My friend, Joe.

                                  I met him when he was editor of an organic gardening newspaper and I liked him from there on and that was 1978 I think. We stay in touch.
                                     One afternoon, on a whim,we each ate a half an ounce of Psyillicybin and went to see "The Road Warrior" in Berkeley. That was his best idea for us ,ever. We played a little ball together, and hung out some. We split a pad in Berkeley, sort of, for a while. A good guy to get stoned with and talk about shit. My brother liked him, too.
 Joe did ok through some of the shitty trials and tribulations he had. He did ten years in a federal pen for robbing banks with a pen and paper.
      He wasn't fucking around either, he robbed a bunch. The guy has hustle, he can always figure a way.
Then some rats, brainwashed by an indifferent non intelligence  called religion or society set him up and, away he went into the belly of the beast.
        I know one of  the rats.
I think   Joe forgave her. I have, too.
  I guess it's better that way. But it's not easy. The good thing is he's free again.