Meeting with Chomsky

Okay,

so this is an invitation to everyone who reads this to offer some advice about what to talk about with Noam Chomsky on Oct. 29, 2008.

Hope you've found this blog entertaining at best.

The artist,

Speed
Speed
Saeed

Do NOT Trust Military People

It’s four in the morning. I used to get up this time of day to go for runs and begin a new day of moronic drilling and filling forms with my last three a thousand and one times. I used to salute the bastards above me and the bastards below me. Bastards – all. Now, I am free. Free finally of the pain of post-traumatic stress disorder. Free of constant angst and pangs of terror. Utter terror of that door opening at three in the morning and the men taking me away. Those bastards would have made it look like a training incident or a fucking suicide (as if that Cadet took his own life at RMC, as if!). Oh buddy! You have no idea what goes on over there. Buddy, you’re out in the public. The only face of the military you see is the public related one. I once did an interview with a paper while I was on the inside. They attached a Public Relations Officer to me for the entire time – silently listening to every single word that came out of my mouth. Making sure nothing escaped that could not be unsaid. But I fooled that bastard too, and told the world what they needed to hear from the military for the first time in their fucking history. What happened to that article? It got taken off the internet. First time in history that a paper is censure by the military. Well, I made sure to keep a ton of printed copies and have already copied and posted the text of it on my blog and Facebook. Cuz buddy is out! Buddy can speak freely all he wants from now. After a year of shaking the Intelligence folks off my ass, I think I can finally truly relate the grim reality of the military system that is on a path to overtaking the entire country. That just society that Trudeau bought in to. That land of Peace, Order and Good Government – all threatened by, no not Afghanis, but Newfies. (The Canadian Forces is made up mostly of people from remote locations of Canada where other jobs are not as readily available to disaffected youth.) Mean Newfies too. Nothing funny about them once they get in uniforms and tanks and recruiting buses.

I HATE the military. It is NOT what it makes itself out to be. For example: there is nothing democratic about it. Nothing. It is total tyranny. Another example of how disgusting it is lies in the shabby treatment of non-Commissioned members by the elitist officer class. That which takes place inside of the Officer’s Mess is far removed from the day to day life and hopes of Joe-Private-Corporal-Master-Corporal-Seargeant-Warrant-Master-Warrant-and-Chief-Warrant-Officer. I once got saluted by a Chief Warrant Officer! It almost gave me a hard-on. I hated myself for it. It is degrading. It is base. It is primal. And beastial. In fact, that is what the military turns all: beasts. Beasts who have become masters as putting on a poker-face. The blank stare of the soulless coward.

But the four-Maple-Leaved General does have a weakness: I can say anything I want about him now that I am out, and if he should send me a single nasty email, I can have him charged with a wonderful clause in the Queens Rules and Regulations call Behaviour Unbecoming of an Officer. Or I could find a bunch of other rules to hang him with (Leninesk, I know).

But the fucking ass-holes in Public Relations will get to him before he ever says anything overly incriminating of the sham he and his ilk are continuing. Dolce e Decorum Est is BULLSHIT! Remembrance Day is only a racket for Veterans to cash in on all those little poppies they sell (as though they haven’t already been cashing in long enough)! (This while our doctors and teachers and artists continue to go starving)!

Brothers and Sisters of the world! Lend me your ears! I have come to bury the military not to praise it. For praise they can count on the huge Recruiting and Public Relations budgets. For example, a new Operation the Canadian Forces started while I was in, was called Operation Connection, which turned “every CF member into a recruiter” and promoted the organization of public functions and events that would help combat the high attritions rates the CF was suffering from at the time. More and more money is going into their coffers, and better and better pay, kit, and gear is being offered our boys and girls. Most of the military is OLD! Even the “boys and girls” are no longer young as soon as they sign that Faustian contract. Overnight they become richer, older, more cowardly (one of the mottos of the CF is: “to be a good leader, you have to be a good follower” – something you learn in the “Indoctrination Period”, which consists of a month without any contact with the outside world WHATSOEVER and tons and tons of push-ups and Powerpoint presentations).

I have military stories up the wazoo, and I intend on using each and every one of them over and over again until the full meaning of the lie of the military is truly revealed.

People think the military is their saviour, and safeguard. But they should be feared just like any other corporation as an artificial entity that feeds off the people that created it until they starve at it’s expense. Just look at the past 8 years people.

WHERE is this all going to change? It starts here: with me and you.

