YOUNG ENTREPRENEUR

A long time ago....
While riding my bike down the street, I observed a large box set at the curb.  What caught my attention was the wheels setting beside that box.  After a closer look I saw it was a small riding mower in pieces.  What they call a basket-case.  I used a wagon and carried the box home.  Over the next few days I re-assembled the riding mower.  I left the mower-deck off and it became a little tractor.  But to me, it was a 4-wheeler.  I took parts off my dad's snowblower to fix the engine and had it running soon after.  I would have been about 10.

It didn't go that fast being a lawnmower so someone gifted me a small mini-bike.  It didn't run, but I managed to work on it and somehow got it working.  I had to pour gas into the carburetor to start it and it basically exploded between my legs.  The heat from the muffler ignited the gas fumes.  I tried to save it, but I couldn't.

I liked the bike so much that I kept it laying around.  At that time my dad had a jail-ministry thing.  the inmates would be released and come work for my dad.  One of the guys saw the bike and wanted it.  He traded me 2-dozen rusty traps. 

About 2 miles from our house was a small airport with a swamp beside it.  The swamp was full of raccoons and muscrats.  So I began to trap that swamp.  I wasn't even a teen yet.  I would ride my bike to that swamp during the summer and after school to check my traps.  My Dad and Uncle would help me skin and clean the pelts so I could sell them at the fur market.  This was the 90's back when people still wore furs.

I saved my money from fur sales and bought a lawnmower.  A simple walk-behind.  I could tie it's handle to my bike seat, then drag it around the neighborhood cutting lawns.  Before long I cut a dozen lawns and a business's grass.  I would have been about 12 by then.

My parents never had extra money to buy us toys.  It caused me to work hard to get it myself.  I never had resentment, I just figured out a way.  This thinking created a survivor.

Shortly after that I began to wash dishes in a restaurant.  My parents' friend was the chef and he got me the position.  From there I took a seasonal job at a cross-country ski shop, grooming trails.   I was just 15 then.  I couldn't drive, so had to be taken to work.

When I came to prison I couldn't bear the idea of letting my family support me.  So I learned how to transform a $16.00 battery powered razor into a tattoo machine.  I've not only supported myself, but bought Christmas presents, paid to trademark 2 businesses and recently purchased a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Manufacturers place governors on cars so they can only go so fast, farmers place blinders on horses so they don't get sidetracked, they chain their dog so it won't run away, and they clip birds wings so they can't fly.....

And they put me in prison......

I didn't come here to die.  Nor did I come here to lay down.  I've worked out for my entire bid and have transformed my body.  I knew with diligence I could reshape my torn down self into somebody different.  And I did.  My body doesn't look the same anymore.  Likewise I graduated from lawnmowers and rusty traps.

I learn lessons the old way.  These 60 days in confinement has me thinking I'm too old for this shit.  This is a hard way to do time.  Which is fine, because this thing is over now.  I only have 10 months left and the two months I just did here  flew by.

I know the world has changed.  I've been gone a a minute.  But this was a foreign land when I came here.  I set back, figured it out, and took off.  Just like I'll come home and do the same.

I'm not simply lucky.  Nor will I accidentally accomplish what I do.  I'm blessed.  What I do will be because I planned it out over all these years behind this fence.  My tattoo shop has already been open for 7 years.  I'm just bringing it to the free-side of the fence.  This is my year to shine....

HELLO 2018!!!!

REBORN

When everything is gone, stripped away-the lowest form of man is revealed.  I came to prison to die, then be reborn.

Christians baptize by water to receive the same effect.  Something is lost, laid to rest, so that a new man can emerge.  Prison made this real for me.

Being baptized as a boy was nice.  Then I grew into a man.  A man who lost his way.  I needed a baptism by fire---- WELL, I GOT IT!!

I came to prison with nothing.  And then was broken. Taken to my basic form.  I then received a second chance.  I took that second chance and never looked back.

When a person looks back, hopefully it's to see how far they've come.  Being so close to freedom, I'm allowing myself to do just that.  If you have ever been at a church and taken communion, they make a statement from the Bible...

"Do this in remembrance of me"...

I'm about to come home and show you all the stuff I've been talking about for all these years.  Right now I am looking back!  In remembrance of me.  Except that's not who I am anymore.  It's a beautiful thing that people can change.  But you'll see, because you'll be  watching me.

I Am So Thankful

I just turned 39 years old.  I have become a man who understands himself.  When pushed, I know I will bend without breaking.  Should life try to break me, I know I have family who will stand beside me.

For nearly a decade I have been an empty chair at my mother's table.  A picture on my sister's refrigerator.  I have been a letter in my daughter's mailbox.  A memory my family holds dear.

I am thankful to have a second chance at life.  A second chance to be a father to my daughter.

I am thankful for second chances.  Without them I would have no future.

I'm also thankful for word searches and crossword puzzles that friends and family have sent.  I'm thankful for meals-on-wheels.  The food cart that rolls our trays to our door each day.  Thankful for courtesy flushes so you don't smell your cellie's dookie.

I'm thankful for friends and family who take time out of their schedule to let me know they care.

Wishing you all the very best Holidays, spent with those you love.

And to my family.....next year baby!!

- Mr. Jangles -

Mr. Jangles was a  pet mouse from the movie, "The Green Mile".  Mice, as well as spiders are common pets for men doing time.  Here in Florida there are small lizards and geckos men catch and keep as pets.  Anything to distract you from the present and occupy your time.

The confinement I'm currently living in is infested with mice and rats.  As soon as the main lights are shut off at 10 pm, the floors become alive with furry rodents.

During the days, I set aside something small from my trays.  A little lettuce here, a piece of cookie there.  At the end of the day I have a small mouse buffet assembled.  I find it entertaining to watch these little guys hop around and scurry back to their homes, carrying their treasures.  They cause me to laugh out loud at the comical way they chew an item in half to make it easier to carry.    Then dart off to stash it away somewhere safe.  While right behind them another mouse carries away the other half of their prize.  Shortly after the mouse returns and realizes someone raided his stash.  So he runs in circles looking and searching before he finally realizes he's been had.

And so, a few days into my stay I was given a room mate.  A young Haitian kid, age 24.  He was amazed by the mice and decided he wanted to catch one for a pet.  The plan was, lure the mouse into the room with food.  Then block his escape route.  The small slit directly under the door.  Meanwhile the name of Mickey Mouse has been given to any mouse he sees.

The lights shut off for the night.  Almost immediately Mickey Mouse shows up.  As soon as he's eating, the bunkie jumps down and sits on the floor in front of the door.  Pressing his leg longways against the crack.  Mickey Mouse is now trapped in the room.

In order to take the mouse, you must first catch him, then toss him into the stainless steel toilet basin.  The basin becomes a water-tread-mill as Mickey mouse tries to breast stroke, then doggie paddle his way to freedom.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, well---you get the picture.

Before long, he begins to tire and his head slowly drops below the surface.  At this time you extend your hand down to his level and allow him to climb into your palm.  You have become his savior.  He recognizes your scent as the hand that saved him.

And should he decide to run once he gets his bearings, repeat the process as needed.

Mickey Mouse had a hard time getting with the program.

After the third attempt to tire him out in the toilet bowl, he still had enough spunk to launch himself out of bunkies hand and race for the door.

In a last minute effort to stop his escape, bunkie throws himself in front of the door.  Mickey Mouse runs up the leg of his shorts and just shy of the mother-land, bunkie manages to grab him and hold him through the fabric.  As he reaches another hand up his short leg to retrieve Mickey, he lets out a squeal and screams--"Mickey Mouse bit me!!"

At this time I'm nearly falling out of the bed laughing.  There goes Mickey mouse back into the toilet.  Except this time bunkie is reaching for the flush button.

Now I'm the one jumping out of the bed to save the mouse.   I reach in and pull the mouse out, gently setting him on the floor by the door.

He looks at me and I swear his eyes don't say thank you.  I think they said screw you- as he drags his wet ass down the hall.

Needless to say, bunkie doesn't want a pet anymore, and the mouse hasn't been back since.  He's probably holding a little sign outside our door.

"Don't go into room 2102"
They'll drown you in their toilet!!!

Hang My Head and Cry

Sitting in a small room on a cold steel bunk.  I'm once again left to my thoughts.  For every move we make in life there is some reaction.  Everyone has those days where your going a little too fast and before long the blue lights are chasing you.  As you pull over you sit there smacking your steering wheel and come up with a dozen things you could have done differently.  Once again I find myself in confinement.

The officer who walked me to confinement had a heart-to-heart with me.  He told me I only have one year left, its time I quit thinking like an inmate.  He's right.  I'm a calculated risk taker.  That's been my life for 9 years now.  Know the rules in and out, then decide if the punishment is worth the risk.

I'm sitting here now with my fate in someone else's hands and I don't like that.  It is indeed time to quit being an inmate and change back to a civilian.  This problem I'm faced with now, has the potential to change my release date.

