Visitor Parking

Juvenile Prison Where Boys Are Raped By Guards

No, seriously.

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Pathetic.

Fuck me. I had parked in visitor parking.

They towed my car.

I can’t really name the prison. I can’t even name the state. I’m already red-flagged there with Google alerts that I have mentioned them. If I so much as type the names, I get a lot of flack.

It’s still genocide.

How do I know this.

I have Google Analytics, and I use them. If you hit on any of my sites, I’ll know it. These places regularly monitor what I have to say as does the private company that runs the prison where more rapes are reported than in any other prison in the United States.

Boys are raped as punishment by staff.

You don’t believe it.

You think I am writing more funny ha ha’s.

Actually, I don’t know how to get your attention anymore.

I have written tragedy.

Do you have any idea how much fucking tragedy I have written.

In the beginning, the Internet was simply named PTTC.

Preaching To The Choir.

It’s become more ephemeral since then.

I am already in the system’s sights because I am perceived as the enemy. Honey, I’m a whore because I know things. And I will not tell you the things I know because you really do need to be disciplined. You people are out of control.

I belong to organizations that advocate for juvenile prison reform. Neither the state, or the private company that in essence owns this place, or the federal government appreciates our efforts. Not at all. Then they can buy the donuts for the next meeting, and I’m not buying the coffee either.

I have written that in my subjective opinion the place should be torn down brick by brick by the DOJ, and barring that, the boys should escape which is hard to do as the prison is surrounded by razor concertina wire in twelve fences that surround it. Guard towers, guns, dogs. Electronic surveillance. All the usual.

I am serious.

Girlfriend, I got towed there.

You would think I wouldn’t use the word genocide so promiscuously.

You would think that the criminally insane are warehoused in this place.

You would be wrong. Imagine that.

Possession of small amounts of marijuana is the most common offense. Prostitution comes in at second. Drug paraphernalia comes in third. Some of the boys who have been raped were convicted of making bongs out of Diet Coke cans. Rolling papers on your person is a criminal offense. A felony. Some of the boys are as young as ten.

You don’t believe it. Good for you.

When was the last time you got towed there, and so you had to go inside the place so you could see it and use the phone because you were taking pichers for Instagram on your iPhone which you claimed you had left in the car.

I got caught, too. They found my iPhone up my hole.

Can you read the tea leaves between the lines or are you really that stupid.

We are the criminally insane. We. As in us. So. Like. We are the adults in the room. God help us.

Some room.

Just fuck me.

The state authority that pays the private company that has built and maintains the prison does absolutely nothing. How gay. The juvenile justice system does does nothing. Judges do nothing. And the federal government consistently releases reports that something must be done about this place, and then does nothing.

And we wonder why these boys have an attitude. They are many things. But one of those things is not stupid.

We insist that black lives matter and they do. Then, we stick young black males into hell holes and we keep them there. Our rhetoric and our behavior are not even remotely connected. Each one lives in a separate universe.

How does this happen.

Honey, you just don’t live in my universe.

Of course, most of the incarcerated boys are black.

The state vehemently denies that there is any racial discrimination.

White boys get probation. African American adolescents get raped. Period.

You can guess where this place is because it’s in the fucking South. Boys caught jacking off on cams are labeled sex offenders and must register as such wherever they go for the rest of their lives.

It’s quite a drive to get there. It’s more than a little remote. The nearest Waffle House is a long ways away. This is some serious boons.

If you verbally object to being raped, the guards will club you down, shackle you, and at gunpoint rape you anyway. You might as well get it over with and avoid the broken bones. At no point are any of the inmates tested for HIV. They arrive at the prison perfectly healthy. They leave as very dangerous, very broken, very ripped apart, physically sick young men infected with a variety of HIV genotypes.

At some point Medicaid usually belatedly jumps in with antipsychotics to keep them drugged long, long before they receive antiretrovirals. We imprison them, rape them, infect them, punish them, and then we keep them in a stupor.

At some point, we abuse these young men to the extent they become problems for Public Health. The place, this prison, is an HIV factory outlet store.

The prison refers to itself as a campus.

Harvard is a university. It has a campus. This place has a piney woods where people make turpentine.

Boys are commonly put into solitary confinement for periods of up to three to five years. It’s a really bad idea to buy rolling papers at 7–11.

Invasive anal exams are routinely performed on boys who have been in solitary confinement for years. You know, contraband.

Food is withheld as punishment.

Other punishments include whipping, clubbing, kicking, and forcing kids to sleep on concrete floors. Standing at attention naked in front of women who work in the office.

Restraint means many things. None of this is in any way sexual. Or dehumanizing. Right.

Satire is protected speech.

