"I approach the issue of freedom of speech and freedom of expression embodied in the 1948 UN Declaration of Universal Human Rights as defending a treasured right that few of my co-religionists can dream off, let alone cherish or possess."I was fortunate to attend his address in Port Hope late last week. Tarek has a charming wit, lives his life in the ambience of joy, and is a great soldier of the Eternal Vigilence Force.
. . .
"To suggest that any criticism of Islamism, the political ideology of the Muslim Brotherhood and the Iranian Ayatollahs, is anti-Islamic is a bogus and fraudulent position. I would contend that my religion Islam demands that I stand up to these bullies and take away from their
right to put padlocks on poetry and chastity belts on independent thinking."
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
TAREK FATAH: THE OIC DOES NOT SPEAK FOR MUSLIMS
A great Canadian, Tarek Fatah, recently traveled to Geneva and gave what-for to the Islamists attempting to infect the UN Human Rights Commission.
EXPANDING THE IMAGINE NATION
Click on image to enlarge
The above quote was taken from George Orwell's essay, The Prevention of Literature. This essay should be required reading in every secondary school in Canada.
Monday, September 29, 2008
NEIL BISSOONDATH HAS FREE SPEECH: DO YOU?
Click on image to enlarge
Canadian author, Neil Bissoondath, was utterly Canadian as he displayed his FREE SPEECH card. Mr Bissoondath, was blind-sided by an agent from the Creative Intelligence Anarchy, who had bought a copy of Bissoondath's book as enticement to obtain his right fore-fingerprint. This was followed by a request to participate in a propaganda campaign: I HAVE FREE SPEECH. It is an act of cultural appropriation, and cultural assertion. Please drop into the I HAVE FREE SPEECH blog to see the individuals added as we go.Saturday, September 27, 2008
I HAVE FREE SPEECH; DO YOU?
Click on image to enlarge
Feel free to download and print this card. (A hand-drawn reasonable facsimile is acceptable). The upper right hand corner of the card should bear the holder's right fore-fingerprint. Please have a picture taken of yourself displaying this card in any setting. Please send a jpeg or jpg image to this email: [poetburo@hotmail.com] to be uploaded into a new blog called I HAVE FREE SPEECH to serve as the gallery. Let's generate a node for anyone with a digital camera to display their support for FREE SPEECH. Send the picture attached to an email, with the subject line being I HAVE FREE SPEECH. 
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
LEAVING TOWN FOR WEEK TO FAMILY & FRIENDS, SO HERE IS SOME POETRY
ELEGY FOR MY MOTHER
Reta May Keeler (01/11/1912 - 01/24/2004)
In your beginning was the blood and breath,
the sharp inhalation of the carnal chaos of life.
Born 6 lb., 6 oz. in the pubescence of a century
of unprecedented carnage and creativity,
the state marked the occasion with certificate 12‑05‑037696.
In the unelectric world,
devoid of devices of diversion,
you flourished in family
and began your career
pushing placenta and parenthood
onto the open palm of life,
swaddling your children in an abundance
of cuddles, caresses and embraces.
And so you earned
your Bachelor of Mom degree,
graduating into grandchildren
for the Masters of Mom,
but the world wasn't finished
with your dissertation of lineage
and great grandchildren won you
the Doctorate of Motherhood
As I walked along the avenue of my life,
a time came when my knees weakened
(a fallen leaf on the sidewalk)
then onset type2 diabetes
(another leaf on the pavement)
then diminishing virility
(another fallen leaf)
then a stroke
(a litter of leaves)
My trees are not yet barren
because it is September,
but for you, my mother,
a cold wind swept down
with January ferocity,
liberating your soul
for post‑graduate work with the angels.
Your spirit is a kite tethered with umbilical love
and gentle unto the good days,
memories like random breezes tug
-- what is the wind but a woman
loving us with caressing directions.
Your life straddled two millennia.
Your children born in peacetime
bracketed the world's worst war;
so I enjoyed your memories
of the pre‑tek world,
of the pre‑penicillin world;
from pre‑flight to post‑lunar landings,
your life was grounded
graceful as a backyard garden.
I regularly visited to mine your memories,
plucking nuanced nuggets of ageless gossip.
On the weekend of your death
I meant to ask you about your first kiss
but you replied with your last three diminishing breaths,
like the ellipsed ending of a love long life sentence...
Defiant of Death Certificate 422‑372‑045
you will remain an unfinished poem
carried into the interstellar future
on the crest of code of dna,
forever in a state of becoming...
===================
PRAYER FOR MY FATHER
When I saw you father
lying in your coffin
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . still
like tall grass
the wind has forsaken
I began to understand
stars and . . . . . . . . . . distance
I knew your hands
noble with leather
would never drop again
upon my shoulders
and I understood
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . caverns
that my memories
would drip like stalactites
the echoes
continual reminders
I knew your eyes
made from playing
and labour
would never wet
with shared pride
and I understood
waves
how they suddenly rise
make their sounds
and ask for no reasons
(But we give them reasons
anyway)
I knew your voice
rough from war
and depression
soft with compassion
from love and children
would never sound
and I understood
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . silence
that ears can be useless
that deafness
can be a blessing.
Each time I looked
into the night sky
my eyes adopted the orphans
of tiny light
and my thoughts cradled
their . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . solitude
I had done this father
but I have learned
today that distance
did not dull
their brightness
that I need no reasons
Tomorrow
I shall leave them
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .alone
==============
MARRYING MY MEDICINE
Dear Readers:
We are gathered here
on the whim-wings
of my imagination
to bear willful witness
to the co-mingling
of 422-902-510 (aka 8113-600-434-AV) & Aggrenox.
If someone has any reason
to prevent this co-mingling
speak now or forever
mute your mouth
I, 422-902-510,
in exquisite vulnerability
to vulva ability
declare fidelity
to deep-throating
every curvaceous capsule of chemistry
twice daily swallowing it all.
I, Aggrenox,
an antiplatelet agent
composed of
25mg. acetylsalicylic acid
200mg. dipyridamole
with clinically pure purpose
will single-stroke your esophagus
to thin your blood,
like watered-down wine,
delaying its morph
into vinegar on the vein
& dilate your blood delivery system
to prevent gridlock
from your brain
all the way down
to the balls
of your feet
With this covenant of creativity,
with this pill I hereby med
422-902-510 & Aggrenox
human & chemical
until flatlines prevail --
you may now swallow the spouse.