Lascivious Landings

Alone but not. Alone but naught. Alone but fraught with voices, choices, boisterous beat-boxes, foxes, vocals, vixens, and vices, dices, mices, crisis. Forgive me father, Dante can’t think tonight. But my stylo’s tight – switchblades and glides through broken thoughts and beats, vibes, and tribes. On the fly, Tupac had to die on the other side of the ruby-coloured Rubicon. Filtered bumblebees stuck to Imperial Purple cloaks with Snow Tiger trimmings. I speak of Emperors in this trice of time, dear Horatio. Good fellows and poor poppers and poppies for Remembrance of course. No choice. Sticking post-it notes on every idea that peels out of my brains like a winding accordion in the scratchy tunnels of the Underground, Subway, U-Bahn, and Metro plus whatever the Chinese call their’s. Dancing coins. Spangles of light, two chickens in every pot, too chicken so smoke pot. I wandered to the lips of the mouth of salivating hell – with blood trickling down her k9’s like an image of a buzzing face, a trace. So I bent over and tied my laces in double-time, showtime came. I wondered if the vacuum on the other side of the black hole that pinched my feet and bothered my proportion wasn’t already full of dust and the built-up inflations of a thousand exhaling sighs of disappointment. Constantine saw Christ’s sign in the sky, so I had to take him out with my nine after I kicked in the door-swingin the four-four. Bring it baby at the bat for a homer or I go home to my pregnant Lilly at the end of my career in the Big Leagues. We’re going have to sell the Ford. So, I am.

President Bush, you are my only friend.

President Bush, you are my only friend.
I never get tired of listening to you.
How humble you are, and charming.
Just now, I watched you greet all of Saudi Arabia in fifty seconds.
I remember the tears you shed in your oval office after 9/11 – we all saw them.
We were with you then, and we’re still with you now.
Sometimes I am unhappy with you, but then when I look into your laughing eyes I can’t help but to chuckle alongside you.
And join you for the ride. All those nameless Secret Service agents fluttering around more, cleverly disguised, Secret Service agents. Sometimes I think, even I may be a Secret Secret Service agent, somehow working for you.
You have my allegiance, Mr. President.

But you have so many problems. The road you are traveling down is putting more and more people in Blank. I don’t agree with being your only friend.
I want to live a life beyond serving you and laughing at your brand of slap-stick comedy. I want to walk away from you and make other friends. Not Ahmadinejad, I know. How about Pierre Trudeau and Winston Churchill and Caesar and Alexander the Great? At least they don’t ask so much of me.

But mother is coming home, and I must say goodbye. Until next time, Texas.

False alarm.

Everything’s under control. Everybody relax. Just RELAX okay!

My nerves are totally shot. “Any second” and the apocalypse mixed with a healthy dose of shock and awe have turned me into a drunk boxer, drooping between punches. So I turn to your smiling face, W. You’re in my corner, I know you are – along with the NYFD and the rubble of Ground Zero. You’re bullhorn made the rubble shake that day – we all heard you! Indeed, we were all there.

But mother is coming soon so I should wrap this up I guess. Keep smiling, George Bush.

video of 2008_april_15_poem

http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=KzYqsnZN-Ig

2008_april_19?_poem

Pirouette, face painting, Contra II.

Montreal Canadiens, I am Canadian, slip a fiver to the bouncer at the door.

The jealous obscurity of fourth place, on second thought I do, I did.

PacMan, Jump Around, Vanilla Ice greeting the Pope at the Vanilla White House of Pain.

Look at what we did to Pluto, Neptune, you’re next!

Figure skating, form fitting, bird flipping.

Consummate gentleman, catered sweet sixteen, victory past the Rubicon.

The hazy spring blossom, a flower exploding in time-lapse, pensioners escaping homes for one last trip to Toronto.

The bad-ass cops busting crime in all ages, batons and baby-carriages.

Tying the knot, Alexander cuts to the chase, Darius flees – but not for long, no not for long.

Sixteen frames per second, thirty thieves working for a filthy emperor with no clothes, a fig.

Tron, Tut, and Khan.

Who Shot Tupac?

Indoctrination period, frozen water canteens, a breezy bivouac (“Evryboty baack tuu da biiivoouac!” – just made it).

Presidents fixing their ties, this is the big one Tiger, bad-ass cops with psycho big sunglasses.

Fuck the police, long live the Senate, Mike Tyson borrowed an ear – a true Plebian (inside the bully pulpit of red-gloved whales).

Pirouette, Nancy Reagan, Pierre Trudeau.

Raise the curtain on the evil empire with blood and iron dripping down to her ankles.

Prose before Hoes!

“What do you think of this piece of art, Thor?”, “I love it.”

Saeed repeats:

"The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture."