Dutch established a creative writing program for his fellow inmates while incarcerated.
He is the Writer-In-Residence for The Adirondack Review.
Dutch is a Fantastic Father, a Former Felon, and a Phoenix Rising
@thedutchsimmons on Twitter
Delta the Magnificent
Passing the bio bags didn’t bother me. Bio bags were used to collect human remains which were given to coroners tasked with getting DNA samples and identifying the dead. We had dozens of body bags that were of no use; the largest identifiable piece I found was part of a foot in a well-polished Gucci loafer.
The fireflies dance magnificently in the shadow of the Big House. Electric disco lights reflect joyfully in the razor wire; pulsating music I can feel but not hear. It’s been eleven days. I can tell them apart. They’re unique; I’ve named them. Oddly, I can’t picture my son’s face. Like a jigsaw puzzle before me, I know where everything goes, but it remains unfinished.
Jesus is Just Another Name For Gruyere
When you sit down in a group meeting, the first thing you do is look to your left and then to your right and reassure yourself that you aren’t as fucked up as the people on either side of you, but you don’t really know better one way or another because nobody has shared anything yet. You haven’t decided if you want to cut yourself open and let the rotting corpse from within spill out onto the floor when it’s your turn to share or if you are contented to remain a voyeur and watch everyone else bleed in front of you.
Passing the bio bags didn’t bother me. Bio bags were used to collect human remains and given to coroners tasked with getting DNA samples to identify the dead. We had dozens of body bags that were of no use; the largest identifiable piece I found was part of a foot in a well-polished Gucci loafer.
Writing and Razorwire
After being strip-searched and sitting naked in solitary, I was afforded some time to ponder exactly what I was doing in prison. During my "adult time-out," I interacted with numerous inmates who all shared a near universal truth; none of them expected to be there. Some of us were victims of our own sheer hubris, while the vast majority had exercised exceedingly poor judgment at some point. I was no different.
I was 11 years old when Grease came out in 1978. My crush on Olivia Newton-John was immediate and all-consuming. I didn’t know which version of Sandy I loved more; the charming doe-eyed cheerleader who I longed to date, or the leather-clad, bad girl that stirred up feelings I didn’t quite understand.
Under The Lights
Javier Ortiz’s calendar didn’t differentiate between holidays or any other days. All that mattered was the black “X’ he put in the box every time a day passed. That’s what prison was; marking time. Waiting for an exit strategy- release or death. Half the time you didn’t really know what you welcomed.
For as long as I could remember, Grandpa always had a big car. Not just any car, a Lincoln Continental. Cadillacs were for pimps and gangsters. A Lincoln exuded luxury and the American dream. At the time, the American dream involved waiting for “even” or “odd” days based on the numbers on your license plate in order to get gas.