Banishing Heroes

Banishing Heroes, a poem by Kash Jackson

Kash Jackson, photo from Facebook

Kash spent 20 years serving the United States fighting for what he thought was our freedoms. He has a poem that he wants you to hear.

Banishing heroes.

They say that I’m a dangerous man and that my toxic masculinity is overflowing and that I’m a middle-aged white domestic terrorist with a deadly plan.

But who are they to describe me and treat me in such a way?

These child trafficking whores of the court selling kids for cash

in the halls of justice. There has got to be a better way.

One dad, two dad, 3-4. This kid, that kid. More kids. Score.

Running up the financial tabulations, demoralizing families is the American situation.

Attorneys and judges raping and pillaging these fathers has these men contemplating? To live or to die?

Because enduring the trauma is more painful than some sleeping pills and bourbon their journey to the other side.

Some might call this court-ordered suicide.

Now Don’t judge unless you be judged. And if you think that it’s funny, just wait your turn.

One day you’re standing on top of the world and just like that, They take your baby girl.

Pay your child support is all you ever told, and as the years fly by without so much as a call.

Is it any wonder that your blood begins to run cold?

I hate to be the one to tell you. But

American children are, quite literally, being sold.

No trial, no jury. Just a criminal nightmare laden with a feminist fury.

See, there is no desert on Earth more barren and desolate than that of an alienated parent whose soul was ravaged.

While their self-worth was purged?

You know, I’m not a prophet with the gift of prophecy,

but these cult-like courts are the living and body of a Christian heresy.

The prohibition of appearance, natural law for the offspring, is a punishment so cruel and unusual that it beckons and calls for an uprising of righteous retribution

 In defense of our nation. And her beloved constitution.

Desperately, we need a political hurricane. The status quo cannot remain the same. But if we burn their banks they’ll merely bring their tanks.

And if we were to raid their homes they would simply launch their drones.

But if we don’t challenge their ways, well. Will forever remain slaves.

They censor my speech and they despise my profanity.

While I loathe their methods and their criminal insanity.

And their homes around the holidays and Christmas time

it’s caviar and well-aged wine and Christmas gifts

and diamond rings Christmas cards while the Angels sing.

Lots of glee and lots of cheer.

They’ve even got gourmet cheese and import beer.

But my house is nothing quite like this.

As I stare at my chimney, I clench my fist.

There will be no fat man with a bright red nose and colored cheeks.

It’s all I could do to survive the holiday weeks.

I can’t walk through a Walmart or Target store because everywhere I go

I catch a glimpse of my son or daughter.

I don’t think that I can bear much more.

Constantly, men like me are misdiagnosed

with post-traumatic stress and depressive disorder,

then given coping skills and prescription pills to use in order.

I won’t have the savory flavor from a golden turkey or a fresh baked ham.

I’m in survival mode.

So I’ll dine all alone on cheap American beer and Spam in a can.

There will be no stockings hung from my mantle with love and care.

If I’m honest. Should I say do I dare? To tell you that.

I’ve got a rope in my hand, Standing on the tips of my toes from the seat of the chair.

Oh Don’t act so surprised and admonished. It’s not you who the cowardly judge degraded and admonished

if you had given the best years of your life to an ungrateful nation and an abusive wife

who rationalized her cruelty and torture.

I assure you. You too would consider the unthinkable, Of taking your own life.

Because in America, kidnapping a child is perfectly lawful.

I see you’re shaking your head. You don’t believe me?

Well I find your deliberate ignorance to this really quite awful.

Pretend that you didn’t know, that you didn’t have a clue

 when they only found one of my shoes.

On that bridge above the engorged river below.

You remember I had tried in vain to warn you.

But your response was irrationally slow.

Did you actually expect the Prozac and psychiatrist

to prevent what was bound to happen next

when I climbed to the top of my home and slung myself from my rooftop?

And snapped my own neck.

