Excerpt from Broadway Baptist Church’s Good Friday Sermon: A Message for the Prairieland Defendants

April 3, 2026
Fort Worth, Texas

The lesson from Luke. And one of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us.” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God since you are under the same sentence of condemnation?”

And we indeed have been condemned justly for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds. But this man has done nothing wrong. And then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” And he replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” This is the Gospel of Grace. Thanks be to God.

Earlier this Spring, nine activists were convicted on terrorism and other charges in a Federal case here in Fort Worth, which many see as setting an alarming precedent for groups opposing the policies of the United States government. The charges came after activists set off fireworks outside of ICE’s Prairieland Detention Center in Alvarado late 4th or early 5th of July. Some in the group split off from the main and began spray painting graffiti and slashing government tires. A police officer responded to the scene, drew his weapon, and was allegedly fired upon and hit by one of the activists. He survived. In April, eight of the protesters were convicted of riot, detonating explosive devices, and materially supporting terrorism. The alleged shooter was also convicted of attempted murder. The administration labeled the court victory as vindication of its crackdown on Antifa, a loosely defined term for those opposing Fascism.

Cody Cofer, a former Broadway member, represented one of the defendants. He said the case illustrates how easy it is for the State to prosecute for conspiracy to commit terrorism if they are in the wrong place at the wrong time or connected with the wrong people. The result is the effect of making the American public afraid to show up to even a peaceful protest for fear of someone somewhere may get out of hand and anyone and everyone be charged as co-conspirators. People should be scared, Cody said.

When Jesus came to Jerusalem in that last week of his life, he led a controversial demonstration against the citadel of his nation. That was either on Sunday or on Monday. We’re not sure which. What we are sure of is that on Thursday, the soldiers were sent to come and arrest Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. In the melee that erupted at the time of his arrest, the slave of the high priest was wounded by the sword of one of Jesus’s disciples who was trying to defend Jesus. That man too survived and Jesus surrendered peacefully. At the trial, the Jewish authorities accused Jesus of the crime of blasphemy and of threatening to destroy the temple. But when he was brought before the governor, Pontius Pilate, the charges became even more grave. He was charged with crimes against Caesar and trying to overthrow the Roman government. He was found guilty for his role in the demonstration. He was judged as a provocateur and accomplice to the violence of his disciples. He was sentenced to summary death. He was hanged on a cross and he died between two criminals. Some translations say bandits and others say rebels. One on his left and one on his right. Roman crucifixions were like American lynchings. They were public spectacles meant not only to torture and kill one but to terrify all. So it was that this Jesus died on that day in Jerusalem. A by word and a scandal and a public example.

He died for the protest and demonstration.

He died because of the company he kept.

He died because he was deemed an enemy of the state.

He died because, well, they wanted to make everyone afraid.

So then we say: “He died for the sins of his nation.”

After the Prairieland Nine were convicted three Fridays ago, David Grabel, a Broadway member and fellow minister and one of our readers tonight, met with some of the family members. One of the mothers of one of the convicted, a woman of faith, shed tears in the presence of David and asked him, “What’s God’s plan?” Now that, beloved, is a Good Friday question. And here too is another from the words of the old Black Spiritual: Were you there when they crucified my Lord? And was it something like we are experiencing even now? Tonight, we come to be near to a man on a cross, Ecce Homo. Here is the man. Some say he was a criminal, others a terrorist and an enemy of the state. So he was condemned. Yet some of us say, some of us say: Truly he was the son of God, the savior of the world.

Anson Chi’s Mail Suppressed by Bureau of Prisons

Greetings, Friend, fellow anarchist and U.S. political prisoner Anson Chi here. I hope you’re doing well. I’d like to update you on the new egregious misconduct by the United States Bureau of Prison against us anarchists:

-The BOP banned all my anarchist publications, as well as other ones. The BOP even banned and then rejected my snail mail, because I am trying to fight the police brutality in my case that led to my wrongful conviction and wrongful incarceration. I have proof that I can mail you.

-The BOP never gave me a single rejection notice, not one, nothing at all. The BOP just blatantly banned my snail mail!