Last year, the private company that runs this place received contracts from five other states, and reported windfall profits. Meanwhile, the federal government gives military surveillance equipment to local police forces to assist them in their efforts to arrest these kids. When kids complain that the game is rigged, we deny that there is any kind of game at all. Kinda like when Matter Studios ignore me. Kids just being kids. Arrest them. Jack them up against the wall. Spread their legs.

Why we hate these kids so vehemently is simply beyond my comprehension. I don’t get it. How do we get away with this, and then delude ourselves by calling ourselves, the society everyone wants to live in. Most people will refuse to believe any of this. They will laugh at my stupid jokes in my writing this. Writing does not, in fact, change the world. I wish it did. But it doesn’t. We are afraid of these kids because we are afraid.

Who would want to live in a world a writer created. I don’t. I would move to the Ukraine.

Then, suddenly, I become the issue. Is that the best you can do.

We self-righteously proclaim the value of family values (and Matter Studios). We whine and praise ourselves. I’ll show you family values. Values that bludgeon, rape, starve, chemically restrain, infect, and drive completely mad children who buy rolling papers.

When are we going to even begin to look at who we really are.

And own it.

In the past, there was social movement to deinstitutionalize people because the idea of the warehouse didn’t sit well with anyone because no one wanted to fix the warehouses up; everything from new roofs to lead pipes to asbestos.

So we dumped the inmates on the street.

Simple.

This IS the best we got.

It’s genocide.

It doesn’t matter if you deny it.

It’s still genocide.

It doesn’t matter if you wring your hands.

It’s still genocide.

It doesn’t matter if you need to throw bullshit at poor, misinformed (and immoral) moi.

It’s still genocide.

You’re still raping and killing and infecting black boys.

It’s doesn’t matter if Matter and Medium create a Matter Studio. It won’t matter much (and I’ll go away). It doesn’t matter if Donald Trump is elected. You’ll still have the same systems. Trump will build a wall around the prisons for the bad children, and another wall to enclose the first ten walls. Dystopia is so gay.

It doesn’t matter if a cure for AIDS is found. Not to anyone in this prison because they understand they will be the last get it.

They understand they would be lucky to live in a warehouse. A warehouse would be paradise. Just be sure to park in visitor parking lest they tastefully tow your car rubber rooms. Hospital gowns. Hoses. Just give me the hose, but don’t rape me. Gay men used to pay me for this shit.

I hear these stories from boys, and I often wonder why they don’t just kill themselves.

I would.

Oh, but they do kill themselves. They kill themselves all the time.

It doesn’t make the news because, honey, there is no news.

This is the piney woods.

You gotcher turpentine. You gotcher still. You gotcher legislature. Some stereotypes are real because the legislature is redneck stupid. It runs in families and they vote.

I wish I had a still. No one will build me one.

We need to just build stills for these kids and leave them alone. The tax we could get from them on whiskey.

But no.

So where the fuck are your new ideas.

It would be cheaper than supporting them with guards and dogs and electronic surveillance equipment and razor wire and profit and judges who are corrupt because they take kickbacks from the company they hire to build and maintain the prisons the judges send them to until they need to build more prisons because all of these white people with power and guns are getting rich. That is why they go to Harvard and Stanford. So they can say — campus — correctly. It doesn’t matter if Evan Williams wants to build another Twitter, or Tweeter, or pumpkin Beef Eater, it’s all still gin.

It’s still genocide.

This one state spends more money to imprison these kids than the federal government spends on food stamps. Why feed them and rape them when we can just rape them.

Why. This. Particular. Genocide.

Because we can.

Because I am the real problem of the year. It’s true, and now I have a camera.

Because we usually react out of fear.

Because we’re stupid. We can’t even do the math.

Because we understand that rape is a weapon used not just in war, but in a culture war that has been, in fact, a civil war that never ended. We only teach that it it ended in schoolbooks. That white teachers passed out as fact with impunity for over a hundred years.

Which makes the institution of education complicit in the rape of ten-year-old children. You created the system. And you maintain it. I blame all of you. I really do.

There is no classroom for the Frontline crew to film because there is no class. Frontline has no access anymore than I have access to Matter Studio. Frontline and Tim Barrus are irrelevant. You can Google me or just fuck me all you want. Fuck me.

I have this personal problem with rape because I was raped. As a child. Later, as a sex worker. Gee, I wonder if there is a correlation.

My first rapist was a pediatrician.

Who went to Harvard. I Googled it. I didn’t even need Analytics.

I regret that GoogleDoodle I did of whatever happened to him.

I was kinda hoping he was in prison. But no.

He’s dead.

The community had a big funeral.

It was in the local paper by weddings.

I Googled that, too.

The dead pediatrician rapist was a deeply beloved man. From Harvard.

Did I tell you he was from Harvard.

It’s a big grave with a towering marble penis. I would sit on it, but I’m washing my hair that night.

The boys in family meeting throw things at me like dog toys that are all over the place because the dogs do not pick them up and the boys tell me I am too sarcastic and that it’s an attempt to hide my real feelings.