================
THE MRI
October 17, 2003, circa 6:50am while blow-drying my hair after a shower, my right arm collapsed, flopped to my side, dangling like a flaccid penis. The CNS (Central Nervous System) failed to effect commands to the arm. Paralysis. This earned me a $45.00 ambu-ride to emerg. Paralysis remained for 3hrs. CNS eventually regained majority control in the following few hours, & residual control returned over days.
It was a Transient Ischemic Attack. A blood clot grid-locked in the brain, asphyxiated a nerve that sensates the right arm. The following functions failed:
. . Writing my signature . . . . Holding coins, soap bars
. . Masturbation . . . . . . . .Turning door knobs
. . Opening jars . . . . . . . Keyboarding & mousing
. . Buttoning a shirt . . . . . Nose-picking
. . Prostate assessing . . . . . . Tying a knot
The device is a huge & powerful magnet. Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI). Metal objects must be removed. People with metal pins in their body are questioned -- some can never go into the machine, nor near the machine. It is in a room within a larger room segregated to a small section of the hospital.
I am asked if I have ever been a welder, or otherwise worked in a job whereby a small bit of metal could have been embedded in the eye, which could be ripped out by the magnet. Pacemakers are forbidden.
So I am dressed in a thin flannel gown, laid on my back onto a narrow table. A prop is inserted under my knees. As I lay there I begin to feel a surge of anxiety. Plugs are inserted into my ears. Props are placed on either side of my head -- immobilizing it. I am positioned to a cross-haired bull's eye. The anxiety level rises. A small cage is pulled down over my head. I can't swallow because my throat is dead dry -- anxiety rules. I talk about it with one of the two technicians. I ask for water. She brings some. I lay there immobile; take two sips, take a deep breath and say "OK".
The tray on which I lay slowly smoothly inserts me into the machine, into a featureless chamber. There is breathing space, only. Panic is suppressed. My throat remains moist. I continue to swallow. Good. A woman's disembodied voice advises that a session will begin for a minute's duration.
A thumping sound begins. There are no bodily sensations other than the thumping noise.The longest minute passes.The disembodied voice said I did good, It will be 3 or 4 more minutes before the next session begins.
Then the voice says the next session will be 4-5 minutes duration. The tray nudges my body a few centimetres, then a new noise begins, and begins and begins and goes on goes on goes on goes on & on & on... There is a small mirror I can look into to see the two female technicians behind glass in another room fondling dials.
More long minutes pass. A voice says another session of two minutes will begin. And a third unique pounding noise begins. This was endured. Endured. More long minutes pass. A voice announces another session 4 minutes long is about to commence.
There were 4 beats of one pounding followed by 4 beats of a different level of pounding and so it’s repeated over and over again and again. At the end of the session, I twitched. I was seconds from pressing the panic button in my hand. I felt suffocated. The tray moved. I was withdrawn from the machine. I sat on the table for a few moments to regain my composure. My forehead was soaked. My thighs, which had been clenched together, were sweatwet.
I got off the table and took more moments to look into the chamber where my body had been. I was rattled. My hands trembled, even as I civied-up to go home. I was rattled.That is the literal description.
. . .
This is the poetic description:
I guarantee it in writing,
sign my name,
I, Wally Keeler,
in the 56th year of diminishing virility,
hereby declare
to be metal-free
neither microchip nor nano-entity
lurk subcutaneous;
I am 100% human male,
vulnerable
to everything.
Laid out on a tray
I am inserted head-first
and dry-throated anxious
into the magnetic cylinder
head-first up a techno logical vagina
a bloodless lustless vagina
I am a dildo for diagnosis
by a bland gland
Don't even dream of moving your eyeballs,
they will blur the imaging.
I'm instructed to be still
to play dead
to lay like an autopsy cadaver
inside a bloodless vagina
and comes
the thrusting noise
the rhythmic pounding pulse
imaging my brain
in molecular slices
digitizing it
into a multi-binary portrait
Magnets
compellingly attractive
magnets
line the bloodless vagina
compellingly attractive
as the bloody real illogical thing
the pleasure pursuit of men
sending nation onto nation
to pleasure possess
So I am inserted into the machine
with the smooth grace
of a dismissive gesture,
yet its power to picture
my brain excludes
the weeping warm vaginas
of the women I have known --
for them
the secretions of software
that initiate poetry programs.
The vagina of modern diagnostics
penetrated my head's hardware
cross-hairing a pixel
of enormous consequence
in a troublesome artery
ensuring the blood
continues f l o o o o o w i n g
into my imagination
as I lay there immobile as a corpse,
the scrapbook of my lovers
paging in my head
their vulvelour vaginas
silking me
milking me
remains impenetrable
to the mega-might
of robo-cunt claustrophobia
And I lay inside it
stiff as a stiff,
imaging the remains
of my love life
tent-poling the thin sheet covering me
with a hard-on
as insouciant
as a middle finger salute.
Reta May Keeler (01/11/1912 - 01/24/2004)
In your beginning was the blood and breath,
the sharp inhalation of the carnal chaos of life.
Born 6 lb., 6 oz. in the pubescence of a century
of unprecedented carnage and creativity,
the state marked the occasion with certificate 12‑05‑037696.
In the unelectric world,
devoid of devices of diversion,
you flourished in family
and began your career
pushing placenta and parenthood
onto the open palm of life,
swaddling your children in an abundance
of cuddles, caresses and embraces.
And so you earned
your Bachelor of Mom degree,
graduating into grandchildren
for the Masters of Mom,
but the world wasn't finished
with your dissertation of lineage
and great grandchildren won you
the Doctorate of Motherhood
As I walked along the avenue of my life,
a time came when my knees weakened
(a fallen leaf on the sidewalk)
then onset type2 diabetes
(another leaf on the pavement)
then diminishing virility
(another fallen leaf)
then a stroke
(a litter of leaves)
My trees are not yet barren
because it is September,
but for you, my mother,
a cold wind swept down
with January ferocity,
liberating your soul
for post‑graduate work with the angels.
Your spirit is a kite tethered with umbilical love
and gentle unto the good days,
memories like random breezes tug
-- what is the wind but a woman
loving us with caressing directions.
Your life straddled two millennia.
Your children born in peacetime
bracketed the world's worst war;
so I enjoyed your memories
of the pre‑tek world,
of the pre‑penicillin world;
from pre‑flight to post‑lunar landings,
your life was grounded
graceful as a backyard garden.
I regularly visited to mine your memories,
plucking nuanced nuggets of ageless gossip.