I just told my mom the other day how much I will need to pay attention once I'm home.  If I jump into someone else's car and head to the store---get pulled over and there's a gun or dope, I'm headed back to prison.  If I'm in a car that's pulled over and records are checked, I'm the one they draw their guns on because I have a record with law enforcement.  I've stopped to consider all those things about out there....and just placed myself in a similar predicament in here.

Now I'm waiting for the officer to come and tell me the damage.  Please hold while I bang on the steering-wheel.

Be Somebody

When I first fell, or was booked to do time, I had just snorted two oxys prior to court.  Then, when I felt the courtroom about to unravel I reached into my pocket and ate the other two that were waiting for me.  That's 4 eighty milligram tabs and its only 10 AM.

That's how my days began.  Needless to say those first days in prison were detoxing.  The cold sweats, diarrhea, vomiting.  The mood swings, depressed, alone, sobbing.  Like uncontrollable sobs that shake you to the core and finally have you in dry heaves.

And I did it on my own.  In a prison cell.  Looking at walls that could tell a thousand stories like mine.

That was a long time ago.  Yet I find I reflect on that.  Just so I don't forget.  I can't forget the beast that lives in addiction.  And as I've said before....drugs are readily available here so staying clean is a choice.  It is MY choice.

Finally I'm here at the end.  My one year countdown.  The journey is over; just the final few steps to take.

Like a soldier training for duty I have worked myself with training this entire time.  Now, at the last year I have went full throttle.  I have worked out my entire stint.  When I began to notice a talent to draw I began to put a lot of time into it.  I saw how much the tattoo man makes here in prison and I thought...I can do that.  And I decided where better to learn than where you have endless clients non-stop?!

So my art career began.  Art became how I did my time.

Go to the rec in the morning and in the afternoon put on some music and jam while doing art.  I have put myself through art school while here.  Some men come here and lay back and allow their people to take care of them.  For me, I changed trades.

That was a major step for me in another direction.  I've done construction work my entire adult life.  And I don't like it but it paid the bills.  That has changed.

I'm eager to devour any insight or knowledge I can find about this trade.  Through books, magazines and word of mouth---I have so much to learn.

Anyways...I got this man.

Work and how to make money isn't something I worry about now.  I think about the things that have pulled me down in the past.  My very first use of drugs was to numb the pain of giving my daughter away.

After years of abuse I had taught my body the release of self-medicating.  Whatever the problem, I could adjust it with drugs.

Prison enabled me to step far enough outside that hold, (that addiction) to actually see my life.  I was then able to go back and find the root.

Rehab needs you to do that to be successful at recovery.  Fix the root problem.  Counseling, whatever, and work past that.

I found the root.  I went back to a fine white line scraped on the top of a CD case.  And I see now that I made a wrong turn.

That thing that nearly broke me made me who I am today.  That little girl calls me Dad.  I don't need to self medicate.  While I was here I handled my business.  Not only did I pay back this time, but I worked on myself as well.  And I sit here a changed man.  Still with lessons to learn....but nonetheless changed.

Plenty of times I lay back and think about a ride on my Harley.  The freedom.  But I also let myself go back to the places I used to live.  And I see how far I've come.

I know my grandpa would be proud of the changes.  If I died tomorrow I would go in peace. But that's not my story.  I get to come home.  I accept my second chance at life.  My life becomes something.

GIVEN TO FLY

"I got two turn tables and a microphone"..a line made famous by music group Beck.

I have a bike in Mom's shed, one cool daughter who loves me and freedom just around the bend.  Forget the partridge in a pear tree...I don't need one.  I'm putting a tattoo machine in the saddle bags on my bike and beginning the "endless-summer-tour" once I'm free.  Coming to a location near you.  And yes, as much footage of all this as possible will be posted to Jailbird for everyone to see.

For many years the blog has been about my incarcerated life in print form.  I'm excited to, after release, change that factor and bring more photos and video.  Starting the day I'm released.  I intend  to bring as much of my story to you from out there as I have from in here.

A family member told my daughter to be careful.   I may get back out there and forget about being her dad.  She knew better and let them know her Dad has a plan.  After it pissed me off for a second, it motivated me.  Thank you.  All the haters in the crowd.  I get far more energy to perform from the haters than from the fans.  A standing ovation makes you smile and reassures you that you just owned that.  But it's the people who talk shit and voice their disapproval that cause you to put in late hours at the workshop.  Even if what you're building is a bomb for the.  HA!  I kid...

The ride is nearly over for me.  I did the time the judge gave me.  I fixed as much as I could from here.  I took advantage of the time.  I'll come home and tattoo.  Don't need to sell drugs anymore.  I'm still batshit crazy but I'm sober. And I like it this way.  It's a shoe that fits nicely.

Speaking of, I just bought my daughter her first pair of Harley boots.  She told me she loves them.  She hasn't been on the Harley yet, but that comes soon.  That should give the family something to whine about.

Keep watching me though!  The fun truly begins once I'm home.  10 years in a cage--this dude is ready to fly!

FLASHBACKS

My parents bought me a guitar for my 16th birthday.  It was really special.  And I sold it for $75.00 a year later.  And then about 5 years later I bought it back from the same guy.  And pawned it a few months later to buy drugs.

My Grandpa bought us all a gun when we reached hunting age.  A rite of passage.  I misplaced that gun somewhere in my travels.  Since Grandpa is dead now, I really wish I had that gun.

I teased a girl named Margarette when I was in elementary school.  Glue on her chair, tacks on her chair and of course about her name.  Margarette?  For real?

I found out in high-school that she took her own life.  Margarette was a foster child.  Passed from house to house and somewhere in the mix of all that I was teasing her.  I can't help but feel I contributed to her discomfort in life.  That weighs  heavily on my mind.

And then the way I did my daughter's mother.  We were kids.  Not quite 18 and about to have a baby.  To this day I don't know why, but I cheated on her while she was pregnant with our baby.  It makes me ashamed of myself on the highest level that I would do her like that.

And now I look at my daughter that is like some high bred version of the two of us and I see her mom at 18 again and it makes me see myself at 18 and sometimes I get lost.  There was so much good in me at 18, yet how could I do something so stupid?  And I pray no boy ever breaks my girl like I did so long ago.

As I lay in bed at night, as I have done for so many years, those are the things that reach me, those are the voices that speak to me.  Margarette.

We've all made mistakes.  Do we own them?  I believe I am.  And for this next year, (my last year) I will continue to soul-search.  Prison took me out of life at 28.  Everything hit pause.

But it didn't out there.  And the fact is, I'll be a 40 year old man.  That's going to be hard to pull  off.  You can ask my daughter, sometimes she's more mature than I am. 

I don't tease anyone anymore.  I won't cheat on a woman either.  I keep things that people give me.  I have all my letters and cards from over the years, and I keep my clothes on in public.

My epic fails have been my best lessons.  It just hurts, you know.....
                 
                                                                                            the falling down!

FALLING DOWN

Today is Tuesday, sheet day.  Everyone strips down their bunk and sends their bedding in to be washed.  As they return from laundry I hear the hustlers speech begin..."I make beds for a soup.  I'll fluff your mattress for a dollar!!"

I sit here and look around me, I feel myself disconnect from the world I have known for 9 years.  The dinner meal is called and we make the walk to the chow hall.  There is no chicken-on-the-bone anymore.  Now there's chicken nuggets that are 90% breading.

As I wait in line to eat I watch 50 people cut the line and pass by me.  It makes me angry.  I look at the back of the mans head who just cut me in line.  I think about whether a bat would connect better than a golf-club.  Perhaps a 9 iron would drive the point home.

I recognize the rage.  In my head I address it, then slowly walk it back from the edge.  Once under control I slowly let out the breath I realize I was holding.  I remind myself I'll go home soon.  It's time to let it go.  This life, it's rules, the anger, the disrespect.

I get inside and take my tray as it slid out the flap.  Then I look at the next table to see who is sitting there.  Is that the prick that just cut me off?  Yeah, it is, and another dude who grinds me.  So I walk by the water cooler to get my drink and fumble around just long enough for that 4-seated table to fill.  Then I hustle up to catch the next table.

I keep my head down and eat with a purpose.  The quicker I can exit the better.  I'm already hot, sweaty and short fused.  The air is thick and the officer is telling us to hurry, he needs spaces for more men to eat.  I don't taste the food as I rush to eat.  I don't need the officer coming over to yell at me, I'm already at the edge.

I finish my tray and enter another line to dump my tray and slide it into the dish window.  As I exit the chow hall, I am greeted by a wall of officers.  One points at me and tells me- "Against the wall!"  I walk to the wall and put my hands against it.  He kicks my legs apart and does a full body pat down-search.  He's looking to see if I tried to snuggle the chicken nuggets back to sell in my dorm.  As men do so they can get a dollar to buy them a cigarette to smoke.  Once he's satisfied I don't have the nuggets he tells me to kick rocks.

