Jackson Ride In

19 years. That's how long I've been trying to make my way to any "correctional" facility somewhere close to the only place I can call home. It's like I've been everywhere... all the way to the west side of Michigan... all the way to the east... up north across that fuckin' bridge... but for some reason, the Michigan Department of "Corrections" refused to house me in any of its "too many" prisons close to the motherfuckin' ALB.

Until now.

Damn, being here even made the eight hour ride from the U.P. down to Jackson, MI a lil' bit mo' bearable. I mean... as bearable as a prison bus ride can be, when you're shackled from head to tizzoe and crammed in forty deep like sheep. Gotta piss? There's a troth located right there in the middle of the bus... not the back... the middle of the bus. Four heads two feet from your piece. Shuffle on up, whip out and give everybody a go showin'. Gotta shit? You are fucked.

But I made it.

"Off the bus. When you hear your name, call out your number. Jones... Garza... Kehoe!" 256263. "How long has it been John? Are you still here for the Rose Larner case? That was a fucked up case, they never did find the body, did they?" There it is... the reason why I fight so hard to be heard. No one has forgotten. But no one has heard... from me.