Matthew Feeney

Five Poems & One Short

Best Laid Plans

The Best Laid Plans

            of Mice & Men

                        don’t happen in Prison.

Hard to make plans

            when you may get a last second pass

                        to report to someplace

                                    (for some meeting or some appointment)

                                                which you knew nothing about.

Got a good Cellie?

            Enjoy and appreciate him now

                        because next month he’s being released into the wild.

But even before that he could disappear at any time

            He could end up on a writ

                        Or in a fight

                                    Or in the Hole

                                                (for stealing a jelly packet from the chow hall)

Even being falsely accused

            (by anonymous KITE flyers)

                        can land you a trip to Seg,

Just last Thursday:

            Phones out of service

                        Kiosk Down

                                    Classes cancelled

                                                All because of a temporary power outage.

As I count our days I realize

            the only thing you can count on in Prison

                        is the inability to count on finishing anythi 

Toxic Avenger

I am overflowing

            with toxic sludge.

A walking waste-disposal site buried full of

rusted scorn, tattered taunts and jiggered insults.

Who would I be now if

            Anti-bullying agendas

            LGBT support groups

            and Positive Sexuality programs

were a part of my formative years?

Where attraction between two males was accepted

            and mutual masturbation

            didn’t have to involve

            mutual intoxication.

Where love could flow freely

            buzzing the senses, filling the heart

            acknowledged, accepted, embraced.

Where would I be now?

            Not in prison.

Freebird v. Jailbird

Sparrows fly through fences…

            why can’t I?

Seagulls land in the yard of their own volition

            eat their fill

                        watch a ballgame or two

                                    and then fly out over the barb-wire.

The Eagles soar circles high above us.

            Silently peering down

                        at the perimeter fences

                                    from above.

The murder of Crows laughs at us inmates

            trapped in an open cage

                        self-imprisoned by a porous fence.

The birds call to us:

Pull your heads out of the sand!

            Rise Up, Fly!

                        Let your thoughts soar free

                                    Slip the bonds of gravity

                                                Flit through the chain links

                                                            Fly high above your worldly body.

We are the only ones with the power to

            tether our minds

                        and clip our will

They can never build a fence high enough

            or a wall strong enough

                        or a razor wire sharp enough

to imprison the Human spirit.

Real Writer

I’m an incarcerated writer

New enough to stutter at the title “writer”

And keep it in quotes

Because deep down

I fear

I’m not Real.

So I submit dozens of poems to the Real World.

Waters chummed

with my bloody heart.

Nervously awaiting a response. A nibble. A sign.

Praying for something. Anything. A rejection letter.

Because even a rejection letter would mean I am Real.

I keep writing in a vacuum

Not knowing if I’m doing it right.

Hopeful…

that someday you’ll be reading this poem.

And then we’ll both know

I’m a

Real Writer.

Flickers

Sunrises

            Soft streaks of hope warm the sky, birthing new optimism

High Noons

            Hot sun bringing smiles and tans in the yard

Thunderstorms

            Flashes and echoes rattling the cell bars

Blizzards

            Painting puffy white cotton on the fences and walls

Sunsets

            Blood red, silently signaling survival of another day

Moons

            Phases quietly reflecting the tenuous travels of the time

Prisons

            Where the disremembered observe it all through bars as we count.

 My Dad

            The virtue I would most like to manifest in my character is authenticity. This means my inside matches my outside, or “what you see is what you get.” I realize this may not seem like that great of a virtue, especially when I could have picked some of the real beauties like “charity”, “kindness” or even “chastity.” But the fact is, I already have a decent grip on the 7 Cardinal Virtues (even though writing that sentence may call into question how I’m doing on “humility”). I don’t know if I espouse such virtues because of my Catholic upbringing (where “Guilt” is the unspoken 8th Cardinal Virtue) or because I grew up in a loving family or if it’s just the way I was created. For me, the struggle wasn’t in striving for those virtues, but the inauthentic way I would sometimes feel when doing something virtuous. When people would give me affirmations for such virtuous acts, my feelings of inauthenticity would grow into toxic shame. The only way I knew to overcome this shame was to do more good & honorable acts—which then led into the vicious cycle of virtuosity. I was so focused on being a perfect person and always doing the right thing that I never allowed myself to simply be an authentic human being with my own valid feelings. When I wanted to say “I’m too tired to help” or even “I really don’t care enough to give you a hand” I instead put on my “good boy” mask and forced myself to do the right thing. Now I’m not suggesting there aren’t times we need to make ourselves do the right thing—but to do so without even acknowledging any of my own inner feelings & thoughts on the issue led me to sacrifice myself. By under-valuing my own thoughts and feelings, my self-sacrifice become automatic (as did my good deeds), and thus no longer truly virtuous.