On the weekend of your death
I meant to ask you about your first kiss
but you replied with your last three diminishing breaths,
like the ellipsed ending of a love long life sentence...
Defiant of Death Certificate 422‑372‑045
you will remain an unfinished poem
carried into the interstellar future
on the crest of code of dna,
forever in a state of becoming...
===================
PRAYER FOR MY FATHER
When I saw you father
lying in your coffin
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . still
like tall grass
the wind has forsaken
I began to understand
stars and . . . . . . . . . . distance
I knew your hands
noble with leather
would never drop again
upon my shoulders
and I understood
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . caverns
that my memories
would drip like stalactites
the echoes
continual reminders
I knew your eyes
made from playing
and labour
would never wet
with shared pride
and I understood
waves
how they suddenly rise
make their sounds
and ask for no reasons
(But we give them reasons
anyway)
I knew your voice
rough from war
and depression
soft with compassion
from love and children
would never sound
and I understood
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . silence
that ears can be useless
that deafness
can be a blessing.
Each time I looked
into the night sky
my eyes adopted the orphans
of tiny light
and my thoughts cradled
their . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . solitude
I had done this father
but I have learned
today that distance
did not dull
their brightness
that I need no reasons
Tomorrow
I shall leave them
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .alone
==============
MARRYING MY MEDICINE
Dear Readers:
We are gathered here
on the whim-wings
of my imagination
to bear willful witness
to the co-mingling
of 422-902-510 (aka 8113-600-434-AV) & Aggrenox.
If someone has any reason
to prevent this co-mingling
speak now or forever
mute your mouth
I, 422-902-510,
in exquisite vulnerability
to vulva ability
declare fidelity
to deep-throating
every curvaceous capsule of chemistry
twice daily swallowing it all.
I, Aggrenox,
an antiplatelet agent
composed of
25mg. acetylsalicylic acid
200mg. dipyridamole
with clinically pure purpose
will single-stroke your esophagus
to thin your blood,
like watered-down wine,
delaying its morph
into vinegar on the vein
& dilate your blood delivery system
to prevent gridlock
from your brain
all the way down
to the balls
of your feet
With this covenant of creativity,
with this pill I hereby med
422-902-510 & Aggrenox
human & chemical
until flatlines prevail --
you may now swallow the spouse.
================
THE MRI
October 17, 2003, circa 6:50am while blow-drying my hair after a shower, my right arm collapsed, flopped to my side, dangling like a flaccid penis. The CNS (Central Nervous System) failed to effect commands to the arm. Paralysis. This earned me a $45.00 ambu-ride to emerg. Paralysis remained for 3hrs. CNS eventually regained majority control in the following few hours, & residual control returned over days.
It was a Transient Ischemic Attack. A blood clot grid-locked in the brain, asphyxiated a nerve that sensates the right arm. The following functions failed:
. . Writing my signature . . . . Holding coins, soap bars
. . Masturbation . . . . . . . .Turning door knobs
. . Opening jars . . . . . . . Keyboarding & mousing
. . Buttoning a shirt . . . . . Nose-picking
. . Prostate assessing . . . . . . Tying a knot
The device is a huge & powerful magnet. Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI). Metal objects must be removed. People with metal pins in their body are questioned -- some can never go into the machine, nor near the machine. It is in a room within a larger room segregated to a small section of the hospital.
I am asked if I have ever been a welder, or otherwise worked in a job whereby a small bit of metal could have been embedded in the eye, which could be ripped out by the magnet. Pacemakers are forbidden.
So I am dressed in a thin flannel gown, laid on my back onto a narrow table. A prop is inserted under my knees. As I lay there I begin to feel a surge of anxiety. Plugs are inserted into my ears. Props are placed on either side of my head -- immobilizing it. I am positioned to a cross-haired bull's eye. The anxiety level rises. A small cage is pulled down over my head. I can't swallow because my throat is dead dry -- anxiety rules. I talk about it with one of the two technicians. I ask for water. She brings some. I lay there immobile; take two sips, take a deep breath and say "OK".
The tray on which I lay slowly smoothly inserts me into the machine, into a featureless chamber. There is breathing space, only. Panic is suppressed. My throat remains moist. I continue to swallow. Good. A woman's disembodied voice advises that a session will begin for a minute's duration.
A thumping sound begins. There are no bodily sensations other than the thumping noise.The longest minute passes.The disembodied voice said I did good, It will be 3 or 4 more minutes before the next session begins.
Then the voice says the next session will be 4-5 minutes duration. The tray nudges my body a few centimetres, then a new noise begins, and begins and begins and goes on goes on goes on goes on & on & on... There is a small mirror I can look into to see the two female technicians behind glass in another room fondling dials.
More long minutes pass. A voice says another session of two minutes will begin. And a third unique pounding noise begins. This was endured. Endured. More long minutes pass. A voice announces another session 4 minutes long is about to commence.
There were 4 beats of one pounding followed by 4 beats of a different level of pounding and so it’s repeated over and over again and again. At the end of the session, I twitched. I was seconds from pressing the panic button in my hand. I felt suffocated. The tray moved. I was withdrawn from the machine. I sat on the table for a few moments to regain my composure. My forehead was soaked. My thighs, which had been clenched together, were sweatwet.
I got off the table and took more moments to look into the chamber where my body had been. I was rattled. My hands trembled, even as I civied-up to go home. I was rattled.That is the literal description.
. . .
This is the poetic description:
I guarantee it in writing,
sign my name,
I, Wally Keeler,
in the 56th year of diminishing virility,
hereby declare
to be metal-free
neither microchip nor nano-entity
lurk subcutaneous;
I am 100% human male,
vulnerable
to everything.
Laid out on a tray
I am inserted head-first
and dry-throated anxious
into the magnetic cylinder
head-first up a techno logical vagina
a bloodless lustless vagina
I am a dildo for diagnosis
by a bland gland
Don't even dream of moving your eyeballs,
they will blur the imaging.
I'm instructed to be still
to play dead
to lay like an autopsy cadaver
inside a bloodless vagina
and comes
the thrusting noise
the rhythmic pounding pulse
imaging my brain
in molecular slices
digitizing it
into a multi-binary portrait
Magnets
compellingly attractive
magnets
line the bloodless vagina
compellingly attractive
as the bloody real illogical thing
the pleasure pursuit of men
sending nation onto nation
to pleasure possess
So I am inserted into the machine
with the smooth grace
of a dismissive gesture,
yet its power to picture
my brain excludes
the weeping warm vaginas
of the women I have known --
for them
the secretions of software
that initiate poetry programs.
The vagina of modern diagnostics
penetrated my head's hardware
cross-hairing a pixel
of enormous consequence
in a troublesome artery
ensuring the blood
continues f l o o o o o w i n g
into my imagination
as I lay there immobile as a corpse,
the scrapbook of my lovers
paging in my head
their vulvelour vaginas
silking me
milking me
remains impenetrable
to the mega-might
of robo-cunt claustrophobia
And I lay inside it
stiff as a stiff,
imaging the remains
of my love life
tent-poling the thin sheet covering me
with a hard-on
as insouciant
as a middle finger salute.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
A 'MS GUIDED' VIEW OF POLITICAL CORRECTNESS
A bit of a blast from the past. The unrelenting farce of political correctmess makes me feel like a broken levee outside New Orleans. I took care in writing this letter to avoid identifying the gender of my child, but this did not stop the presumption of the enraged responder. Enjoy.
Click on image to enlarge
Friday, September 12, 2008
CONGRATULATIONS, IT'S A MURDERER
The Cobourg Daily Star, Sept 9, published an editorial entitled, "Oh, the male of the species." The editorial was a response to an earlier letter I had written that had been published in the same newspaper. Local feminists are into fund raising to have a monument placed into the central park there. The monument is there to commemorate the women who had been murdered in Montreal many years back by Marc Lepine.
The editorial writer, Grahame Woods, is a retired mental-health counsellor and Gemini-winning television playwright. He wrote, "Marc Lepine very much represents men who, throughout history, up until this so-called modern day, have brutalized, raped, killed, battered, imposed upon, and, generally, dehumanized women as if it were their god-given right and..."
Of course I replied with the following letter. The red text was deleted by the Cobourg Daily Star before it was published today:
Section 13.(1) of the Human Rights Act declares that “It is a discriminatory practice for a person ... to communicate ... any matter that is likely to expose a person or persons to hatred or contempt by reason of the fact that that person or those persons are identifiable on the basis of a prohibited ground of discrimination”
Grahame Woods' screed displays all the characteristics of exposing men to contempt. He does not qualify any of his assertions with modifiers such as “many men” “a few men” “a significant portion of men” or such like. His assertion is that the mentally deranged murderer, Marc Lepine, represents men as an identifiable group, and produces a litany which depicts that men as an identifiable group are murderers, rapists, brutal savages throughout history.
Yep, the feminist doctor just delivered a baby boy and handed it to the mother saying, “Congratulations! It’s a murderer.”
But let us look at another litany, one that is a counterpoint to the dreary “boys and their toys” accusation of feminist peaceniks who portray women as natural born nurturers. This litany refers only to the present age.
It was under former prime minister of India Indira Gandhi's rule that India had a bloody shoot‑up with Pakistan in 1971. It was under her tutelage that India constructed and exploded a nuclear device.
It was under former prime minister of Pakistan Benazir Bhutto's rule that Pakistan continued to lob artillery shells into India. It was under her tutelage that Pakistan continued its program to develop nuclear weapons.
It was under former prime minister of Israel Golda Meir's rule that Israel went to war with the Arab countries in 1973 on Yom Kippur. It was under her tutelage that Israel continued its construction of nuclear weapons.
It was under former prime minister Margaret Thatcher's rule that Britain went to war with Argentina in 1982. It was under her tutelage that Britain modernized its nuclear forces and invited U.S. nuclear weapons to sit on British soil.
It was under former Chinese leader Mao Zedong's rule that his wife, Jiang Qing, former leader of the Gang of Four, directed the Cultural Revolution, which caused countless deaths and degradation for millions throughout China.
War and preparations for war (a.k.a. defence) is firmly rooted in the maintenance and/or extension of power. Power is genderless. The capacity for evil, as for goodness, belongs equally to both men and women.
The problem with power extends to women in the home. An extensive study, Homicides of Children and Youth, is a publication of the U.S. Dept of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention, reveals that 75 percent of children under age 6 are killed by women. The study also determined that child-killing women are hands-on killers – women are more likely than men to use their hands and feet as weapons to kill children (54 percent versus 22 percent). A 1988 study (Silverman and Kennedy) highlighted the fact that young, unmarried females are more likely to commit infanticide by suffocation or strangulation whereas older married females beat them to death.
Mr Woods ends his hateful screed with the following, “The shame is that most men, from the beginning of time, have remained and continue to remain silent, turning a blind eye, accepting, rarely speaking out against other males' abhorrent behaviour.”
The exact same applies to the dominant killers of children: women. And let us not forget that children are the most vulnerable and innocent of victims anywhere and at all times throughout human history.
It may come as astonishing news to Mr Woods, but malevolence exists in equal proportions in both genders, and it manifests itself in an unlimited number of ways – each of them as hurtful as the other. I believe in equality; I neither favour nor disfavour men over women, nor do I favour nor disfavour women over men.
The editorial writer, Grahame Woods, is a retired mental-health counsellor and Gemini-winning television playwright. He wrote, "Marc Lepine very much represents men who, throughout history, up until this so-called modern day, have brutalized, raped, killed, battered, imposed upon, and, generally, dehumanized women as if it were their god-given right and..."
Of course I replied with the following letter. The red text was deleted by the Cobourg Daily Star before it was published today:
Section 13.(1) of the Human Rights Act declares that “It is a discriminatory practice for a person ... to communicate ... any matter that is likely to expose a person or persons to hatred or contempt by reason of the fact that that person or those persons are identifiable on the basis of a prohibited ground of discrimination”
Grahame Woods' screed displays all the characteristics of exposing men to contempt. He does not qualify any of his assertions with modifiers such as “many men” “a few men” “a significant portion of men” or such like. His assertion is that the mentally deranged murderer, Marc Lepine, represents men as an identifiable group, and produces a litany which depicts that men as an identifiable group are murderers, rapists, brutal savages throughout history.
Yep, the feminist doctor just delivered a baby boy and handed it to the mother saying, “Congratulations! It’s a murderer.”
But let us look at another litany, one that is a counterpoint to the dreary “boys and their toys” accusation of feminist peaceniks who portray women as natural born nurturers. This litany refers only to the present age.
It was under former prime minister of India Indira Gandhi's rule that India had a bloody shoot‑up with Pakistan in 1971. It was under her tutelage that India constructed and exploded a nuclear device.
It was under former prime minister of Pakistan Benazir Bhutto's rule that Pakistan continued to lob artillery shells into India. It was under her tutelage that Pakistan continued its program to develop nuclear weapons.
