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.
" 
" Tuesday, April 26, 2005