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The Man in The Hat 907
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Hoodies and Tees

TMiTH

Back of a black TMiTH hoodie with the orange TMiTH flash behind steel-gray bars

My kid gave me the hat. He saw FUCK stitched across the front and saw his dad. Not a bad word. Not a cry for attention. His fucking father.

The hat has its own story. But the word doesn't have to stay under the fucking brim.

Fuck.

For the waitress working the third shift. The guy hauling trash. The Gangsta doin shit. The one sitting with their back to the wall while somebody with a perfectly good view of the door asks why they can't just fucking relax.

Folk see it, and boom, yeah. Thats my day. My mood. My hour. My fucking life.

That's the Hard Code recognizing the Hard Code. Fuck the ten minutes of fake conversation. Fuck the upholstered little interrogation where somebody decides how much of you they can tolerate before asking you to soften the edges. One word cuts through that polite bullshit. Half a second of truth.

And no, you don't owe them the fucking file.

Not the cold floors. Not the locked doors. Not the reason your eyes run the perimeter before your ass hits the chair. You don't have to peel your nervous system open in the middle of a goddamn coffee shop so somebody can decide whether you've earned the right to say fuck.

They can read the fucking shirt. They don't get to cross-examine the scars.

I write and make music about complex PTSD, generational trauma, and emotional abuse. The shit that doesn't clock out because somebody opened a door and told you you're free now. The body still running security while the rest of the room orders fucking appetizers.

The cage doesn't have to be in the room for the perimeter to be running. A clean table and a friendly voice don't reach into a nervous system and erase the fucking record. “But you're safe now.” Yeah? Tell the goddamn alarm.

I'm not putting “Live, Love, Learn” over that and calling it resolved. That's a fucking wall decoration, not an answer. Put it over your own couch. It doesn't explain shit over here.

Bone-white Fuck. on the front. Orange TMiTH behind steel-gray bars on the back. Both designs. One garment. The front says it. The back signs the fucking statement.

Short sleeves. Long sleeves. Hoodies. Pull one on. Get coffee. Haul trash. Get through the fucking shift. The ordinary shit doesn't stop while your head is running a full goddamn security detail.

It's a shirt. Not a pledge to become some inspirational version of yourself. Not a promise to make your history easier for strangers to fucking swallow.

It doesn't need a redemption arc. Neither do you. Fuck the demand that everything you survived has to end in a lesson somebody else finds uplifting.

Priced around what it costs to make. Buy the fucker if you want it. Don't if you don't.

You don't gotta buy shit to sit here. Listen to a song. Read something. Hang in the shadow and take some heat from the campfire.

You. Are. Not. Fucking. Alone.

Cell BlockTMiTH 907

Door's shut. You're good.News and links

CO's walkin' the tier. Keep your voice down and set a spell.What's new and where to find me.

These walls

Old Max went up in 1871, before Colorado was even a state. Prisoners cut the stone out of the hill behind it and stacked their own cells. Forty-two of them. Four years later they built the wall, because men kept walking off.

In 1889 the state moved its killing inside these walls, out of public view. First a gallows that jerked a man up instead of dropping him. Then in 1934 the gas chamber, second state in the country to try it. The warden built the first one with three chairs so he could do three at once. The last man sat in that chair in 1967. On the tier, that chair is Old Sparky. It sits in the prison museum next door now, beside the electric shock machine they used to control the problem prisoners.

Stone holds the cold. The windows sit so deep that daylight barely crawls down to the lower tiers, and the gray shadow never leaves the bunks.

Nineteen-eighty-seven. Cañon City, Colorado. Old fucking Max.
Home of Old Sparky. Yeah, the chair. Yeah. That one.
The sally port closes with a metal cough and a full-body clang.
They strip you. Delouse you. Shave you down to the stubble.
No more crosses. No more "Live, Love, Learn" bullshit.
Just stone, steel, and honesty.
They stamp the paper and speak my new name: 62927.

TMiTH

Word on the tierNews

  1. The Fuck Hat

    They call me The Man in the Hat, and that sounds like cheap campfire bullshit until you see the scruff, the posture, and the eyes running the perimeter and realize it is pure field identification. Born covered in a strangers...

  2. Shit for Your Cell

    Inside the damp, limestone gloom of C.T.C.F. Old Max, the property sheet splits your whole fuckin life down into three precise, mechanical categories: The Survival. The Escape. The Wreckage.

  3. Hoodies and Tees

    For the waitress working the third shift. The guy hauling trash. The Gangsta doin shit. The one sitting with their back to the wall while everybody else wonders why they can't just fucking relax. Folk see it, and boom, yeah....

  4. Operation Sonic Somatics

    Operation Sonic Somatics. Sound for the 3am body that's still redlining, the one that won't shut the fuck off. The door opened. The perimeter didn't disappear. Walk out of the cage, sign the fucking paper, go live your life. Like...