It was under former prime minister of Israel Golda Meir's rule that Israel went to war with the Arab countries in 1973 on Yom Kippur. It was under her tutelage that Israel continued its construction of nuclear weapons.
It was under former prime minister Margaret Thatcher's rule that Britain went to war with Argentina in 1982. It was under her tutelage that Britain modernized its nuclear forces and invited U.S. nuclear weapons to sit on British soil.
It was under former Chinese leader Mao Zedong's rule that his wife, Jiang Qing, former leader of the Gang of Four, directed the Cultural Revolution, which caused countless deaths and degradation for millions throughout China.
War and preparations for war (a.k.a. defence) is firmly rooted in the maintenance and/or extension of power. Power is genderless. The capacity for evil, as for goodness, belongs equally to both men and women.
The problem with power extends to women in the home. An extensive study, Homicides of Children and Youth, is a publication of the U.S. Dept of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention, reveals that 75 percent of children under age 6 are killed by women. The study also determined that child-killing women are hands-on killers – women are more likely than men to use their hands and feet as weapons to kill children (54 percent versus 22 percent). A 1988 study (Silverman and Kennedy) highlighted the fact that young, unmarried females are more likely to commit infanticide by suffocation or strangulation whereas older married females beat them to death.
Mr Woods ends his hateful screed with the following, “The shame is that most men, from the beginning of time, have remained and continue to remain silent, turning a blind eye, accepting, rarely speaking out against other males' abhorrent behaviour.”
The exact same applies to the dominant killers of children: women. And let us not forget that children are the most vulnerable and innocent of victims anywhere and at all times throughout human history.
It may come as astonishing news to Mr Woods, but malevolence exists in equal proportions in both genders, and it manifests itself in an unlimited number of ways – each of them as hurtful as the other. I believe in equality; I neither favour nor disfavour men over women, nor do I favour nor disfavour women over men.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
NOW MAGAZINE DOES NOT BELIEVE IN DIVERSITY
Click on image to enlarge
Well, I have to give credit for NOW magazine for publishing my response to Ms Susan Cole's venal column of the previous week. However, the credit has to be clawed back for the deletions removed from the letter. It seems that the magazine that likes to consider itself as edgey, is actually a scared little kitty kat. Below is the letter as I had sent it. I have bolded/reddened the text that was deleted. Not only do they delete, they deliberately distorted: note how they changed the word "recommending" to "reprimanding." Why, my goodness, NOW magazine has become as silly as the defunct Ontario Censorshit Board in days of yore.=========================
I am deeply impressed with Susan Cole’s hope that Yankee voters not lay off pregnant 17-year-old Bristol Palin, and to flog her “front and centre as an attack on anti-sex-education platforms.” It demonstrates quite clearly that Ms Cole will stoop to exploit an underage pregnant girl to further a political point. Ms Cole is an exemplary “progressive” role model for all feminists in this regard.
I have always been pro-choice. I have always supported officially-approved sex education, including abstinence as one of many options, so that young people can come to experience the joy of official pleasure with their official orgasms, but Ms Cole’s [Her] snake-belly abuse of an underage teen disgusts me.
I hear the Comedian Human Rights Commission, is flogging a pro-diversity policy concerning sex-education in our schools. They're recommending girls who cry out "Oh God! Oh God!" when having their official orgasms, should once in a while cry out "Oh Allah! Oh Allah!", to celebrate multiculturalism. Surely this is something Ms Cole could wrap her mouth around and moan the rainbow about.
Oh, excuse me, I hear the CHRC knocking at my door.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
CHRC PROSCRIBES COMING FOR GOD
The Comedian Human Rights Commission (CHRC) yesterday found Ms Kare Reege guilty of discriminatory behaviour for crying out “Oh God! Oh God!” when she orgasms, thereby offending her Muslim neighbours to such an extent that it has upset the delicate demographic balance of the neighbourhood and caused detrimental effect on housing prices.
The CHRC agreed with the complainant, Imam El-Moh Sayitall, a neighbour of Ms Reege, who charged that the constant cries of “Oh God” had offended Muslim families in the neighbourhood, causing two to move out of the area in recent months. Mr Sayitall, a realtor in his real time, has been unable to resell the abandoned homes to his client-base because of the loud discriminatory behaviour of Ms Reege.
Ms Reege argued that she and her same-sex spouse, Ms Suzan Scolde, an avid supporter of the free-wheeling Dykes On Bikes entourage, had been living in the community for over 20 years and never had a problem with neighbours until late last year when Mr Sayitall presented a petition signed by several neighbours complaining about the “discriminatory and invasive-audio act, which had the effect of drowning out the name of Allah so beloved by 1.7 billion Muslims in the world.”
The CHRC requires Ms Reege to attend a 30 day skin-thinning course and to accommodate to the religious sensitivities of her neighbours by crying out “Oh Allah!” as well as “Oh God!" in direct proportion to the religious demographics of the neighbourhood.
Mr Sayitall asserted that this was a reasonable accommodation, “After all, it isn’t like we are requesting she cry out the entire mantra of 'Allahu Akbar' every other breath when she comes. We are sensitive to the needs of her crusader religion. The CHRC is not taking anything away from her -- just requiring she add a new element to her orgasmic repertoire.”
“I have been living in the neighbourhood for five years. Everyone was okay with her weekend orgasms, but early last year, it became a daily occurrence, and happened more often than our mosque’s daily calls to prayer. She was especially vociferous on Fridays; every Friday morning the calls to her Christian God emanated from her back patio. Although the back patio is secluded by tall thick cedars, they don’t filter the wild calls to her God,” explained Mr Sayitall
Ms Susan Scold said she was home when a group of Muslim women approached their home dressed in black hijabs. “They were like a coven of medieval scarecrows from a Shakespearian tragedy. They demanded we restrain our Christian calls pleasure to the times inbetween their five required daily prayers. I told them that they should not interfere with our sexual spontaneity. Love is not a scheduled event. We fuck when we feel.”
“For God’s sake, they presented me with a broken dildo they claimed had been thrown onto their lawn. I had thrown that dildo into the garbage because it was faulty. It was the new Crucifuckion model that I had used when reciting selected Songs of Solomon. What right do they have to rummage through my Christian garbage?"