Anson Chi 44588-177
FCI Ray Brook
PO Box 300
Ray Brook, NY 12977

Poems by Benjamin Song (Winter 2025-2026)

Plain Potato Chip

The pleasure of a plain potato chip

After weeks of sensory deprivation

The transparent thinness

Ephemeral crunch

The taste of hot oil and fried potato

The boldness of salt

Solitary

Solitary ain’t so bad

At least

there is privacy

Transposed

A fast walk across concrete

My greedy strides consume

ground like eager travel

with places to go

Winter air fills my nose

dry, savory, smokiness

sweet wood and cold stone

I hurl myself forward

Back to my first day in Tokyo

Flying across unknown streets

with all the wonder and excitement

And pleasure of being in the world

Tapping

A child is tapping on my glass

Angrily, insistently

Shake my fishbowl

Stand up! Do what I say!

The New Zoo

Inside my cage I roar and I rage

The animals hoot and bellow

Their yells and screams

Shake the walls and seams

Tako

Octopus escaping onto the cooking street

Walking by our eyes happen to meet

Tentacles freeze climbing o’er the side

Prairie

Warm beer on the prairie

Seas of waving grass

A vast ocean of blue sky

A Mongol horselord riding

Across an endless world

The New World

Rivers toll towards the Great Middle Sea

Valleys engineered by AI Dreams

Boomtown ports of the New Humanity

Prison Art

There’s a Charizard in Segregation Cell 210

It’s so big, across the wall and ceiling

10 feet off the ground

I don’t even know

How it was drawn up there

Flaming breath and iconic tail

Claws, wings, and fangs

It’s the best Charizard I’ve ever seen

It fills me with wonder

I’m lucky to be here

Like my first Artists’ Alley

or step onto Akiba’s streets

Surrounded by filth and prisoners’ screams

It’s a peaceful and Holy scene

Merry Christmas

On my way to court

I saw a homeless sweep

Merry Christmas

And a Happy New Year

On my way from prison to court

I passed a homeless sweep

polo shirts, always standing around

poor workers in reflective vests

picking up trash, belongings, clothes,

haul away tents, meds, lives

Neighbors shuffle away

they carry on, shelter gone

2 days before Christmas

And a Happy New Year

New Year

I stay up on New Years

To watch the first sunrise

Not always, but often

Sometimes, I’ll climb a roof

Lay on slanted black shingles

It doesn’t matter much

But it’s a symbolic action

One I choose

To orient myself

First Sunrise

The barest hint of scarlet-pink tints the first sky

Long thin clouds streak pink like ruled lines

the sun’s rise brings on a deep purple hue

till the windows on the opposite prison wall

reflect peach colored sky above dark slopes

like gentle volcanoes; the sunrise above Maui

the morning finally brings blue and violet into the world

it brings the tan of Texas buildings and Texas dirt

and silvery rolls of shining barbed wire

the brake lights of the security car slowly roll by

wide bands stretch out light across the sky

and move like fingers grasping the world

windows change from tropics to sterile whites

revealing old rusted iron bars

all the colors now meet

a layered quilt, pink, red, black, purple, orange, blue, and white

Finally, I see trees in the distance

Dark, shapelessness resolving into green

the grasping hand of clouds has gone

Is it hidden or dissipated?

Faerie Cat

Faerie Cat

upon my lap

How fae loves to play

massages and naps

Fae love to relax

we whittle the time away

Cooking, experiments, and steeping our tea

we eat feasts and treats

Kimchis and hotpots

pasta, chocolate, and soup

We could run a vegan buffet.

Our kisses and hugs

Fae love affection and joy

history, mystery, myths, stories, and maps

We talk together all day

Now you have gone

to an iron cage

Taken, maeve ‘the fae’

magik sealed and hidden away

The realm of our life

still burns brightly today

A world of our Sun

and our rainy days

We can’t be kept long

we reach out our hands

And rejoin them soon

to return to the people

And other cats

who await the end of our stay

My love

My lover

And my best friend

I long to see

the fire in your eyes again

all at once

Time is a circle

Not a straight line

Our warmest embrace

Happening yesterday

Still happening today

Will go on tomorrow

Benjamin Song 1137512

FMC Fort Worth

PO Box 15330

Fort Worth, TX 76119

Furry Over Fury – by Ross Allen Hartwell

Man, there’s this ol’ con, here, who has an affinity to felines. I guess I can use his nickname since he no longer answers to it. Gonzo used to hate cats. I’m talkin’ the kind of wrathful acrimony that may have warranted a listing on PETA’s top ten people who should never be allowed within a mile of the nearest cat. I’m afraid he’s likely done some things to three or four of the poor creatures of which not even the hardest lifer could stomach hearing about. But that’s the past. Gonzo’s been in the clink a couple decades, most of which he’s done the hard way. Early on he mixed in with one of the Aryan cliques, and that alone liked to have put the man in an early grave. After a couple years in segregation for God knows what-some kind violence or riot or both-he officially renounced the gang to get out of 24hr a day lockup the violence didn’t leave his heart for some time after. Gonzo was a hustler and a bully who moved a lot of contraband and made time hard for the passive type of inmate.

No one really knows what changed the ol’ convict. Some say the death of his wife finally caught up with him and broke his spirit. Others believe the Holy Spirit got to him and shooed the devil away. Still others will tell you that he just got old. Gonzo, himself, might even agree with all three assessments, but me, nah, I say it was and still is the kitty’s that have softened that mean mean man. Apparently his wife loved cats and it was always a point of contention between him and his dearly beloved. Isn’t it a shame that when someone we love leaves us either by choice or by hearse, those irritants that seemed to grate at the relationship, like a piece of sand in an oyster, turn into a pearl and are cherished long after the loved one has departed. At this prison and at those other Texas joints within a couple hundred miles of here, Gonzo is now known as the catman. Over the past decade, he’s raised so many generations of cats that every bloodline in the panhandle is tainted with vittles snuck from the chowhall and in to his cell.

For items considered of value (fans, radios, tennis shoes, watches, etc.), state prisoners are required to have property papers, signed by an administrator, proving ownership. Its always been a running joke that Gonzo’s cats are official, papers and all, but I’m not sure if there isn’t some truth to the tale. Many Wardens have come and gone, and although personal animals are not allowed in the unit, no officer has ever given him any flak about his pets. Ive heard that a few have taken kittens home to their wives and kids kittens that were born right here on that ol’ cat hatin’ convict’s bunk.

The man is at the end of his long prison sentence. I don’t believe he’d ever harm another person unless that person was harming a cat. When his release date comes, I’m starting to wonder if he will be able to leave this place and his cats. Oh, I’m sure the man will let the captain shackle and cuff him and put him on that bluebird chain bus. And I know he will walk out of the releasing prison’s front gate on his own accord, but I’m also convinced that he will never completely leave the penitentiary or those furry little restorative emotional support animals. From a hate filled racist gang member to loving what he once hated, this man has changed. My prayer for Gonzo and the rest of us is that we will learn to embrace those irritants in those we love before they are gone from our lives. Had he done just that, imagine what his life would have looked like. End. Peace out bro. I hope your wife and your dog are well.

Ross Allen Hartwell 1893452
PO Box 660400
Dallas, TX 75266

Pulled Into the Deep South’s Pit – by Steven McCain

Imagine if you can, the effect of shrinking the Criminal Justice System by a single percentage point. I’m not talking about imagining a one percent reduction in the crime rate. That statistic, such as it is, can be manipulated to any party’s benefit. No! Rather, imagine a tangible shrinking of the Criminal Justice System, as a whole. Let us reach beyond the obvious, but the obvious itself is startling: Shrinking judges, lawyers, and investigators, jails, prisons, and courtrooms, etc. by one percent. Wow! Let us go deeper. How many corporations in the United States derive some (e.g., office supplies providers, automobile and fuel providers, etc.) or all (e.g., Corr. Corp. of Am., GEO Group, etc.) of their revenue from the Criminal Justice System? And there are corporations outside of the United States, particularly international banks, that derive revenue from the US Criminal Justice System also. It is likely that tens of thousands of corporations in the US depend on the US Criminal Justice System to some extent, large or small.

Contemplation quickly reveals a sad truth: The whole of the United States has found itself in the same hole that the antebellum Deep South had dug for itself. The Deep South built for itself an economy that was wholly dependent for its success on chattel slavery. The history books declare that the Union won the US Civil War, but I question the truth of that. In the aftermath of the war the Union should have, but did not, filled in and planted over the hole that the Deep South had dug. It instead allowed the Deep South to pull the whole of the nation into its hole. We today are as dependent on enslaving our population to the Criminal Justice System as the Deep South was on enslaving theirs to the plantation owners.

This is the Pit Our Politicians Have Dug For Us.

Steven McCain 2096064
PO Box 660400
Dallas, TX 75266