Shut up.

They’re right. I’m pissed off.

It’s still genocide. The pediatrician made it very clear to me as he was raping me that he had the power to lock me up.

I knew what it meant.

He could only cum in me when he told me he could have me put away. He put it right in my ear. Up close and real personal.

That’s the thing. It’s power. Not sex.

Sex is when some guy in a car gives you five bucks to suck his cock.

Why is it that every sex worker I know including myself has been raped.

I have no doubt that there are many sex workers out there who have never been raped. I just never met one.

It’s still genocide. It’s murder. It’s suicide. It’s public Health. It’s public policy. It’s any university that cranks out teachers like widgets. It’s anyone crazy enough to become a teacher and a widget. How dare I blame teachers.

The ones who pass out the books (actually, the kids have to buy them) that contend the War Between the States, what we refer to down here as That Late Unpleasantness, all ended when two gay men who were dressed in hot uniforms and swords and a very gay horse, white stallion named Fred, signed a piece of paper, and then they pledged that the South would rise again and it did and it build a lot of prisons and made a ton of money for six white guys from New York who are CEO’s and software paradigm disruptors starting up more apps we need to keep track of our guns.

Some things are just gay.

And you spit at me I am the crazy one. Silly you.

During that Late Unpleasantness, there was something called the Underground Railroad.

And for years, I thought they meant the sewers of Atlanta and Jean Valjean, and the chateau. I only read the Cliff notes. Who is Cliff anyway.

No. It meant people got out.

How do you get out of a facility surrounded by guards, dogs, razor wire, HIV, surveillance equipment to monitor what you write on the Internet on a computer you do not, in fact, have, and men who rape you and look for contraband.

And you get to say bad words about me and scream I make all of this shit up.

Sure, I do. Because there’s so much in it for me. I get paid ten bucks a word.

I would never in a thousand million zillion billion quadrillion years ever even suggest that there is still an underground railroad. It’s not real. An underground railroad to where. Baltimore.

Who would need it. It’s over. The civil war ended.

I have this little key in my desk (I don’t really have a desk) that I pull out from the invisible drawer so I can slip it through my cocksucker lips and lock-shut my big fat fucking mouth. Then I put the invisible key back in the invisible drawer.

It’s still genocide.

When I wrote and published GENOCIDE, I WROTE PORNOGRAPHY AND DEATH AND KILLING MACHINES AND RACISM AND COMPLICITY ON PURPOSE OKAY I KNEW WHAT THE FUCK I WAS DOING GET OVER IT.

It’s still genocide.

It doesn’t MATTER what you write or what the fuck you publish.

It’s still genocide. It is still a war on boys, and it is still a war particularly focused like a laser beam on black boys.

It’s not in any way an intellectual dynamic. Please.

WE kill them and we throw them away.

Why.

Because it’s WHO WE ARE even if we cannot face ourselves. Or our anger. I can’t.

We are genocide.

Us. We did it. We are doing it right now as I am writing this in my barn and you are reading it because I Twittered it and blogged it on Racebook.

Every single juvenile court judge in the state that rapes boys is on Racebook.

Do the fucking math. Look it up. Gather all the information you want. It won’t change anything.

It’s still genocide.

The good old days were, in fact, the warehouse, and lead pipes in abandoned buildings are the least of our problems. Down here. We are now paying sixty times what we used to pay to rape these same boys. until we put them in their graves.

Outside of Pensacola, we are still discovering the graves of boys from “schools” for them. Look it up. I don’t care. The dead are the dead. They no longer care if you raped them, killed them, and buried them. They have no voice. There is no access point.

Death is like Matter Studio (I have to stop picking on them, they mean well, at least for them). There’s no phone, no email, no address, no map. Maybe it’s a storefront in a strip mall in Coco Beach.

What happens when we are done raping boys in prison.

We literally throw them back into the street by the strip mall in Coco Beach where Matter Studio hides out from me. The boys say I embarrass them. Someone has to do it.

We built the street. We paid for it. We maintain it. We throw solid waste at it. We call it The Life and the residents must be vigilant.

WE already KNOW, honey, about the rapes because there’s not only an underground railway, there’s a grapevine, and it ain’t on the Internet.

There is no Internet in solitary confinement.

But people get the word out because it’s what people do.

As a species, we are very good at it.

We connect. We spread our version of reality. Because we’re scared, too. We are vigilant. We never drank the Kool Aid. We never read the books. We never believed any of it. We have always known who and what you are. You tolerate us until you don’t. Then, you cull.

We would all go to church to rectify all of the fun things like genocide I write about but it would be too gay. Gay, gay, gay.

I was at the warehouse the other day, and there was an announcement on the stupid public address system: Tim Barrus, we are going to tow your car.

Fuck me, too, I had parked appropriately in visitor parking.