            So what would my life have been like had I cultivated the value of “authenticity?” People would have seen me have bad days. Temper tantrums. Bouts of crying and anger. Honesty in telling people that certain actions hurt my feelings (“there’s no people like show people, they smile when they are low”) and I did a lot of smiling. My family may laugh at reading this; for they saw me backstage, where I unloaded all the pressures and emotions I had been stuffing all day…they saw me at my worst and still loved me. But because I presumed my inauthentic actions were shared by everyone else in the world, I believed my parents were just pretending to love me because of familial and legal obligations.

            This leads me to my one, true hero: my Dad. He is the most authentic man I’ve ever known. If he came home from work in a bad mood—we all knew it (and knew to stay clear and give him his space). That was him being authentic and true to how he was feeling in that moment. No pretending or bullshitting, there he was in all his horrible glory. And when he came to my plays, took us sledding and tied my shoes—that was also authentic true love. Even now, with his eldest son in prison, my Dad has never stopped loving me and continues to show me that support through weekly visits and random letters. My own capability to love seems as flat and flimsy as a Hallmark card compared to the 50 years of love and affection my Dad has poured out to me (not to mention my Mother and siblings). And while my Dad is a shining example of all 7 Cardinal Virtues, it is his ability to let down his guard and share the raw, dirty, nitty-gritty side that makes him truly authentic. There is no veneer that can be rubbed off, no cheap plastic cover trying to hide the embarrassing stuff. My Dad lives his life truly and authentically. He doesn’t clamor for attention or say “see how important I am” when he does a good deed. He merely smiles and continues on with his life, knowing he’s helped someone out. He doesn’t do charity for personal gain; he doesn’t seek or need the external validation to tell him he’s a good man. But most importantly, he acknowledges his own mistakes and insecurities. That’s what makes him a role model for me. It’s that lesson—that I don’t need to be perfect or always make the right decision—that reinforced his integrity and authenticity.

            My father is 81 years young and still works full-time. He regularly sends me news clippings of articles he thinks would interest me. We talk multiple times a week on the phone and he and Mom drive nearly 300 miles to visit me in prison at least once a month. My Dad’s influence on me has been profound, even if it did require my coming to prison before I could admit and acknowledge that fact. Just as my Father has helped me, I hope that my own experience of prison can helps others who may be struggling with inauthenticity. Those trying to be something they’re not, or doing all the right things for all the wrong reasons. The more I realize the impact my father has had on me, the more I’m encouraged to be brave enough to show my weaknesses, my fears, my scars. One of the biggest ways to honor my own authenticity is by embracing my criminal history after I’m out of prison. My old self would want to hide, bury and forget all about my shameful prison experience. I would have been embarrassed if people found out. But by openly acknowledging and accepting my past mistakes, I empower myself to stand tall and be authentic to myself. By owning and embracing what I would have previously hidden in shame, I become a more authentic human being; one less likely to make my old mistakes that got me here.

            Perhaps it’s the golden irony of authenticity—it is only by admitting our weakness and struggles that we can find others to help us through our vulnerable times and thereby become better human beings. My father is my hero not because of perfection, but on the contrary, because he has always been authentic.

Matthew Feeney (www.matthewfeeney.com) is a former actor, currently incarcerated in Minnesota. Matthew won 2nd place in the 2017 PEN America/prison writing award for fiction; 1st place Grandview Award in the 2018 League of Minnesota Poets annual contest; and three of his poems were recently performed at PEN America's 2019 World Voices Festival in NYC. Matthew's work has appeared in dozens of publications, including The Analog Sea Review, Spotlight on Recovery, The Pinyon Review, The Blue Collar Review, ArtLiJo and The Hawai'i Review. Matthew is a member of his prison's Restorative Justice Council and a trained Conflict Resolution Mentor.