Manic Frustration “If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron

On June 3rd, 1993, shortly after the mutilated bodies of three eight-year-old boys were found in West Memphis, Arkansas, Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin and Jessie Misskelley were arrested as the prime suspects in the murders. Evidence to their "guilt": black hair, Stephen King novels, their love for heavy metal music and rumors that the three boys were Satanists.

After questionable police work, no solid evidence and a trial which painted the boys as Satanic, dangerous and cold-hearted killers, Damien was sentenced to death while Jason and Jessie received life in prison.

Now, after 18 years in prison, the West Memphis Three were released today after accepting an Alford plea. The deal, though not perfect, has granted the three, now in their 30's, a chance to live their lives as free men. Something they haven't been able to do since being incarcerated as teenagers.

When I learned about the WM3 around 1999-2000, I became immediately interested and supportive of their cause. It was very obvious to me that there was an incredible injustice which had fallen upon them. Facts had not sentenced these men to prison and death, but fear and ignorance. A need to point the finger at the invisible monster beneath the bed.

Their deal is not perfect and the three men still have to fight to clear their names of the crimes they've been convicted of, but now, as Damien said in a press conference today, they can do it outside of prison.

Damien, Jason and Jessie after being released August 19th.

Tonight, I find myself happy to see a day I never thought would come for these men. The Three are free. Sleep well tonight, Damien, Jason and Jessie.

Damien Echols, a free man. WM3.org

Some of you may not know that Damien is a writer and poet. Some of his work has been published but, as you may have guessed, being published while behind bars and on death row is infinitely harder than being published sitting on the outside.

Here are a few examples of Damien's poetry:

Photo courtesy of the Citizen's Voice

Sometimes, moments that dive straight to your core and touch you in a way you never expected happen at the most unexpected times. It's time pausing for a brief instant and singling you out. For that moment, everything aligns and pierces you sharp and exact. Monday, I experienced one of those moments.

It was 11 a.m. when I arrived at the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre airport. Nervous about my first flight (though, more nervous about navigating the three airports I would be visiting) I made my way through the doors and checked in. Easy enough. I even managed to meet Katherine, a sweet Irish woman from Dublin, as I stood in line. She was helpful in explaining a few things I was unsure of and even told me stories of her own travels and that of her children.

After moving through security, I headed toward the scent of coffee. Just behind the small vendor, where you could also buy a Budweiser, a group of men had assembled along the wall. All of them were looking out toward the tarmac, but I couldn't see what it was that had caught their attention.

Coffee in hand, I walked to an open spot at the window. There, on the tarmac, was a small plane and a group of Marines standing in formation. They moved forward like clockwork. Exact and angular. Pulling a casket draped in 235 years of blood, sweat, struggle and tears. My hand slowly moved toward my hat, pulling it off and placing it upon the sill of the window.

Next to me, men were silent save for one who I could hear holding back tears. They all looked on at the scene unfolding slowly below. Flags on the backs of motorcycles sitting upon the tarmac rippled and swayed in the wind as more men looked on and saluted the silver casket of the fallen Marine.

As I turned to walk away, Katherine moved toward the window to peer out at the uniformed men placing the casket into the back of the hearse. Most of the men had moved away from the window, but one man remained standing next to Katherine. It was the man who I had heard choked up breaths emanating from.

As the hearse pulled away and the motorcycles followed suit, Katherine and the man turned and moved away from the window. The man walked toward me with his ballcap in hand. I could see the pain in his face and the mist flowing across his eyes.

"Did you know him," I asked.

The man looked back through the window as the last of the procession moved out of sight across the tarmac. With a solemn look, he turned back toward me and said quietly, "No."

He fumbled with his hat and moved on as I looked through the window at the barren concrete where only the plane sat now. There were no sounds except for the quite "no" uttered to me a moment before echoing within my mind. The man, so touched and pained by the loss of the Marine covered with a flag, had made an unforgettable impression upon me. It is this moment in time that I will never forget. A moment where time stopped and aimed its constant flow directly at me to show me something powerful.