I walk back toward my dorm.  On that walk I pass the Lake this institution is named after.  I see a ripple in the water and a turtle pokes his head up and looks at me.  I'm envious of his protective shell.  I watch him watching me for a minute.  It's a simple thing but it brings my focus back.  I'm full and the day is over.  My bed is made and it has clean sheets.  I have made my bed and I must lie in it.

A Well Rounded Man

Men's Health claims the well-rounded  man should own a nice watch, a good pair of dress shoes and at least one good suit.

I thought of this when they came in and told us to prepare to evacuate for the hurricane.  "Put personal hygiene items in your pillowcase and leave all the rest behind."  They gave us five minutes to pack.

This is my second hurricane evacuation since being in prison.  I've been involved in a statewide lock down.  I've been in an organized sit-down to protest our food portions and the menu.  I've seen stabbings, robberies, beat-downs and assaults.

I don't own a suit, watch or dress shoes.  But I have a belt full of notches.  A life full of  experiences that have created a well-rounded man.  I stand tall in my boots.

This entire adventure has been just that.  Every experience is another chapter.  I did call my mom and tell her my daughter gets my Harley if anything should happen to me.  Aside from my daughter, my Harley is the coolest thing that's mine.  I would want her to have it.

I'm at 14 months now.

I've had people I love pass on.  I've seen my little girl graduate high school and move out.  I've watched my family pull together under extreme circumstances and grow as people.  I came, I saw...some days I conquered while other days I was beat down.  I've loved.  I've lost.  I've let bad women hang around longer that I should and let good women go sooner than necessary.  My decisions have put me up against the wall and at times behind the wall.

You know what?  I'm still fucking standing.  My life has never been dull or boring. 

Well-rounded?  Probably.

Survivor?  Definitely!

I can buy a watch and nice shoes.  Money can't buy the things that make a man a man.

You read about my life behind bars.  Soon that will change and you will then follow me as I move through life once again....from out there.  I can't wait to live the next chapter of my life.

Thanks.... May I have another?

Doing time feels like rolling around in the dryer on tumble-dry.  Just about the time you're in a groove, they change it up.

The Snickers Ice Cream Bar on canteen tastes so good it's only fitting they remove it from the menu.  Tuesday dinner of fried chicken was such a smash it's been replaced now with some square patty of unknown identity.  Their posted mission statement is, "Care, Custody & Control".  The underlying facts are try and fuck us on every corner.

So when they woke me and told me to transfer, I rolled my eyes and figures..."here we go again."

A few months later and here I sit at a psych-camp called Lake C.I.  Could be that I'm finally at the end of this, but I'm truly not giving a fuck.

As in, the guards can have this shit, just like the men who stay when I leave can have this shit.  It's not my cross to bear anymore.

Knowing how they work, I'm certain it wasn't to better-my-stay when they moved me.  I simply met their quota for a bunk change.  It's like living in the handicapped-parking-stall...

Everyone who pulls in is an idiot.  Luckily, I'm an idiot as well.  So I fit right in.

The camp I transferred from has had a large increase in violence.  In some cases resulting in deaths.  While I'm over here at the lake watching a 6 foot alligator swim the pond us guys named "Wally".  Wally spends his days chasing ducks and eating food dudes toss over the fence to him.  Wally doesn't give a fuck and neither do I.

For once D.O.C. finally slipped up and handed me a blessing.  If I could only get me a Snickers Ice Cream to go with my happy meal.

Because I'm so dang happy over here.

The countdown is at 15 months.

Ain't Life Beautiful!

It should be.  If it's not, what are you doing about that?

This prison recently started a music program.  Battle of the Bands.  There is some serious talent in here.  Band's rehearse on the rec-field under the pavilion.
While walking to chow the other day a band kicked into "2 Tickets to Paradise"...Steely Dan.

The day was cloudy and overcast.  There was a cool breeze and this mellow aura. When the band hit the notes and began the chorus, nearly every man in the chow line began to sing.  For a moment I forgot where I was and I too began to sing.

We were laughing and in that moment I took a mental-picture.  A memory I will carry with me forever.  One day soon I'll find myself in paradise.  A cold beer in my hand and that song will begin to play and I will ask a pretty lady to dance.
Or, perhaps I'll just sit there and smile.

Paradise isn't  a destination, but a state of mind.  Something you can achieve anywhere.  Paradise isn't a person.  Paradise and that perfect feeling come from inside you.  When you leave behind the restraints, daily life and responsibilities create, you, my friend have found your paradise.  That could be your tub full of bubbles.

On my walk to chow, nine years into a ten-year sentence, I was in paradise.

One day soon I'll be sitting under a tiki hut looking across the ocean.  I'll grab my beer and walk to the juke-box.  Slide some quarters in and select the song.  Truth is, I find priceless moments in here.  I'm bringing that home with me so every day can be special.

My Cosmopolitan Magazine had dating tips.  I read them  because how better to understand women than  from women.  It stated women want a confident man who takes control and listens.  A man who is comfortable with himself and loves to laugh.  How do they feel about tattoos?

(KING OF THE TRAILER PARK)

I sit here and consider the future.  Growing up in a large family was a struggle. We had plenty of love but fell short on the extras.  Since  prison broke me down, I had to rebuild this thing.  I've taken the time while here to really think out my future plans.

There were kids I grew up with that were born into money.  They had all the cool-shit.  I went to their house to ride on their 4-wheelers, drive their snowmobiles and ski behind their boat at the lake.  I've seen these people never appreciate what they had.  It might have been the same for me, who knows. What I do know is I'm coming home at 40 to get mine.

I will continue to write for this blog once I'm home.  Even when I'm the owner of a multi million dollar business.  I'll do it to prove a point.  The same point I'm coming home to prove to my daughter.

I'll show you along with my family what I can do.  I'm  going to own the boat my daughter takes her friends on to ski.  I'm going to own the cabin up north we vacation to in the summer.  Every member of my family has children and struggle to get by. They sacrifice and go without.

I used to sled down the hill during winters.  Mom made us cocoa when we got in. Mom drove us to the park on the lake and we swam together.  We pulled each other in the red wagon.  We caught lightening bugs in jars and we played in the sandbox.

And here we are now.

Big brother has been in prison for the last 10 years and everyone else made babies and struggles.  We are stretched all across the states.  It's hard to get everyone together because there's so many different schedules.  Not to mention it's difficult to take a week off from work when you know the bills will be there waiting when you get home.  And when you all do get together nobody pulls in with a trailer full of fun toys to ride on.  When you head to the lake everyone is still swimming to the buoys because nobody has an extra 20 grand to buy a boat.

Your back aches after camping because you have a tent.  Nobody can budget in a 30 thousand dollar motor home so the adults can use a real bathroom and sleep on a real bed.  What if Grandma and Grandpa want to come?

Every family should have a rich uncle who pulls in with all the cool-shit nobody else has.  And you should drive it like you stole it.  It's no fun when you're told to be extra careful, we don't want to break anything.  Don't tell me that.

I've sat behind these walls and considered the quality of life I seek.  It will bring me joy to tow my boat to the lake so all these sad all little nieces and nephews of mine can get a bit further than the buoys.  I want all these little boys to ride a dirt bike.  My daughter hasn't rode a dirt bike.  How will she ever ride a Harley next to me unless she learns on a small bike first?

If you're blessed and can play hard, hell-yeah!!  Maybe you struggle to save for that special yearly trip.  That's special.  But if you can't find the up from the down check me out.  That's exactly why I'm coming home to do what I'm going to do.  To show that anyone can change their future.

My daughter told me her Aunt was telling her how many prisoners reoffend. They get home and forget the loved ones who stuck beside them while they were in.  They go back to the old life of crime.  I have a few things to show that Aunt. Especially since my daughter told her--"not my Dad, he has a plan- he'll do fine".

I really can't wait to show you.  And I will.  Right here on Jail Bird.  Except I won't be the jail bird anymore.

"ESTABLISHED 2010"

Some dudes learn to tattoo so they can support their habit.  They make you pay ahead of time.  By the time they get around to your art, they have already used your money on smoking, drugs or gambling.  When they finally begin your art their heart isn't in it.  They just slap some shit on you to cover the money you paid.  An artist who takes pride in their work and attempts a masterpiece every time is rare in prison.  I am that dude.

The tattoo man makes money in prison.  It's one of the best hustles going in the chain-gang.  If you sell dope the cops run down on you all the time.  Not to mention the inmates who try to rob you.  But they usually let the tattoo guy slide. At least they aren't out to get you.  If they walk up on you, it could go either way. The inmates want your services and most guards see it as an honest hustle.
When you're good, you're haters will be the other artists.  They don't want to be in the same dorm as you because you get all the business.  I've been the best on every pound I've been on since shortly after I began to tattoo over 7 years ago.

The name Hooligan is known throughout the prison system.  I don't attempt to compete with other artists.  I really don't see them like that.  I compete with the last piece I did.  How far have I come since my art a year ago.  The haters fuel me.  If you don't have opposition your clearly not doing anything.

