Welcome to Poetic Terrorism--a new method of communication. A new vocabulary for resistance. We're opening a new front in the war against soundbytes and corporate catchphrases, because it's impossible to think when your words are controlled by discourse that is manufactured by imperialist corporations and sold to us wholesale in our schools and TVs. Bullshit shoved down our throats by government spokespeople and paid advertising--WE (you) have something to say, SAY IT!
Poetic Terrorism is profoundly nonviolent. It is the resistance of our voices. We are controlled by a submersion tank of manufactured ideas--by the media repeating the talking points of the government.
Poetic terrorism is about bringing the art of resistance into every facet of our lives. Live your life loudly. 'There is no becoming, no revolution, no struggle, no path; already you're the monarch of your own skin--your inviolable freedom waits to be completed only by the love of other monarchs: a politics of dream, urgent as the blueness of sky.'--Hakim Bey
This blog is open to anyone's words and ideas. If you would like to post, email jed.bickman@gmail.com to let me know--I'll give you privileges and then you can post whatever you want.
My feet held the asphalt down I loved the longhaired strangers around me they would not talk to me-- they were scared, dancing didn’t know how much I needed them How much I was there for them, scared.
Look, cop, I’m smoking a joint! Dancing, look at me from behind walls of truncheon riot mask iron face Just in this instant, I refuse. To be ruled by your laws. There was a bag of pure white joints holding the asphalt still, And I was in love with them. She had dreadlocks, shocking beautifulkind face, and a lighter. I was in love, scared. I wish she had known that I was alone, needed her then.
We were trying to show the world that we existed. They couldn't see us over the broad blue shoulders. Mutants who hid their faces but only from pepper spray. Could blind you with contacts
Jail was disappointingly uneventful. Just a touch dehumanizing. We weren’t treated like real criminals. Guys in the bus just sarcastic, like me, not fascinating, I didn’t care about them. In the back of the bus, I entered a daze I’m still trying to fight my way out of a week later.
I just can’t focus anymore. I fade in and out of conversations. Where is my passion? Did I leave all of it on the corner of 5th and Market? Do I need more sleep? I could use a joint, a long embrace, constant needs. Not desires, really. I feel translucent.
What a 4:20 trip that was. Our only holiday, for us teaheads. She discharged me delerious at fourten in the morning, me high on her, delerious very confused. by the time I breathed and put on my shoes, it was 4:17--I had to get to the main green, I ran there. i forgot to get the people I said I was going to get, started this trip on my own, alone, running through fratrow alone in the death hours of the morning. I got to the main green to see a cluster of stoners, none that i knew that well, I smoked with perry and Arjuna, more quicker fivebowls in fiveminutes. By the end, I was spinning around in circles, disoriented, saying "what?" to a tree. Arjuna had a bubbler, cop walked through, we began to walk out. Moment of decision: which way to leave the green. In my delelrium, I didn't follow perry, walked towards the rock, hoping to hit my favorite smoking spot, but not able to vocalize that, just walking. Arjuna followed me, carrying the bubbler. Moment of decision: I wanted to say "give me the bubbler, I got a pocket, there's a cop behind us" I didn't say anything, my mind moves slow. he spat the water out, cop behind us yelled something authoritarian, and Arjuna, bless him, bolts off running across the quiet green, through the college gates, up hill up the street, cop hightailing it after him, him carrying the bubbler like a baton. He was clearly outrunning the cop, but then again, who outruns a cop? I felt horrible, shouldve been me running, why are people always taking the rap for me? have I no karmic responsibility? I lead him into that situation, perhaps, and by the time I realized, nothing I could do. I walked home alone when I most needed to someone to keep my mind grounded. I didn't sleep until 7:30, driven insane by alone thoughts in the early morning stillness.
Woke up to a bright and beautiful Earth Day, spent the day making hemp chords on the grass and smoking blissfully. Climbed a tree with Alex and realized I might be acting like a heavy duty asshole right now, began to make plans to beg for forgiveness. Or maybe I should just ride this thing out, whatever the hell that means. Heavy communication problems right now.
I saw Bob Weir doing the greatfuldead thing last night, orgastic show, drove me to the edge of my endurance and capacity for beauty. I need sleep, but I've got mad real life shit to do today.