Jack's Draft House FB page.

It's a Sunday night and all of the parking spots on the corner of Gibson and Prescott are filled. Cruising up the block, I find a space sufficient enough to harbor my pickup. Jack's Draft House sits on the corner. Unmarked, save for a neon sign and a small chalkboard in the doorway. Walking through the glass-paneled door, I see people standing about. Sitting everywhere. They're all intently listening. Some sipping dark stouts. Some with gin and tonics or a bourbon.

Jack's Draft House FB

Jack's Draft House FB

True talent always seems to burn bright and fade away quickly. Whether it finds a way to destroy itself or the world snuffs the flames that burn at both ends, it's here and gone so quickly that you almost miss it. All of the musicians, artists and true talents of the world who have met an untimely end. It's hard to understand why.

In a world that severely needs huge doses of beauty and true art, the tasteless and bland pollute it with mountains of garbage to dig through before finding the true gems. I've seen it in pop culture and I've seen it happen to personal friends. And today, another one joins the list of tragic ends.

Amy Winehouse possessed one of the most sultry and amazing voices of our time. Whether you enjoyed her music or not, her talent was undeniable. Her voice oozed the soul of yesteryears rhythm and blues with a modern twist of pop. Unfortunately, like so many others, she struggled with her own personal demons and couldn't shake the monkey from her back.

Winehouse was found dead in her London flat today. Another to join such names as Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and so many others who have formed the ranks of the "27 club". Her death is not surprising to those who knew her lifestyle, but disappointing. Disappointing that such a talent was wasted. That she'll never be able to contribute her voice to music again. If there is any consolation, it's the fact that her talent was preserved in recordings. That her voice was not lost forever. That she was given a chance to share her talents with the world.

That is one of the most important things I was told after reading the first seven pages of what is to become my first full-length book to a group of writers I meet with every week. "Tell your story." That is my plan. The first words hit the page just a few days ago and it has started off slowly. Transitioning from writing mostly poetry to re-introducing prose into the mix has been my most difficult task.

Twenty-six years ago, my parents put me in the back seat of whatever car they owned and started out for Disney World. I was their first child. This was their first trip as more than husband and wife and my first trip as anything. At one, any experiences you have are almost completely lost within the depths of your ever-expanding mind. The only thing I can recall from the trip is being in the back of the car one night as we headed south. There was a knit blanket of various, warm colors over me. Mickey Mouse didn't make my memory's cut.

There were other, smaller trips from that time on, but nothing which ventured too far from home. Most didn't even leave the state.

I've wanted to begin travelling for the past six years. Every time I'd plan something, I'd back out of it or find an excuse not to go. Friends around the states and different countries have offered me places to rest my head and feel welcome, eliminating the need for expensive and sterile hotels, yet I wouldn't budge from my small corner of Pennsylvania.

It's about time it all started changing. This year has been one of life-altering changes. Experiences that have picked me up and kicked me in the ass to really start living and enjoying the time I have here.

Next month I'll be headed to Orlando. It's come full circle. Though I wont be cruising to the hum of rubber on pavement, I'll be experiencing a first. Flying. No, I've never flown. Nervous? Not really. Not about the actual flight, anyway. The hordes of travellers running and bustling about in the airport is the real worry.

While I'm down there, I hope to visit the house where Kerouac lived and wrote The Dharma Bums. My friends have also promised me book and music stores, among other things. And there's always the people. Meeting and conversing with new and interesting people. It's one of the most overlooked gifts of life. Possibily due to the fact that interesting people are rare.

I'm hoping this trip will fill me with ideas and words as well. Writing in these past months has been a difficult task. Everything I scribble, I'm more dissatisfied with than usual. The ideas are aching to burst from my pen, but they've been held back by something. Maybe the sun of Florida can burn it away.

Tickets are booked. Arrangements have been made. The only thing I've got left to do is to decide which book I'll be reading on the flight down.

Kerouac's home where he wrote The Dharma Bums.