I don't tattoo because I have to.  I do it because I love it.  It's the only time I feel 100% removed from my life here.  I'm an able bodied man with a gift.  Why take advantage of my loved ones?  This also ensures I'll come home a seasoned veteran of body art.  Once free, my customers will reap the benefits of all the years I spent tattooing in here.

I've paid my dues.  Every time I sit down to work I know it could land me in solitary confinement.  It's a risk I take to be able to come home with a talent that will make me a small fortune.

I have a look out man I pay to watch for me.  He yells something like: HOT WATER or MAIL CALL , when the police come to do security checks. Hopefully I have time to stash things away before they're up on me.  We sit on the floor between bunks.  Sometimes dudes sit nearby playing cards to block for us.  It's a team effort.  Being a tattoo man in prison is dangerous. The police don't come for the man getting the ink, they want the artist.  I'm the one going to jail.
I've tattooed men's thighs, crotches, butt-cheeks, groins, faces, ears and heads.  In seven years I've been to confinement 3 times for my art.

I can't wait to come home and not stress about the police.  The shout that signals the cops are coming.  Your heart beats faster, your stress-level spikes and your concentration is lost.  It's a real pain in the ass.  I still love what I do.  I know all about my clients.  How long before they go home, why they're in prison, how old their kids are.  It's a personal experience.  I will enjoy putting my art on women one day.  So far it's been a one-sided-affair.  Most of all I'm blessed to know I can be happy to head to work.  Long hours won't be a problem.  It will never compare to sitting in a square box watching rats run across the floor........

REPLACEABLE

A man I know recently sold enough of his shit to travel to France and meet a woman he met online.  Straight Jerry Springer action.

Leaving behind a wife and kids.

                        * TO TAKE THE PLACE OF SOMETHING*

That's the definition of replaceable.

When  I came to prison people in my life were replaced.  Bad apples replaced for good ones.  I'm certain people have done that with me as well.  But what about true love?

I believe lust and infatuation are often times confused with love.  Love lasts for the long haul.  Standing the test of time.  When you love someone and they pass away, in time one heals.  Given the proper time one could learn to love again. However, you will always love that other person and their memory.  When you simple replace someone, that certainly wasn't love.  Perhaps infatuation but not love.

What's it matter anyway?

If your able to move on with your life and find happiness, that's priceless.  Just be careful not to confuse that with love.  If you think of it as true love, then perhaps you should go back and thank the end of your last relationship.  Since had it not ended, surely you wouldn't have found your true love.

People live their entire lives seeking true love.  If you've found some way to find it in every relationship then by all means share your secret.

I consider these things while I sit here.  Perhaps  you've done the same.  After a few relationships, ones idea of love will change.  At some point you really do just wish to be happy.  Some are simple afraid to be alone.  Their life isn't complete without someone else to track mud on their floor.

I'm looking for happiness within myself, and look for someone else who does the same.  Since it's only then that you can truly learn to love.  When you look for your happiness in another, you will always feel let down.  Then again, perhaps true happiness can be found in France!

LOOSE SCREWS...

"What level of crazy are you?"

That's what I ask myself as my bunkie explains his plan to me.  He's telling me how he got the cuts on his arm.  I was never a cutter but I've seen plenty.  All those little marks carefully sliced into the skin.  Evenly spaced, side by side.  The work of concentration.  He's exploring why he made these cuts.

Once they begin to bleed, he puts water on them so the blood thins out.  He can then wipe the blood over his body.  The face, the shoulders, the arms.  So this isn't just a cutter, this is a real live whack-job.  Two fries short a happy-meal doesn't even begin to touch this.

A cutter generally seeks control.  Sometimes needing attention.  A cry for help, to be noticed.  Then it turns into an addiction, the same as with drugs or alcohol. But a typical cutter isn't wiping their blood and painting themselves red.

I should mention this is my cell-mate in confinement.  I don't have the luxury of walking away when he begins to explain this to me.  We are stuck.  Our cell is 8' by 6'.  And he's now sleeping below me on the bottom bunk.

I can't help but sit there and as I listen, I'm mentally hanging my head.  All the pure shit-piles I have managed to step in over my lifetime.  Talk about some tight squeezes.  This is where I live.

A real-live "psych-camp" with psychological madness everywhere.  Right now it's sleeping on the bunk below me.

I think prison is a test.  A time-out for you to consider the choices that brought you here.  Right now it's my life.  Out there life consistently bombs you with one experience after the next.  The good, the bad, and the ugly.  There's a large level of distraction involved.  Prison causes focus.  You better focus when the dude in your cell likes to wipe blood on his body.  I'm not real worried about the cookies in the oven or switching the laundry or picking Timmy up from school. I'm focusing on keeping one eye open tonight while I sleep.

My daughter will turn 20 in August.  She knows I'm free soon.  Our relationships developed with me in here.  Soon that will change.  I've never thrown my hands in the air while riding a roller-coaster next to my kid.  I've never looked over and seen her smiling from the passenger seat.  I've never seen her upset and throwing things around her room while telling me she hates me.  She wants to know if I've changed.  There's a tattoo down my side that states..."There once was a boy, Before you stands a warrior".   The things that didn't break the boy, they made the man.

HOPE

Everybody flick, flicking a cigarette...

Hold that thought...I'm on some new shit.  I got one hand in my pocket and the others waving good bye.  Once I hit your side of the fence that finger will be flipping a bird.

When I was a little boy they had this coin-donation-contraption at the front of Wal-Mart.  You dropped your coin in a slot and the coin dropped into this funnel tube.  It rolled a big wide circle at the top and as it fell lower, the narrow cone made it spin faster.  It went faster and faster until it dropped into the small hole at the bottom.

I'm that fucking penny right now.  The slow-role of this thing is over and it's at the trail's end.  I just pictured a kid drinking his milk-shake.  It's all gone, but he's steady sucking the straw in that one corner to get the last tiny bit.  All you hear is that annoying sucking sound.  That gurgling sound that signals the shits empty little homie.

Unlike that milk-shake, prison isn't good till-the-last drop.  I am certainly not around here trying to suck up the last drop.  And that just came off really gay.

I want a filet-mignon, cooked medium with a side salad.  I'll be drinking a Michelob light and shooting tequila.  Take the shot, nurse the beer.  Slow ride it till the piano break.  I won't be drinking socially.  I'll be drinking to fine-tune a monumental buzz that will walk me to the edge.

I'm having one for all the cool ass men that had to stay behind.  The brothers I leave behind this fence.  I've been watching them leave around me...One by one...  And I knew that one day, that would be me taking this walk for the last time.  I'll have made it.  I did my bid.  Manned up,  screwed down and took a direct hit.  10 years lived inside a fence.

Nope, I'm gonna dance with the devil.  Get his shit off my chest.  If I bring elements of this life back to society, I will fail.  I can't afford to do that, failure is not an option..

In order for me to be the man I want to be I have to walk from this just like I quit smoking 5 years ago.  Not one puff, not one drag-never hit one again.  If I allow this place to come home with me than I let them  win.

Clean break.  Walk away.  It's over.  Now I'm the dude who gives the next guy hope.  Man UP. Handle your business and get your ass home to  your family.

Confinement

Its been awhile since I took a time-out.  Stepped away from regular every day prison-life and was placed in confinement.  Over my time in D.O.C., nearly 9 years now, I have visited confinement at every prison I have done time at.  Unless you walk a squeaky-clean line and have luck on your side, you will sooner or later visit prisons Bed N Breakfast.

Confinement can work at you different ways.  When you come to the box, you lose your previous life.  You won't get your same bunk back.  Chances are you won't even be in the same dorm.  Sometimes they steal your shit before the cops can pack it up to store.  You will be reassigned a new job once released, so if you really had it going on for yourself, the box can screw that up.  Not to mention your loved ones call up here to find out why you're not calling home anymore and are told what type of buffoonery your up to.  These things will gnaw at you when you come into confinement.  Not to mention they can take your gain time and cause you to do longer in prison.

I'm not a fool.  Well, not full-time.  I calculate the worst-case-scenario before I ever walk out on thin ice.  So, this trip to confinement was a perfect example of worst case scenario.  I have a year and a half to do here yet and need to carry my own weight, I picked up the tattoo machine once again.  It has been my hustle in the chain gang for nearly six years now.  I'm one of the best.

I should have hired the best look-out I could find.  Instead I relied on someone who decided to take a break at the same time the officer decided to do a security check.  I'm absorbed in my artwork when I hear someone saying, "O-shit, she's right there!!"  By the level of panic I heard in the voice, I knew she was like....Right There!  And she was.

Needless to say she wasn't feeling a wide open tattoo parlor in her dormitory that day.  And, sometimes blue eyes and dimples can't buy your freedom.  Trust me, I tried.  But when they tell you to "Turn around, cuff-up", you can save your breath.  You're taking a little vacation.