Ms Reege & Ms Scolde both retired last year from their community service jobs, which provided them with more time to express their pent-up love and desires. "Our retirement years should be protected, not circumspected," added Ms Reege
Local Rabbi, Frankie D. Mantell, said, "The Jewish community would never expect goy gals to cry out 'O Yahweh!' when they come. We believe in diversity, but not imposed diversity. That is why we declined the CHRC’s request to provide a demographic figure of Jews living in the Reege neighbourhood. For heaven’s sake, some of our princesses have been known to cry out ‘Yippie Yahweh’ on the Sabbath. It’s highly embarrassing but should not be a concern of government bureaucraps.”
No Buddhists were found residing within the six block perimeter of the offending Reege household, so the CHRC made no requirement that Ms Reege cry out a proportional Oh Buddha.
Wally Keeler, author of the First Interim Report On the Causes & Manifestations of Divergent Think Procedure of the First Ten Years of the History of the Peoples Republic of Poetry, said that the Creative Intelligence Anarchy of the imagine nation has recently set up Call-of-the-Wild community courses for those who want to separate their orgasmic vocabulary from religion.
Mr Keeler explained that “Orgasm is primal. It is closer to field beasts than to what’s it’s name, God, Allah, or whatever. The Call-of-the-Wild program trains individuals to get in touch with their organic origins by mimicking the come-cries of various animals. We do not discriminate amongst animals. We do not prefer one beast’s come-cry over another. Whatever feels most natural and pleasurable at the moment is all that is required.”
“We have found that women working in the arts sector are inclined towards tiger calls, but there is a growing trend among older women for cougar cries. The imagine nation of the Peoples Republic of Poetry has always advocated that Free Speech, Free Screech, Free Expression is best when released into the wild, rather than confined to the pathetic zoo recommended by government agencies. Poetry is Poetency is our e pluribus unum.”
The CHRC agreed with the complainant, Imam El-Moh Sayitall, a neighbour of Ms Reege, who charged that the constant cries of “Oh God” had offended Muslim families in the neighbourhood, causing two to move out of the area in recent months. Mr Sayitall, a realtor in his real time, has been unable to resell the abandoned homes to his client-base because of the loud discriminatory behaviour of Ms Reege.
“The respondent has been crying out the name of the Christian deity more often than calls to prayer from a nearby mosque. This vociferous and extravagant expression of orgasmic pleasure has driven two Muslim families to move from the neighbourhood and detrimentally affected the livelihood of the complainant. The respondent had been requested to accommodate to the sensitivities of the Muslim community but declined to seek a balance, asserting that her right to freedom of religion permitted her to cry out her Lord’s name from the rooftops. This may have been acceptable in earlier days when communities were homogenous and sparse, but today’s conditions call for harmonization as a prerequisite for social peace,” said the CHRC report.
Ms Reege argued that she and her same-sex spouse, Ms Suzan Scolde, an avid supporter of the free-wheeling Dykes On Bikes entourage, had been living in the community for over 20 years and never had a problem with neighbours until late last year when Mr Sayitall presented a petition signed by several neighbours complaining about the “discriminatory and invasive-audio act, which had the effect of drowning out the name of Allah so beloved by 1.7 billion Muslims in the world.”
The CHRC requires Ms Reege to attend a 30 day skin-thinning course and to accommodate to the religious sensitivities of her neighbours by crying out “Oh Allah!” as well as “Oh God!" in direct proportion to the religious demographics of the neighbourhood.
Mr Sayitall asserted that this was a reasonable accommodation, “After all, it isn’t like we are requesting she cry out the entire mantra of 'Allahu Akbar' every other breath when she comes. We are sensitive to the needs of her crusader religion. The CHRC is not taking anything away from her -- just requiring she add a new element to her orgasmic repertoire.”
“I have been living in the neighbourhood for five years. Everyone was okay with her weekend orgasms, but early last year, it became a daily occurrence, and happened more often than our mosque’s daily calls to prayer. She was especially vociferous on Fridays; every Friday morning the calls to her Christian God emanated from her back patio. Although the back patio is secluded by tall thick cedars, they don’t filter the wild calls to her God,” explained Mr Sayitall
Ms Susan Scold said she was home when a group of Muslim women approached their home dressed in black hijabs. “They were like a coven of medieval scarecrows from a Shakespearian tragedy. They demanded we restrain our Christian calls pleasure to the times inbetween their five required daily prayers. I told them that they should not interfere with our sexual spontaneity. Love is not a scheduled event. We fuck when we feel.”
“For God’s sake, they presented me with a broken dildo they claimed had been thrown onto their lawn. I had thrown that dildo into the garbage because it was faulty. It was the new Crucifuckion model that I had used when reciting selected Songs of Solomon. What right do they have to rummage through my Christian garbage?"
Ms Reege & Ms Scolde both retired last year from their community service jobs, which provided them with more time to express their pent-up love and desires. "Our retirement years should be protected, not circumspected," added Ms Reege
Local Rabbi, Frankie D. Mantell, said, "The Jewish community would never expect goy gals to cry out 'O Yahweh!' when they come. We believe in diversity, but not imposed diversity. That is why we declined the CHRC’s request to provide a demographic figure of Jews living in the Reege neighbourhood. For heaven’s sake, some of our princesses have been known to cry out ‘Yippie Yahweh’ on the Sabbath. It’s highly embarrassing but should not be a concern of government bureaucraps.”
No Buddhists were found residing within the six block perimeter of the offending Reege household, so the CHRC made no requirement that Ms Reege cry out a proportional Oh Buddha.
Wally Keeler, author of the First Interim Report On the Causes & Manifestations of Divergent Think Procedure of the First Ten Years of the History of the Peoples Republic of Poetry, said that the Creative Intelligence Anarchy of the imagine nation has recently set up Call-of-the-Wild community courses for those who want to separate their orgasmic vocabulary from religion.
Mr Keeler explained that “Orgasm is primal. It is closer to field beasts than to what’s it’s name, God, Allah, or whatever. The Call-of-the-Wild program trains individuals to get in touch with their organic origins by mimicking the come-cries of various animals. We do not discriminate amongst animals. We do not prefer one beast’s come-cry over another. Whatever feels most natural and pleasurable at the moment is all that is required.”
“We have found that women working in the arts sector are inclined towards tiger calls, but there is a growing trend among older women for cougar cries. The imagine nation of the Peoples Republic of Poetry has always advocated that Free Speech, Free Screech, Free Expression is best when released into the wild, rather than confined to the pathetic zoo recommended by government agencies. Poetry is Poetency is our e pluribus unum.”
