Prison Radio Audio Feed

This is Spoon Jackson, at Solano State Prison, and, uh, I wanted to let the people know about my latest podcast on the commutation in California, Color of Mercy, and, uh, how the Governor Brown only commuted a hundred or so people out of 5,200. And this podcast is KALW Uncuffed. Or Uncuffed KALW. Google, and you will get to hear the podcast. Right now, I'm going to read an excerpt from my book, "By Heart," which you could find on, uh, Amazon. You can also find all the poems that I have read in my other book called, "Longer Ago." This excerpt is from when I was at San Quentin. It's called "In Silence." Indian summer at San Quentin, in the sweet sun, brings back the times I ran the dry river with the Greyhound dogs and laid under the heavy Blacks Bridge as the trains rumbled across, shaking in the soft sands. In those times I watched the shuttles of the rail cars dart by, and when night fell on a hot day, they kicked the can in pure desert darkness. There were no streetlights on Cook Street when I was a boy. My

Fight Power With Power. I've been watching the BET series Finding Justice, and it brought up a recurrent theme in my mind about the lack of true Black power. How is it that Black people are still contending with things like being disproportionately incarcerated, being shot and murdered by white police officers and vigilantes, having our vote suppressed, or having our children criminalized in school? I'm from Albany, New York and recently white police officers there were caught on video brutalizing Black men on March 16th, 2019 over a noise complaint. One officer kicked the door in of the residence and dragged out one occupant. Then the situation escalated with officers kicking and beating him. Then one officer just started going after another guy. Punching him, throwing him to the ground, and busting his head open with a Baton. Black people are still under assault in this country on several fronts. I've been arguing this for years. I can use my own situation as an example. My good friend, Paul [inaudible] wro

Noelle Hanrahan Interview With KPFA (17:28)

In 1997, Terry Daum was convicted after a trial, of three commercial robberies in Staten Island. The evidence against him consisted of testimony from one eyewitness for each robbery. In 2014, Terry discovered the police withheld evidence that was favorable to his defense. So, in 2015, he filed a motion to vacate the judgment of guilt based upon this newly discovered evidence. After waiting almost two years for a decision upon his motion, Terry decided to pursue a successive federal petition for a writ of habeas Corpus, and the United States court of appeals for the second circuit issued a mandate stating he met the strict criteria to file the petition, which is difficult to do. To meet that criteria, you must show by clear and convincing evidence that no juror would have found you guilty if not for a violation of the constitution. Terry's case is only one of many examples how our judicial system fails to get guaranteed justice for all. We're the greatest nation in the world, but yet we allow police, prosecuto

My name is Stevie J. Stevenson. I am a California state prisoner. The title of this is "CDC Finally Gets its Chance at Taking the Lawbooks Away from Prisoners.” In 1966, over 100 inmates filed a civil lawsuit, uh, against CDC for not having lawbooks in the system. The name of the case was called Gilmore vs. Lynch, 319 Fed. Supp at page 105. The outcome of the lawsuit ended with an injunction that allowed inmates in CDC to have law books to learn about the law. Uh, whether it was to help them on a direct appeal, a writ of habeas Corpus, or to fight prison conditions. This injunction was in place for 30 years from 1966 until 1996. In 1996, a case called Lewis vs. Casey 518 U.S. 343 1996 came out. In that case, the United States Supreme court led by Justice Rehnquist, uh, decided that inmates were not allowed, uh, law libraries. In doing so, CDC stopped the order of law books. However, due to the Gilmore injunction, the case, um, that started in 1996, they couldn't take the law books away. Long story short is, i

My name is Stevie J. Stevenson, K16324. And the title of this piece is "Unlawfully Incarcerated." I'm from Los Angeles, California. I've been down for the past 28 years. In 2012, I filed what is called a penal code 105 4.9 motion for post-conviction discovery. In 2015, I received documents which was a, um, lawsuit, uh, number BC002201 and number BC020272, from the Los Angeles Superior Court, that showed the two lead investigators in my case, Larry Headwall and Norman Jackson tortured, battered, and assaulted witnesses in my case, really witnesses for the prosecution.  Since filing that, uh, motion, I found out that the prosecutor in my case, who withheld the evidence is Patricia Wilkerson. At this moment, Patricia Wilkinson is the head deputy district attorney of the Los Angeles Major Crimes Unit. Since filling the motion as well, the judge who presides over my discovery proceeding is Craig Richmond, who was a former prosecutor who worked with both Patricia Wilkinson and what is called the Special Investigati

No more butterflies, flowers, love, and candy-coated lies. I am not a poet. I'm just a gesture in life, clowning and amusing readers with words. My writing is not ambiguous, hiding truth behind veils. It hasn't much grammar, rhyme or meter. No form to cast spells on the unsuspecting reader. My writing is often chopped up like heads of cabbages by teachers and editors. Its essence squeezed out like a lemon. Each morning and night, I look out from this hunk of stone through a thick plastic window, and I see my dreams are the height of nightmares, my goals are the depths of mangled mountains. Death sometimes doesn't kill you; it only fragments your life. (Sound of a cell door closing.) These commentaries are recorded by Noelle Hanrahan of Prison Radio. 

I do not understand this drought in letters; it's like a stream in Death Valley. I've been writing a lot of poetry. Perhaps they are letters to myself, for loneliness has touched me in every way. Sometimes I hear footsteps and I know the mail is being passed out. I pretend not to notice, not to hear. But I hear, I notice, and there is no love passed out today, for my stream has run dry without warning. (Sound of a cell door closing.) These commentaries are recorded by Noelle Hanrahan of Prison Radio. 

Denied. This life, a collection of sweet and bitter memories. The dreams are fantasies, made up of forgotten tomorrow that may be played out or remain forever lost, deep within the deception of the mind. What's wrong? She asked. Why are there no smiles? If I was on the streets, it would be different. My heart doesn't know that for love has no boundaries, no time, nor place. So how can there be rules to govern the flow? How can what is limitless, be binded and bound? It will flow when you allow it to be, to be. I do not imagine you to be a lovely sunset. I do not imagine you to be a lovely wildflower in a rich green meadow. I do not imagine you to be a sweet summer's day. I imagine you to be such as you are; and you are love. The heart and spirit tire sometime, if only for a moment, from being so full of love and having no outlet to truly share. For being denied the magic of a hug for so long. A hug that will juvenate the heart and spirit, like a roaring tempest wakes to a drought-stricken land. Stop asking ho

I dreamt about you once, when tiny raindrops cascaded across the windowpane. I dreamt about you once, when the snowflakes covered the woodlands and made it too cold to go outside for weeks. I dreamt about you once, when the wind rushed through the aspens, and the tall grass grew to its fullest. I dreamt about you once when I watched The Crimps and painted toes like no others, no tiny grains of sand. How long will I only be a few sheets of paper, and stamps, and envelopes? How many more words must be shared before I could see your smile? The way your lips part to speak. The way your hair looks when touched by the wind? How long will I mildew in your past? When I look out over this bay, every ripple, each waves of thought, memory of you. And there are so many ripples, so many waves. The fragrance and taste of you is still in the air. The softness of your skin is still up on my fingertips. At night, sleepless and long must I endure, creating mysterious faces and bodies that are not yours. (Sound of a cell door c

Venezuela, Again (3:08) Mumia Abu-Jamal

Dreaded Return of Harriet Tubman's Children (4:19) Yafeu Iyapo

My name is Yafeu Iyapo. Subject title: The Dreaded Self Liberation and Self Regeneration of Baba [inaudible] the first, revisited. Subtitle: Can we identify one, two, three, or more of the still living master keys, of our most sacred books of biblical self-knowledge? Greetings my sisters and brothers, there was once a dreaded Black slave named Baba [inaudible] the first. He stated: "If you want to regain your or our true freedom, we or I can teach you how." And from that day forward, Baba [inaudible] the first, the house of Iyapo private think-tanks, and the independent dual support networks, go back the basic [inaudible], i.e. are both captive and non-captive Black freedom schools, began the vital daily process to privately pass on, the basic ABC-based master keys of true racial, social, and economic justice. That were, or are most essential, for an entire generation of Blacks, Browns, poor whites and all other freedom-loving human beings, to most diligently relearn why and how this, to fulfill the ones lost

Trump in Triumph (2:06) Mumia Abu-Jamal

Rapping with a Rapper (4:13) Mumia Abu-Jamal

More About My Federal Lawsuit (4:07) Dontie Mitchell

This Ain't No Hobby. This is Real Life (3:56) Dontie Mitchell

A Call to Action, Support UFD (3:21) Dontie Mitchell

Judicial Bias and Juvenile Justice (6:10) Dontie Mitchell

Massacre at Christchurch, NZ (2:32) Mumia Abu-Jamal