Tattooing, body piercing, branding and modifications constitutes 15 days confinement.  When I heard the panic  in the voice, I knew it was close so I slid the equipment as far away as possible and willed it to disappear.  When it didn't, it at least changed it to a "contraband" D.R. since I wasn't caught in the act.

I knew what I was up against.  This will not change the day I leave.  Nor am I upset that I misplaced my bunk and dorm.  I'm catching up on some sleep and some letter writing.  To appease the gods of fate, I needed to go on and get this over with.  Consider my dues paid.  No matter where the debt is paid, payment is still collected.

2018 Baby!!!

WHO ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU ABOUT?

Life's a winding road and as I near 40 years old I'm asking myself that very thing (title of this piece).  Are you an employee, a single mom struggling to get by?  What's your "off-the-top" answer?  A name?  You have one.  But are you a part of something?  A team, a greater wheel?  And what are you about?  What would others say about you if asked that question?  Do you run and hide?  Bow down, give up and shrink away?  Or do you stand tall and give 'em hell? 

And what's your legacy?  What is the memory you will leave behind?  When you're young you don't stop to consider this.  But I'm getting older, it's how the cards fall.  When I slow down one day, when the edges begin to fade, the end draws near, will the light I leave behind be as bright as the one I walk into.....And that's what I'm asking myself.

My family has watched me get clean and free from drugs.  My mother has watched me grow into a man.  My daughter's mother has watched me become a dad who loves my child.  I get to watch my sister's son grow into a man.  I get to walk up on him and hear him tell his friends, "this is my Uncle Mike, I was named after him." And my other sister's daughter can introduce me to her friends and tell them she wrote me letters while I was in prison.  We were pen-pals.

I met my sister Grace's boys before they were born here in the visiting park of a prison.  And I put my hand on her belly and we took pictures to prove it.  When I get home I'm going to make grilled cheese sandwiches for them and then we're going to play catch in the backyard.  And my baby sister is going to look out her back window and smile.  She's going to see her big brother, who walked to the ends of hell and back, love on her boys.

I realize now this is what life is for.  Not a million bucks in the bank, but rather a million memories with the people we love.  I get to pile up my sister's daughters, my brother's little girl and me and my daughter get to take them out for ice-cream.  All them little faces smeared with ice-cream.  I want to smear some on my face and take a picture with them all.

It's crazy the stuff you begin to think about when you know your half-way to the end.  I may even be closer than that.  All the more reason to make every second count.

Here I am in the place where people fall between the cracks.  But I'm part of a bigger picture.  My family won't allow that to happen.  They reach right in here and grab me.  Their children reach out to me in here.  Everyone in my family plays a role.

A long time ago I wasn't ready to be a Dad.  Another man stepped up to the plate and he became Dad to my daughter.  He loved my daughter as his own.  Clayton was killed in a tragic car accident and left behind his wife and the little girl she was carrying, along with my daughter.  He had raised my little girl and was taken before he even met and held his own little girl.

Thoughts of this man have inspired me to never let down our daughter, his wife or his daughter.  It's a big story but its my story.  During the most impressionable years of my daughters life, he loved her and showed her what a great Dad should be like.  He left too soon, yet what he left behind lives on.

When my time comes I want to leave behind memories of myself that touch the people I loved forever.

And so I ask myself what I'm doing.  I want to dig up worms with these boys and then take them fishing.  One day I would like to take my daughter and her little sister out to dinner.  I would like to tell them both stories I remember of their Dad.  I was merely a biological Dad at the time...He was a father.  I will always see this man as Dad to my daughter.  I give him that respect and when I talk to my daughter I tell her about her other Dad also and I call him that to her.  I hope to pass that on to the daughter of his he never met.  He gave me a priceless gift, perhaps I can show back that kindness.

That's who I want to be.  These are the things I want to be about.  I may be covered in tattoos, but they don't define me.  On first impression you may jump to conclusions but you would do good to look more closely.  While you're looking closely, I challenge you to take a look at yourself and see what you're about.

THAT'S WHAT I'M ON NOW.

My family has been going through some things lately. We stick together but keep our worries under our own roof.

Behind these fences many turn to God.  A last resort.  All else has failed.  Often times you hear it said they hid behind the cross.  Ironically if you place trust in God, the Bible states you will be safe in the Shadow of the Almighty.  His hand of protection will cover you.  You can seek safety under his wing of protection. These are promises that someone who believes in God claims for themselves.

An unbelieving world, especially in here mocks that.  They say your weak and you hide behind Christianity.  Yet those same individuals will join a gang for protection.  Gang activity is at an all-time high.  Not just in the prison system.   These young men are coming to prison already affiliated.  They don't realize they do the same thing they accuse a Christian of.  You have picked an organization that fits you.    Offering protection and something you wish to gain.  You follow their rules all so you can be under that umbrella.

In an attempt to avoid the comments and distaste, I keep my personal beliefs for the most part to myself.  My family knows I go to church every week here.  They know I read my Bible every morning and begin my day with prayer.  I seek to be a better man, a better dad, and I ask God for his help.

What I don't do is talk about it all the time.  I'm certain I have mentioned it from time-to-time.

Those beliefs make people nervous.  Some are intimidated.  But if you break it down it's not crazy at all.  We want to excel in life.  We want to be blessed.

Some people meditate.  Others use a form of Buddhism .   Many speak of karma and doing to others as you want given to you.  I choose to believe in God.

I've broke the law my entire life.  I dealt drugs to parents who left their kids at home to buy them, then used them around their kids.  I knew this.  I sold drugs to wives that hid it from their husbands.  Or vice versa.  I used drugs sand became and addict myself.  I never cared.

In order for me to care, I needed a reason.  My reason to "care" came in the form of my daughter.  My accountability comes from my family, my God and my child.  I'm paying back a debt here so I don't need to feel guilty from my past.  I can love myself and be proud of the man I've become.

So I go to church every week.  I read my Bible and I pray.  It's for me.  It works for me.  I was a bad man who needed much help.  I'm getting it.  I've chose not to push my belief's because they are mine.  I don't wish to offend or push away people.  If you just read my thoughts but don't know me, then you have some opinion formed of me.

People ask what I did to come too prison.  I broke the law.  I broke laws my entire life and now I pay them all back.  Even the ones I didn't get caught for. Does it matter what I'm here now for?  I'm letting this pay back all the rules I broke!

I place God in my life because I'm now accountable to him.  I follow the laws set by him.  I don't like cops.  I don't like the laws of the land.  But my Bible states to follow the laws of the land.  Respect them in authority over me.  I have a hard time with that.  I'm a work in progress.  But for me I take it better from God than from a cop or county judge.

Because I put my faith in God, there are blessings in my life.  Lately my morning prayer time has been for my daughter and my sister.  My kid's fine.  She's just making that transition from kid to adult.  If you remember, that's some difficult shit.

My sister has been growing baby number two.  This little dude has had one problem after the next.  My sister already tends to have pregnancy difficulties. What can a big brother, while in prison, do for his little sister?  Not much.  And if it wasn't enough for prayer and bringing her troubles to God, I would feel completely worthless.

This little boy has beat the odds.  He has fought for life since conceived.  He has had a loving family pray him through life before he even entered the world.

Whatever it is you hold near your heart; your family, your children, sobriety, wear it with pride.  Let it make you better.  Allow it to cause you to stand tall. There are others who watch you.  You might be the light to their darkness.

Side note:  This letter was written 3 weeks ago, it is just now getting posted because of mail forwarding difficulties.  Little Thomas is growing and continues to have support from his loving family and God as answered many prayers for the family and little Thomas.

Daily Doses

I woke up, grabbed my toothbrush and headed to the bathroom sink.  Brushed my teeth, my tongue, then rinsed off my face.  Still half asleep I slapped both cheeks like the little asshole kid in Home Alone. 

When I shower I use the hot to steam open my pores.  At the end I shut off the hot and stand under the cold until my nuts shrink to acorns.  I like to feel.  I like the sensation that I'm alive, speeding down the road at a hundred and fifty-five.

I'm an artist and get as much art as I give.  There is intense feeling while under the needle receiving your art.  You feel alive.  The inner rebel steps up and stands tall.  I believe that's one of the draws to tattoos.

There were times in my life when drugs over shadowed natural highs.  The excitement you feel when you accomplish something amazing.  These days I smack myself in the nuts and take deep breaths to walk through the pain.  During exceptionally long and painful tattoos I think through the pain by imagining hurt and heartache leaving the body.

When my grandfather died I put an eagle on my arm in memory of his legacy.  The eagle is powerful and respected.  It represents our country, freedom and the men who fought for that.  My Grandfather was all of that.  I couldn't attend his service, nor did he see me get free.  I let that hurt and disappointment in myself go with the pain of that tattoo.

We can let life hand us our daily dose.  Take it as its rationed out and wear it.  Problem is, all too often life can seem to hand you a shit sandwich on the regular.  So many are prone to depression that a couple hard doses of bad luck can trigger you into a funk that overtakes you.