My bedsheets universalize me tonight right into "un"you breathing air in my lungs until I black out to bathe in "your" light. Think how many cappelaries you have-------my cappelaries in lung pockets sprung packets prucking sackiks! then think how well they show holy patterns on your face (cerebral cortex)
And my carrear dreams died. Ambition for American sucsess clouded over by a new comprehension of human society The need for community, our herd mentality imagine bands of beast men surviving nature struggling to exist only to smother ourselves in the artifice of individualism and content with cutting holes in cement to plant trees in. A reality paved over-- but for a purpose: to live in mass. This is our purest instinct and it drives me now.
To go visit your god sunday morning unlied purity, true belief seems your real ticket to heaven-non transferable for the low, low price of tithe and telling a darkened screen how dirty you are. God guides Americans through freemarket life sustains genuine hope and makes people easy to control. and this country was built on a church bound by a preacher standing on The soaring pulpit whose excuse is to be twentyfive feet closer to a god invented by an institution a god who has time to see your every sin who knows your every lecherous thought, who sees you masturbate every time you do it This is the preacher's god, the ultimate surveillance, who watches you from inside your own head. the stark white ministers finger stuck straight shouting down Satan and Santa Claus for a watchful god that can see you drooling in your pew can see you rattling your coins in the tray. So dear jesus, are you comfortable handcuffed to your cross? the patron saint of deathrow injections of cold metal pierce palms in the execution chamber with a oneway mirrored gallery to rub the execution in the face of VIPs, the victim's families ejaculating over the thought of some cosmic justice achieved in the state's needle the Roman nail the silent death of pew life.
Fuck the present. It waits in quivering anticipation for Gatsby's green light, wallowing in it's own semen of a thousand wasted teenage kleenex. And then Morson ridicules us for perverting it into what we wish or what we fear? The present is infinitly thin, like a line, like the wire around your neck, cutting into your skin, pulling tighter, tighter, and you can only get a moment's breath, a "present," a repreive from death by relaxing, giving in to it, just long enough so you can hurl your elbow into your attacker's nuts. And then you wonder why your own genitals are so brused--yet you (me, electrons, and The Pope) spend every moment hurling your fist into your crotch, taking huge gasping breaths, trying to create a "here and now." Mostly because the Government's been telling you that you actually *want* to live in the present since you've been a baby, denying you your past, owning your future. You deserve more breathing room in time than this infinitly small point you've been given (and you have to pay taxes on even that!) Fuck the present.
This was written stoned immaculate while listening to Pink Floyd's "On the Run" (On the Dark Side of the Moon) on repeat
Beethoven's fiddle lands on his feet in a crouch dusts himself, breathes and sees: german airport, runs, thrusts himself again and again into the running reality ambiance, he begins to fly running messiah, electrifies nighttime daydreams more, more, highlighter around her ear, archenemy laugh: funkadelic ecstasy elvis kicks him in the nuts, helicoptering laughing illuminates the dayglo condoms in a drawer down the hall, explodes them. James Brown, helicoptered in by health-ed exstrippers, gyrating over a crowd of groping fans this is our end! archenemy laugh! flyby, fakeout, twisting in for the fatal whirling punch, missed, fell in to far distance over leftsholder coming back-a boomeranged archenemy laugh! two of the four hoursemen are murdered! police'll be here soon. Cocktail party rubble.
leave the film running, it'll start again after time,
What kind of servitude do you have to be under to believe in God? A god outside of you? If god is not in your eyes, He is nowhere, so don't believe in god, believe that you are god. The pope has no allegiance to your passion.
If I were a gorilla, I'd be at the bottom of the hierarchy, the opposite of the Alpha Male. This is because I spend too much time thinking about where I would be in a hierarchy of gorillas.
I spent all night chasing sounds in and out of reality. Heartbeats, earth tremors, dances became vibrating air against supersensitive skin became slowdances of pulse leaping in and out of your capillaries *categories*. Despisetories, depostitories of despise. Desuppositories, where you shove your existential angst up your asshole. Despisetoriums, sanatoriums for the despised. Depositiories for the night noise of nextdoor construction of some bullshit called poststructualism eating it's own tail, picking it's skeletotal spine out of it's nervesockets. I'm devolving into my own devourment, and I’m choking on my own Barthes. The devourment is the true government of love that will some day devour the facade of government enshrined in painfully opaque white. Faces the color of modern death masks, the Phantom of the Opera.
" 
" Tuesday, April 26, 2005