The coroner said that it was the impact from the lethal fall

that caused my untimely demise and the blood on the wall

What does he know? He was the last on the scene.

He doesn’t have a clue, if you know what I mean.

When he discovered my last meal was pancakes and bacon

Did he also tell them how long my heart had been so painfully breaking

or that this was my kid and my favorite weekend treats.

How about after the police carefully outlined my body

with a stick of colorful chalk

Did their forensics tell them the last place that I so tearfully walked?

Did the soil sample from the bottom of my shoes lead them back to the place where my son and I have last shared?

A fathers and son, loving embrace.

As I hugged him and then I wiped the tears from his gentle little face.

They put two and two together when it was discovered that

my watch was stuck on 2200 and not one second over.

Or that 22 was the number prescribed for how many veterans die each day by suicide.

22 a day find a way.

Even though you and I have both prayed, these men, they would not be swayed.

Because we stood by while we cried. while he cried.

While they kept his children away.

I feel so helpless is all you could say but he fought for your family

and defended your freedom

At least, that’s what they had told him

Until he realized that these were real lies and then he no longer believed them

I mean when you felt so helpless did you magically lose your God given senses so much so that you had no feeling

of touch to write nor call your local legislator?

Or congressman? That makes no sense. No sense at all.

I mean was your vision so horribly diminished that you

Couldn’t see that his spirit was broken and his will to live was finally finished?

Could you not hear his pleas for assistance?

Or did you just merely turn up your music with that stubborn persistence?

I’m curious, would you now be able to politely describe how do you feel?

Right here, in your chest, on the inside?

Knowing that you stood by and let an innocent man die?

Please tell me. What’s it like? That taste in your mouth

Knowing that you deliberately blocked all of your good senses out?

I mean every possible tool that God has given you to save a life from an immature grave. It was an abandonment,

Choosing instead to be an apathy slave.

Tonight I am here to tell you that our nation’s heroes are banishing and at an alarming rate. And we all have a duty to respond, to act, we can save a life

Before it’s too late

I beg you please please stop with the endless excuses that give a pass to the judicial and domestic abuses, and it’s

girlfriends and ex-wives who keep a child from their loving father that are killing more than their previous partner

Our sons, uncles, nephews, and childhood best friends

Are each at risk of an untimely and violent end

Our country will never survive this endless

winter of killing our protectors and providers

Done under the blanket of freedom

And done without any good reason

Consider this rebuke my personal decree of painful truth spoken through a poetic manifesto.

We need your help to shoulder this tremendous burden With American gusto

This message is marked extremely urgent

And now you know

The End

Call is from a Correctional Facility and is subject to monitoring and recording. Kash hopes to someday soon be able to deliver his message in person at poetry meetings around the country. He has spoken publically on numerous occasions, but never like this. The poem he hopes is a few pieces that will resonate with people.

Kash is currently in jail awaiting either a civilian or veteran trial. If you want to help Kash stay in contact with friends and family or just give him a voice, this is the app and inmate id number so you can add to his trust fund.

Inmate number is 161637, and the app is

Write to Kash at:

Grayson Jackson


PO Box 38

Waukengan, IL 60079

Kash sounded good this morning. He is concerned about his mother and facing very difficult times. Please be supportive.

Some of the back story about Kash’s case previously blogged: Kash Jackson, Arkansas man running for governor jailed

To listen to Kash’s poem click here. or listen on Facebook;

Minding Hearts is building advocacy and peer support groups.  The groups are created to raise awareness, educate, and advocate for those that might not otherwise be heard. We are here for encouragement, education, and support. We are here to support families and develop resources that maintain family integrity. We look forward to your support.

#veteransday #familycourt #PTSD

2 thoughts on “Banishing Heroes

  1. Hi Kash,
    Been out of loop for awhile, sorry to see what has happened.
    Mum’s the word with corruption and so just play their game.
    Don’t need a repeat of that Nancy woman, that got knocked out of loop literally.


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