Thursday, September 4, 2008
SPOKEN WORD EXCHANGE: A W.A.S.P. VS NON-W.A.S.P.'S
Hi, I’m Wally Keeler.
I’m a purebred w.a.s.p.
Yeh, right, white Anglo-Saxon prick
You people brought colonialism
GUILTY
You people brought racism.
GUILTY
You people brought exploitation
GUILTY
You people brought cultural genocide
GUILTY
You people brought world war
GUILTY
I’m Wally Keeler.
I’m a white Anglo-Saxon poet
And I’m NOT DEAD
I’m a purebred w.a.s.p.
Yeh, right, white Anglo-Saxon prick
You people brought colonialism
GUILTY
You people brought racism.
GUILTY
You people brought exploitation
GUILTY
You people brought cultural genocide
GUILTY
You people brought world war
GUILTY
I’m Wally Keeler.
I’m a white Anglo-Saxon poet
And I’m NOT DEAD
MEDIOCRITY MAFIA IS STILL HERE
Teen with rainbow hair faces 'punishment' Sept 4/08 By Rhiannon Meyers / Galveston County Daily News GALVESTON, Texas — Stifled by a standardized dress code, April Barton said she chose to express herself by coloring her hair pink, green, blue, purple and yellow.
April Barton, said Ball High [School] administrators told her to lose her colorful hairstyle or face punishment. Her friend, Vanessa Sliter, has dyed her hair to get rid of the fuchsia streaks. But administrators at Ball High School in Galveston think her rainbow-striped hair is too distracting and therefore a nuisance, Barton said.
====================
43 years ago the same thing...
April Barton, said Ball High [School] administrators told her to lose her colorful hairstyle or face punishment. Her friend, Vanessa Sliter, has dyed her hair to get rid of the fuchsia streaks. But administrators at Ball High School in Galveston think her rainbow-striped hair is too distracting and therefore a nuisance, Barton said.
====================
43 years ago the same thing...
Click on image to enlarge
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
PACIFISTS
The easiest kill for
.
tyrants & terrorists
.
are
.
the children
.
the elderly
.
the infirm
.
the
.
stupid
IT'S OFFICIAL: NEWSPEAK IS NOSPEAK
Click on image to enlarge
Once upon a time there was a country. This country embodied the liberating force of freedom of speech and expression, which brought to the people of that country for well over a 100 years all the strengths of democracy.In that country there is a Human Rot Commission. One of the top investigators of that Human Rot Commission testified at the Human Rot Triburinal that “Freedom of speech is an American concept, so I don’t give it any value.”
STRIKE ONE: Free speech takes a hit.
The Human Rot Commissars utilized the full farce of Newspeak as Nospeak to obfuscate what it meant, saying that “Mr Steacy did not testify that the Commission gives no value to freedom of expression because it is an American concept…what Mr Steacy said, was that the Commission distinguishes between American notions of ‘freedom of speech’ and the different Canadian value of ‘freedom of expression.’”
Did you get that?
It’s official.
FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION
IS UNLIKE
FREEDOM OF SPEECH
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
ELEGY FOR MY MOTHER
ELEGY FOR MY MOTHER
Reta May Keeler (01/11/1912 - 01/24/2004)
In your beginning was the blood and breath,
the sharp inhalation of the carnal chaos of life.
Born 6 lb., 6 oz. in the pubescence of a century
of unprecedented carnage and creativity,
the state marked the occasion with certificate 12‑05‑037696.
In the unelectric world,
devoid of devices of diversion,
you flourished in family
and began your career
pushing placenta and parenthood
onto the open palm of life,
swaddling your children in an abundance
of cuddles, caresses and embraces.
And so you earned
your Bachelor of Mom degree,
graduating into grandchildren
for the Masters of Mom,
but the world wasn't finished
with your dissertation of lineage
and great grandchildren won you
the Doctorate of Motherhood
As I walked along the avenue of my life,
a time came when my knees weakened
(a fallen leaf on the sidewalk)
then onset type2 diabetes
(another leaf on the pavement)
then diminishing virility
(another fallen leaf)
then a stroke
(a litter of leaves)
My trees are not yet barren
because it is September,
but for you, my mother,
a cold wind swept down
with January ferocity,
liberating your soul
for post‑graduate work with the angels.
Your spirit is a kite tethered with umbilical love
and gentle unto the good days,
memories like random breezes tug
-- what is the wind but a woman
loving us with caressing directions.
Your life straddled two millennia.
Your children born in peacetime
bracketed the world's worst war;
so I enjoyed your memories
of the pre‑tek world,
of the pre‑penicillin world;
from pre‑flight to post‑lunar landings,
your life was grounded
graceful as a backyard garden.
I regularly visited to mine your memories,
plucking nuanced nuggets of ageless gossip.
On the weekend of your death
I meant to ask you about your first kiss
but you replied with your last three diminishing breaths,
like the ellipsed ending of a love long life sentence...
Defiant of Death Certificate 422‑372‑045
you will remain an unfinished poem
carried into the interstellar future
on the crest of code of dna,
forever in a state of becoming...
Reta May Keeler (01/11/1912 - 01/24/2004)
In your beginning was the blood and breath,
the sharp inhalation of the carnal chaos of life.
Born 6 lb., 6 oz. in the pubescence of a century
of unprecedented carnage and creativity,
the state marked the occasion with certificate 12‑05‑037696.
In the unelectric world,
devoid of devices of diversion,
you flourished in family
and began your career
pushing placenta and parenthood
onto the open palm of life,
swaddling your children in an abundance
of cuddles, caresses and embraces.
And so you earned
your Bachelor of Mom degree,
graduating into grandchildren
for the Masters of Mom,
but the world wasn't finished
with your dissertation of lineage
and great grandchildren won you
the Doctorate of Motherhood
As I walked along the avenue of my life,
a time came when my knees weakened
(a fallen leaf on the sidewalk)
then onset type2 diabetes
(another leaf on the pavement)
then diminishing virility
(another fallen leaf)
then a stroke
(a litter of leaves)
My trees are not yet barren
because it is September,
but for you, my mother,
a cold wind swept down
with January ferocity,
liberating your soul
for post‑graduate work with the angels.
Your spirit is a kite tethered with umbilical love
and gentle unto the good days,
memories like random breezes tug
-- what is the wind but a woman
loving us with caressing directions.
Your life straddled two millennia.
Your children born in peacetime
bracketed the world's worst war;
so I enjoyed your memories
of the pre‑tek world,
of the pre‑penicillin world;
from pre‑flight to post‑lunar landings,
your life was grounded
graceful as a backyard garden.
