few wadoes
I watch for Indian girl from jungle
Una linea muchachoes cockroaches pass by to eat as females leave, hoot and call sexual and threatening comments
Coyotes eneter to supper una linea muchachoes while counted at door
Supper of bland noodles wiener and such, avoid drinking cool-aid, easy to spike, no time to eat fruit that is taken away at door with search and discard thereof maybe drop letter in box that is rarely picked-up counted as entering yard
Walk in circles or lay on contaminated ground.
Up against fence for people count
Walk in circles or lay on contaminated ground
Up against fence for people count
Walk in circles or lay on contaminated ground
Up against fence for people count
Una linea pro favor muchachoes
Exit yard for walk on contaimated ground with conjunctivitis dust from many many continuous footsteps trodding another day again while another count
Enter concrete area around max. security pod wait for name call enter on name call
Flop on bunk made in a.m. box has been searched
Everyone to sit on bunk for people count
TV comes on with deplorable repeated torturous movie like “Bride for Chuckie”
Constant shouting and banging of fooze-ball table-game actually another device of torture and banging of vending machine and hooting and screaming and yelling and unable to talk and hear at normal voice level
Sit on bed for people count
Change of guard
Sit on bed for people count
Open toiletting and showers with frequent calls for agua! Agua! Hear flush like thunder, another device of torture
Sit on bed for people count listen to loudspeaker someone leaves to be deported grabs all bedding with trail behind and guard escort
Sit on bed for people count
Constant banging of fooze ball and banging of vending machine. TV off main lights dimmed, never out
People count while in beds
Try to sleep if you can while large large fan blows drying out flip flops placed next
Wake if sleep 6:00 a.m. people count

I know of two ways out with escape. Maybe there is more. I never really explore any more ways because you only need one way and I have two. I stay and wait for immigration hearings. I got no bond. I no go Washington.



Web Site: Good Ole Girls



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