Now I'm not saying to go smack yourself in the nuts, but you need to find some release that centers you once again.  Perhaps a tattoo is up your alley.  Maybe you're not into that.  Climb up on the roof and lay there and look at the stars.  Look at how big it is out there and then realize your problem is so small.  You can change your job, the people you associate with and the things you come into contact with.

I've had to realize I can't do any of that right now.  The asshole who cut me off in line lives 2 bunks over.  The cop who yells at me every day works here full time.  I can't leave for another 19 months.  So I pinch myself, slap myself and take cold showers.  Because that's what I DO have control over.

I understand why people cut.  I understand why some women sleep with multiple partners.  I understand why some men go home and beat on their wives.

You done lost control somewhere else and you're overcompensating in some area where you can feel you took it back.  I can't wait till I get back and have the chance to make choices once again.

Had I never come to prison and went to a drug rehab instead, I too would be on 10 different medications.  Perhaps an antidepressant, some methadone to help past my addiction and something for anxiety.  Instead I came to prison where I was forced to get clean and confront my demons.  Anxiety?  When you're an asshole to me I steer as clear of you as I can, but I also know you're the one in pain.  You're the one who has the issue, not me.  That's why you're an asshole.

I'm going home to ride a Harley, be a Dad and have casual sex.  You're still going to work here and your life will still suck.  Depression?  I'm about to go home.  Prison is my antidepressant.  Once I'm home, what can life ever throw me that overshadows 10 years in a dog house?

What night terrors?  I live with crazies who roam the halls and aisles all night looking for trouble.  They're still raping blond haired blue-eyed white dudes.  What's my terror?  I'm late on the power bill?  Go on....cut that shit off!

I realize you all sweat these things.  Just think about how much of your life your wasting.  And if your living a good life?  Consider yourself blessed.

19 months and counting.......

Nut House

I'm not crazy.  No, really I'm not.

I just live in a nut-house.  Dudes here have demons for real.  Tormentors that wake them in the night.  Yelling, screams, seizures....happen every night.  It's nothing to have an extraction team come in to remove an inmate that has lost his head.  Men prescribed meds that have such side affects they don't swallow the pill.  Spitting it out as they leave the nurse at the pill window.  Only to have some out of body  experience hours later.  Some violent outbreaks, others just lock up in seizure.  This goes on all hours of the day.  I have never seen a more active medical crew than here at Lake.  The action is non-stop. 

You can see the darkness and emptiness in these men's eyes.  One day you can carry a conversation with them, the next they become hostile.

In the course of a day you walk somewhere and cut someone off.  Sometimes you bump into someone.  You must immediately respond with, "excuse me".  These minor infractions that a normal person overlooks may be the violation that causes one of these men to fly off and attack you.  The level of violence here is incredible.  Not limited to the young it carries into the elderly.  The hostility blows my mind.  These are the road-rage monsters who follow you home and run you down in your driveway.

I've been accustomed to a small percentage of inmates at any given time who are prone to violence.  This is a game of egg shells.  I can't count how many times I smile and say excuse me just to defuse some situation.  This has become stressful.

I'm blessed I don't have much longer.

A sane man calculates risk and consequences for his actions.  The insane don't give a fuck.  Criminally insane may not be charged with the full severity of a crime.  They are incompetent to stand trial.  Yet here they stand beside me.

I spend plenty of time asking God to keep his hand over my life.  A bumper sticker tells you not to drive faster than your guardian angel can fly....I take my time walking these days just to make certain mine can keep up.

I knew it was good at my last prison.  That's how I must look at it now.  I was blessed to spend 4 1/2 years off my sentence at a good camp.  Now to only finish 19 more months here.

I tell my daughter to keep her chin up.  Now I'm working to keep mind up.  It's fine.  The thing that doesn't kill us will make us stronger.  At this point in the game I'm working towards baddest dude in the valley.  Walk light and carry a big stick.

I've been a lone-wolf all my life.  At 16 I tattooed a wolf on my leg because it was already my motto.  One of my favorite tunes is Godsmack....I Stand Alone.  That's become an anthem of mine.  I'm heavily tattooed and constantly asked what gang I'm in.  I ride Harleys and before prison always stayed independent.  Here in prison I do the same.  Many join these organizations for some form of protection or a sense of family.  I would rather stand alone.  I only stand alone in the sense I don't need a gang to back me.  Every day I ask God to walk with me and keep His angels in charge over my day.  You may not be on that.  Perhaps you handle your affairs on your own.  I've decided to take the help from a Power greater than myself.  And that's what I'm on now.

Food Service

Just completed my first week in food service.  Quite an adventure.

They want me to work from 7 AM to 5 PM.  I get there at 9.  Before prison I showed up two hours late and was paid $16 an hour plus expenses.  Two hours late is about the max I can pull off or I'll get thrown in jail.

My first day they pulled a power-washer into the kitchen.  I was instructed to power-wash all the grout lines in the tile floor.  I was told to do this while they were prepping food to serve on trays for lunch.  Overspray from cleaning chemicals, soap and bleach were contaminating food areas.  We were told to power-wash the area around the prep table for the coleslaw.  I shook my head as I watched the overspray go across cooking surfaces.

About noon the food service director came to me and pulled me into his office.  He briefed me on OSHA regulations.  I have to wear boots at all times and wear a hair net around food.  OK.

The chow hall also has a lady who is free-world that oversees how much food is put on each tray.  She makes sure the employees don't steal all the food being prepared to serve.  She has to stand guard because a piece of chicken sells for $2 and they steal all of them they can.  They can be as much as 150 pieces short on chicken night.

The thing I observed is she stands over the serving line and prep area and refuses to wear a hair net.  It would mess up her hair and we can't have that.  So---don't take a job in food service!

My first manner of business was to write up the unsanitary way they clean.  Cleaning on the level they ask us to should be done after regular feeding hours when food is put away in coolers. Not during scheduled feeding.  Florida Department of Health mandates the same rules in D.O.C. as they do in free-world dining.  This kitchen is clearly in violation of clean cooking areas and sanitary work stations.

I've filed a formal grievance against the kitchen on behalf of myself and all other inmates who unknowingly are eating cleaning chemicals on their food.

Next, I wrote up the free-world inspector for not wearing a protective hair net or gloves when handling food.  This is a direct violation of food and health requirements for public food service.  So, while I'm in this kitchen we're going to get things in tip-top-shape.  Or they're going to fire me.

Getting them in compliance will better our dining experience.  Pissing them off will get me fired.  Either way it's a win-win situation.

Instead of giving me a simple job change they will probably lie on me and lock me up in confinement.  Whenever you write grievances in prison this can happen as a result.  That's why you never write up officers.  I never do that. 

I'm writing up food-service and the free-world employees.  They are breaking rules and not being held accountable.  I don't want to work under those conditions.  I eat  that food.  As long as I don't know there is cleaning products in it, then I eat it unknowingly.  However, you put me in there to work and I see it all day, I don't want to eat like that.

It's possible they will just lock me up for some small infraction because I have thrown a rock at the hornets nest.

That's how it works.  Its a 50/50 gamble but I had to do this.


That begins my first week in the kitchen.

Freedom on 2 Wheels

We've all made those credit card purchases.  The ones you don't realize how much you've spent until the bill comes and makes it a reality.  Hits you like a slap in the face.

I ride Harleys.  We sold them when I came to prison, but I have rode them since I was 19 years old.  Before I left my last prison I met a man selling his bike.  I really wanted the bike.  I told you a bit about this before.  He was an inmate like myself.  When you ride motorcycles, there are times you're standing around admiring the bikes.  Everyone takes a turn telling the story behind their scooter.  So I was thinking my bike's story would go something like......"I bought my bike from a dude doing time where I did mine.  He shot his wife for cheating.  He got life--while I got his bike..."

So I made the man an offer and he didn't want to budge on his price.  I didn't have the full amount he asked, so I decided to wait.

I explained to Mom why the bike meant so much to me.  Sure, I could wait until I get home to buy one.  However, I will have been in prison for a decade at my release.  Where I was going, opening a shop, and who I was going to spend my life with.  Well, all of those plans have changed.

My future plans are now an adventure and will take shape once I'm home.  I'm very OK with that, but would love to have a couple things be solid for me once again.

I explained all this to Mom.  A few days later she told me about the lady who cuts her hair.  She's also a biker and had upgraded her bike and still had the other one in the garage.  The story behind my scooter now goes like this.....

Mom knew how much a bike meant to me.  She knows the freedom you feel with the wind in your hair.  A feeling you can only experience on two wheels.  Mom negotiated the deal, covered the difference for me, and now holds a Harley for her eldest son.

Two things for certain....

I get to come home and be a Dad to my daughter.  I get to spend time with her and make up for all the years of her life I missed.  I have years ahead of me to walk beside her and be a role model.  I've stood patiently on the sidelines of her life thus far.  I tell her I'm on the sidelines cheering her on.  I'm the loudest fan she's ever had and ever will.

And I get to ride a motorcycle.  That shit makes me happy.  Nobody can take that away from me. It's mine.

Mom told me on the phone she bought the bike, it was mine.  Late that night I was laying in bed looking at the ceiling.  I'm not certain what prompted it, but at one point I laughed out loud...."I own a fucking motorcycle!!"  It was like the bill finally showed up and I got that slap in the face.  I've requested pictures.  Seems you all have seen my bike even before I have.  It will become even more real then I'm sure.

I'm coming home people.  I've got a Harley to ride as soon as I get there.  Mom brewed home made wine two years ago and I had her put two bottles to the side.  They should be nice and ripe when I get there.  I have a funny list of things-to-do.  It's so close now I can taste the wine and hear the motorcycle rumble.

(Note from the Mom:  He has all the pictures now!)

TRANSFER

I was sound asleep when an officer kicked my bunk and told me to pack my shit, I was transferring.

Barely awake I looked at the clock and saw it read 3:30 AM.  It's a Friday.  Monday is transfer day, so I know something is off.

It's not up to me, I only follow the orders.  And no questions can be asked.

For the past five years I made this prison my home.  I know the officers and what they expect from me.  I have friends.  Men I walk to chow with and eat dinner.  The men who stand up for me when I'm in trouble.  All the things that make you feel safe and comfortable in this messed up reality.  Here's an officer telling me to pack my things---I'm transferring.

I'm unable to make the rounds and tell them goodbye.  I wish I could.  I take a deep breath and remember I came to this place alone, and I'll leave alone.  I stand alone.  I process the fact I'm leaving, put my shit into bags and get ready to leave.

My Jewish brother and neighbor of nearly three years wakes up and makes a cup of coffee.  We give each other a hug and I tell him its been a hell of a ride.  He makes me promise to come visit him once I'm free.  His wife will read this and tell him I spoke of him.  Jen, you tell Mike I'll catch him on the flipside....that's a promise.

I walk out of my dorm and get into a line of others who will also transfer.  There are 40 in all.  We have to turn in all our property that the institution issued us upon arrival.  They don't want us to leave with their shit.  After they go through all our property and take the "extras" we then line up in the sally-port.  The Bluebird is waiting.  Basically a reinforced school bus.  Our feet are shackled and hands restrained.  You sling your property over your shoulder and try not to step too long a stride.  If you do, the chains will cut into your ankles and rub them raw.  Baby steps.

You duck to get into the bus through the emergency entrance at the back.  The front is for the officers and a grate separates us from them. 

In order to make sure you're the right guy, they ask you identifying questions.  My name is called.

"Smith!!"  

"Where were you born?"  Mitchell, Indiana.

"What county sentenced you?"  Orange County. 

"Mother's maiden name?"  Wendel.

"What's your girlfriends name?"  I don't have one.... "Get on the bus asshole."

And so my journey begins.

I sit beside the window and watch the bus pull away from the place I have lived and been visited at.  Another chapter ends, while one more begins.

I'm able to look out my window.  It has reinforced grate welded onto it so visibility is poor.  Still, I can see men in trucks headed to work.  A dealership where a salesman is showing a car.  A bus stop where people wait to be picked up.  A cute lady with long tanned legs slowly passes in the other lane. 

I see freedom.  It's right outside my window.  There isn't a row of fences with barbed wire or guard towers.  It's a small piece of Plexiglas between me and life.

I smile.  I'm glad I'm moving on.  A new place to develop relationships.  A new place to lay my head.  A new life.  My time will fly past as I learn the ins and outs of my new home.

The bus is slowing down.  We exit off the highway and shortly after pull down a long drive.  I see the fences and towers and know I'm nearing my new home.  I get butterflies.  You must walk the cat-walk.  They call out..."fresh fish", "hey cute boy--want to sleep in my bed tonight?"  You learn to walk tall, look ahead and shake it off.  They watch for the one with fear in his eyes.  The one who looks away or hangs his head.  Keep Fuck You written on your face.

As I pass under the gate I read the name.  They just sent me to a psych camp?  As if my life isn't crazy enough with their shipping psych's to my camp....now they put me at a psych prison!

Classification informs me I've just been transferred for "institutional needs".  A "population adjustment".  When you grow comfortable somewhere, you forget to feel.  Sometimes we grow too comfortable with the people in our lives and we forget to respect them....and our life.  If I grew too comfortable here I would miss the lesson.  So close to the end and I want the lesson to be loud and clear.

Don't ever, under any circumstances, come back to THIS place. 

Stay tuned to the next and last chapter of my life behind bars.

Last Minute Preparations

Just a little over 20 months from now my Mom will pick me up from the curb.  D.O.C. is about to kick me out.  Something I've waited on for a long time.

From day one Mom has planned to come here and get her son.  She's visited plenty and had to leave without me.  Soon, I'll be in the car with her.  On the way out I want to take a leak on their sign.  That will be the first picture of me free.

I intend to continue the blog.  I expect it will be even better since I'll be able to post videos and more pictures.  Perhaps I'll get the chance to meet some of you as well.  It would become a way for me to see more of the country.  Come to your town, drink a beer at your local dive bar and even sing some karaoke.  You can video that and we will post it up.  My schedule is free and I'm game.  But are you?  Keeping the blog is also a way for me to stay accountable.

I have a large bucket list.  Things such as Burning Man in Arizona, Mardi Gras and Fantasy Fest in the Florida Keys.  Then there's the small town stuff.  I'm a sucker for a fair.  Cotton candy and elephant ears.  Carnies who talk shit and rides that could fall apart any second.  Any town I'm in having a fair and I'm there. 

Not long ago I heard a man here had his Harley Davidson for sale.  I scraped together my loose change and Mom said she would loan me a couple hundred.  I made an offer.  I'm a sentimental person and like the story purchasing this bike would make.  Drinking a beer at a bike week everyone stands around and tells their chopper story.  I tattooed my ass off to get the money.  Then purchased the bike from a man who shot his wife for cheating.  He got life, I got his bike.  You can't buy stories like that, except I'm trying to.

Perhaps I'll become part of your story one day.  You pull up your sleeve to show your friends your new tattoo.  Then you go on to tell them you read a prisoner's blog for a handful of years.  Got to know a little about him and when he got released you had him come to your town and give you a tattoo.  Yeah, I like that.

Just like I want my bike and every aspect of my life to be personalized, I may personalize your life as well.  Then again, maybe reading this is enough for you.  Tell me the fair is in your town and I'll head out there and see if I can't win us a stuffed animal.

I used to work to pay the bills.  Plan and save all year for some big vacation once a year.  Stuck in a rut most of the world is in every day.  I'm not doing that anymore.  I'm doing one day at a time, one foot in front of the other.

Life's too short to sweat your boss and a job that doesn't give two shits for you.

Now hold on...Don't go quit your job!!  Just make sure you stop sometimes and have a stiff drink.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

When you have kids and responsibilities you need that security.  At least until the kids are grown.

I'm coming home 40 years old with a daughter who will be 21.  I haven't had sex with a real person in over 10 years.  You can bet I'm coming home to experience life to the fullest.  I found a way to work for myself.  Be able to travel with my work and be accountable to myself, my kid and God.

Right now as I write this, Guns & Roses is blasting in my ear buds.

Paradise City is the song and that's what I'm on now.




Please Note:  The Jailbird was moved to another prison two days ago.  This post was written by him prior to knowing he was being moved.  There is a lag in snail mail time!  Stay tuned for another post to come soon describing the experience of a move.

A Visit

My Dad came to see me today.  I knew he was coming because my little brother told me on Friday when I called home.  When I woke up I layed out my visitation set of blues.  Every inmate that gets visits has a special set of blues reserved as "viso-blues".  We wear the same outfit every day.  But when you come to see us we want to look our best.  We want to, for that one day, feel like a million bucks.  To remember what it felt like to dress nice for an occasion.  You may not know, but the blues we wear are clean pressed and set aside specifically for that visit.

I sat on my bed and waited until they called my name.  I then dressed and laced up my polished boots.  My boots are only for two things:  Visitation and Kickin ass.  The tips are polished to shine and look good poking out from under my pants.  They also look good arcing through the air in a roundhouse kick directed at someones teeth.

Laced up and feeling fresh I grab my pass from the officer and head to the f ront of the compound to the visiting park.  Once there, I stand in a line to enter.  They call us in 5 at a time.  "Strip down and place all your property on the table directly in front of you," the officer instructs.  You stand there in your bare feet on a cold floor shivering.  You are naked in a room of 5 inmates and 2 guards.  Seven men see you nude.  Well, six.  I see myself naked all the time.

You're directed to open your mouth and stick out your tongue.  Rub your finger along the inside of your gums.  Next you will brush your hair out and show them behind your ears.  The officer will then instruct you to lift your penis.  Then lift your testicles.  "OK, now I want you to turn around." "Bending at the waist reach behind you and spread open your butt cheeks."  While the officer looks into your anus he says, "please cough 3 times."  "I'm sorry, not hard enough."  "Please bend again and cough 3 more times."

If they are satisfied nothing is shoved inside your ass, you are then instructed to go ahead and dress. Once dressed, grab your pass and head into your visit.  I take a deep breath and walk out of my world and into some sort of fucked up pergatory.  The "in between".  I'm not quite in your world and you're not quite in mine.  Still, we will meet here, and for a few hours you will have your loved one back.  I will forget where I live and remember a life back home.

I scan the room to find you.  How much have you changed since I saw you last?  What did you put on to come and see me?  And I look to see if you are healthy.  A man like me wants to know in two years when I come home you'll be alive to see me free.  I need to see loved ones taking care of themselves so I have time with them once I'm home.  I want to see a lady that speeds up my heart and has it going on.  A woman who will compliment me and make me look good in these same old blues I wear every day of my life.  And if that's who came to see me, then I can give you a kiss.  I'll squeeze you tight like I may never see tomorrow.  I'll let my hand slide down and yes, I will feel your butt.  After all, I'm still a man.  About then a guard is approaching to tell me that's my first warning of the day. "Don't do that anymore".  That's fine, because I already did it, and it's worth a month in solitary to feel your butt.  Today it was my Dad.  No, I did not feel his butt.

I do squeeze him like it may be the last time.  One thing I know real well is loss.

We then walk to get into the line for canteen.  They sell food in the visitation canteen that we are unable to purchase at ours.  Besides, when you're here we could be at the food-court in some shopping mall.  It doesn't matter if its my Dad, Mom, brothers, sisters or a woman....you already removed me from my life here.  Standing in line forever like this doesn't matter.  We are talking, laughing and never even notice the line.  At the window finally, we pick some frozen entree and then head to the tower of microwaves.  I also purchased a photo ticket with the ham sandwich and Mellow Yellow.

We will warm the food and return to the table.  Where you will sit on one side and me on the other. I'll pop the top on your soda, then place it on a napkin to catch the condensation.  If you don't mind I'll unwrap your sandwich and put it on a paper plate.  Next to it I'll put the packets of mustard and mayonaisse.  Then pour some chips on the plate and ......lunch is served.  I also asked you what you wanted when we were in line so I could order for you.  This is all I have to show you how much I appreciate you taking to time to come and visit me.  While you're here I will serve you just to show you how special you are to me.

Then...its all over and it just barely began.  I know its coming.  I see the clock nearing the time you must go.  You see me.  You're smiling.  But on the inside I'm already crying.  Because I know soon you will go.  I will watch you finally realize its at the end. I'll make it quick for you.  I'm an escape artist.  "Don't cry, I'll see you again soon" I say.  If I seem cold at the end its because it's tearing me apart at the center.  One last wave as you disappear around the corner.  You're gone.  I won't even notice stripping nude and bending and coughing.  I'm still with you.  During the walk back to my life, this place will begin to tug me back.

Slowly, surely, I'm brought back....because the house always wins.

Monkey See? Monkey Do!

Keeping up with the Jones'.  That's how you say it out there.

Way back when my sister helped me create the blog we discussed the day it might turn into a non-profit.  Years back we did inmate shout-outs.  Ways to open it to inmates other than myself.  Keeping families connected to their inmate.  It became a pain in the ass.  I was chasing down dudes to get them to write a shout-out because the larger portion of these men don't give a fuck about their family out there.

Prison got me clean and free from drugs.  I thought perhaps I would give back to others like myself. Maybe one day open a clinic or a rehab center.  And then life has come along and I think I'll keep it to me and my family.

In prison I'm know as the Hooligan.  Years back I tattooed it across my chest.  A week later some dude put it across his knuckles.  Then I put my date of birth on my knuckles and a month later a dude 3 bunks down does the same thing.

Lately it seems younger and younger kids are coming to prison.  They even have a mentor program. Like a big brother deal.  These kids find someone they think is cool and they latch onto you.  Most of them are from broken homes and never had a Dad.  So they seek to fill a void.

So they follow me around.  Tattoo my same tattoos on themselves.  Tell people they know me and we're friends.

The rapper T.I. sings a song-You Don't Know Me.  These dudes don't know me.  Is God playing some trick on me?  When they come around and bug me, put my ink on their body and say we're friends it pisses me off.

Now I have dudes who want to work out with me.  I'm a lone wolf.  If you come around  me, I've been jaded to wonder what you want from  me.  Its innocent enough and all they want is to be around a cool dude.   I suppose it's a compliment.

I made one kid.  She doesn't answer my calls half the time and she breaks my heart.  I don't need any more kids.  I really wasn't cut out for that shit.

If the neighbor comes home driving the same family sedan you just bought, you would probably be pissed.  What if their kids keep coming over because you cook better and you're cooler.  I would go over and tell their folks to get cooler because I don't need their kids at my house.

Am I just a dick?  Is God seriously trying to shape me different?  Because right now I don't want to be followed around.  I don't want you all standing around my bunk.  I don't want you stealing my tattoo ideas either.  Go get your own.  A rehab center?  I'm going to worry about staying clean myself.

I'm sorry that so many men make babies with women and then leave them.  The woman raises the kid the best she can but there's no Dad to play that role.  When you catch your first fish you want to brag to your Dad.  You don't want your Mom baiting your hook either.  A Dad should do that.  A Dad should drive you to ball practice and play catch with you.  On that note....

God bless the women who play both roles.  The problem is that some women can't and so there's a void.  Those are the kids coming to prison.

I'm an artist so I have some dude come stop me in the middle of some important shit I'm doing to show me a stick-figure he drew.  I'm thinking it sucks and he should find a different hobby.  Then that other person on the other shoulder speaks and I have to stop and give them some pointers.  Tell them they're off to a nice start and pat them on the back.

Lately that's been a battle.  I endure every day.  I didn't ask God for patience.   I know he would pull some crap like this.  Is it because I'm ready to go home?  I don't know.  I'm not sure what the lesson is here.

Prison has attempted to harden my heart.  I recognize it has, but I can quickly see it and fix it.  Some days I push away people who really love me because I have other ideas.  I don't mean to hurt anyone. Perhaps that's why I'm bombarded by people trying to soften the hard edges prison has painted on my life.

I challenge you to compliment someone today.  If you see someone working really hard at something, even if it looks like shit, tell them they're doing a nice job.  Even adults still need that pat on the back.

Much love to you, seriously...I mean that.

Be Real

Have you ever drug your tired butt to work on a Monday and watched your boss come strolling by whistling a tune?  As you watch him walk by in his exceptional mood you think to yourself...."somebody got laid..."  Unfortunately we have all sat there and listened to a boss pop off about some shit that has you thinking..."must be that time of the month!"

It's the same way here.

One day the guard will allow you to eat a second tray of food and overlook you walking outside the yellow-line.  The next day the same guard is all over your ass because you're two minutes late to call-out.  They get so mad at us that we get a fire-drill at 4 AM on a Saturday morning when its 28 degrees.  Then they make you stand outside in your gym shorts for 20 minutes while they stand around and smoke cigarettes.

Over my time in D.O.C. I have learned to appreciate a convict guard.  That's a guard that come in with the same attitude every day.  And "if" they ever change their ways they will stop and listen to you if you approach them in a respectful manner and point it out to them.

There are other officers that are over the top on every call.  And for that reason there is a chain-of-command.  An officer puts you in cuffs and you know you weren't wrong, you have the right to ask "to see the Captain."  A good Captain will hear your side and then make the ruling.  Either you're headed to confinement or the cuffs are removed.

Personally I like the man who's the same day in and day out.  I try to live the same way.  If it's been working this far, why change it and possibly mess up something.  Just move on.

Even if the officer is a straight dick, just be a dick every day.  Then I can move around you.  Simple as that.  When you learn to do your time in this manner you are a "convict" as opposed to an inmate.  An officer will respect you for that was well.

I have learned to do my time this way.  Now with all the new changes it's turning things around a bit. Still, you make like a chameleon and adapt to the change.  I figure it's a good thing in preparation for life out there.

Weed was an illegal drug when I was growing up.  We were taught it was a drug and not to be used.  Now it's becoming legal and parents are having to teach differently.  Much like alcohol, it shouldn't be abused.  And if you're leaving the house every day and turning around to pick up something you forgot...Yeah, you may need to cut back some.

Our lives are ever changing.  Change is good.  I'm writing once again for Jailbird.  It's keeping me occupied and allowing me to vent.  On top of that I'm making new friends.

Thanks for stopping by.  Tell someone about this.  I get all the comments read to me and reply when someone wants to write.

I'm out in 22 months and I will continue to update the site so everyone can see what I've done with myself.  Before prison I was an addict.  This will become a way to stay accountable for my actions.  I ask you to stick around.  Contact me if you like.

Hopefully your boss got laid over the weekend and your day is beautiful.