I regularly visited to mine your memories,
plucking nuanced nuggets of ageless gossip.
On the weekend of your death
I meant to ask you about your first kiss
but you replied with your last three diminishing breaths,
like the ellipsed ending of a love long life sentence...
Defiant of Death Certificate 422‑372‑045
you will remain an unfinished poem
carried into the interstellar future
on the crest of code of dna,
forever in a state of becoming...
ANGELS
A little rain is dew fallen from angel's wings when they wake.
When you see an angel you are witness to a miracle. I would like to see an angel. Would you forgive me if I fell in love with an angel? I would fall in love at first sight I know.
There is only one way to earn wings. (Prayers are such small. currency when wings are so expensive.) Your face must be glowing before you can have wings. I am sure of that because the saints had glowing faces.
Oh! I would fall in love with an angel the moment I saw one. I would die to be an angel.
You have to do that, you know, die. Death comes before angels. You cannot commit suicide. Suicide disqualifies you. My father was disqualified.
After Death leaves you are eligible for wings. Angels know if you are eligible or not.
(God knows too but He leaves the matter of wings to His subordinates. God is power; angels are beauty. I am not a lover of power. Forgive me if I fall in love with an angel.)
Death is something you purchase at a sale and the goods are non‑returnable and satisfaction is always guaranteed. I hope there is little pain in growing wings.
I want to be an angel some day. If I eat the right foods, recite the proper prayers, and fuck only virgins, will I be an angel?
Forgive me, I have fallen in love.
. . . . . . . . .published in PRISM International, Vol.12 No.2, Fall 1972
When you see an angel you are witness to a miracle. I would like to see an angel. Would you forgive me if I fell in love with an angel? I would fall in love at first sight I know.
There is only one way to earn wings. (Prayers are such small. currency when wings are so expensive.) Your face must be glowing before you can have wings. I am sure of that because the saints had glowing faces.
Oh! I would fall in love with an angel the moment I saw one. I would die to be an angel.
You have to do that, you know, die. Death comes before angels. You cannot commit suicide. Suicide disqualifies you. My father was disqualified.
After Death leaves you are eligible for wings. Angels know if you are eligible or not.
(God knows too but He leaves the matter of wings to His subordinates. God is power; angels are beauty. I am not a lover of power. Forgive me if I fall in love with an angel.)
Death is something you purchase at a sale and the goods are non‑returnable and satisfaction is always guaranteed. I hope there is little pain in growing wings.
I want to be an angel some day. If I eat the right foods, recite the proper prayers, and fuck only virgins, will I be an angel?
Forgive me, I have fallen in love.
. . . . . . . . .published in PRISM International, Vol.12 No.2, Fall 1972
GOOD MORNING, MR DIMANT
“Whatever else, poetry is freedom.”
--------------------- Irving Layton
Canada’s greatest poet, Irving Layton, grew up in the hardscrabble area of Montreal where Jews had to battle for their rightful place. Irving Layton was not a whiner – he was a fighter. He learned from experience, street experience. He advised me that survival required two punches to the face for every one punch received. Good advice.
He stood up for himself, and by doing so, he stood up for me and for you and for Canada, and by extension, for everyone on this planet who believed in the primacy of the individual over groupism and tribalism, of freedom of speech over muffled speech. He stood up for himself. He would never have countenanced a government agency standing up on his behalf. He would have rightly regarded that as a weakening of his own survival skills.
Irving Layton wrote: “There is no force more subversive than poetry and that is why tyrants have always feared it and sought to suppress it. But not only tyrants. Everyone who has a vested interest in preventing the individual from discovering the truth of his own self and his own capacities fears the liberating power that resides in poetry.”
Human rights commissions have become the current equivalents of the censorious U.S. House Committee on UnAmerican Activities, which was launched with the good intention of stopping the spread of odious ideas but ending in disgrace and injustice, so much so that President Harry S. Truman referred to it as the "most un-American thing in the country today."
Human rights commissions are the step-child of the defunct Ontario Film Censorship Board set up to protect civilians from smut, pornography and immorality, proselytizing that society needed to be protected from the epidemic of rape and sexual assault that would follow if there were no censorship. The Board ended up becoming an embarrassment of injustice when it banned ‘Not A Love Story’, an anti-pornography movie because it contained images of oral sex, but the violent scenes were okay. The Board was ridiculed by the international community for its continual harassment of the Toronto International Film Festival.
Human rights commissions have become a re-re-re-tread of the zeitgeist of Victorianism, protecting the widespread cultivation of an outward appearance of dignity and restraint while practicing its antithesis; it was quintessential hypocrisy but now with a 21st century style gag. Human rights commissions do not decrease instances of hate; it nurtures them by driving them underground where they cannot be seen, where they cannot be fought in the full light of free speech.
Human rights commissions have become carriers of the infection of the alcohol prohibitionists, of the marijuana (reefer madness) prohibitionists, of the porn prohibitionists, and now, hate prohibitionists. The carriers of this prohibitionist infection are always the self-righteous, the interest groups claiming to protect society from itself, asserting they know what is best for the good of society while preventing the bad.
These prohibitionist groups have a fundamental mistrust of democracy; they cannot put their faith in the common sense of free speech, or in the historical record of the liberating power of free speech. The prohibitionists view the civilian masses in a democratic society to be intrinsically weak, that Canadians are a hair-trigger away from committing another holocaust.
The liberation of societies from the tyranny and oppression of the divine right of kings, from dictatorshit, from totalitarianism, did not come about from restrained speech. Democracy owes its existence to free speech. How can the continuity of democracy be assured when it is permitted only one arm to defend itself against totalitarian or ideological enemies, when incompetent human rights commissions tie the other arm with the restraint of censorshit.
The prohibitionists are poetry prophylactics; they prevent the conception and creativity of wit; they disarm the word warriors that are most effective at fighting hate. The prohibitionists are imposing their own bigotry on our democratic society. They are committing textual assault against free speech. It is not freedom of speech that needs restraining; it is the inept bureaucrazy of the human rights commissions that need restraining. They have become nothing more than a mafia of meddling mediocrity rats of the lowest disorder.
I have developed a deep and profound hatred for the contaminating effects of human rights commissions. I hold the entire group of human rights commissioners in naked contempt for their textual assault on free speech. I will continue to call for their complete liquidation as a group in our society. So there you have it; go shake your rattle tail to the nearest human rights commission near you.
--------------------- Irving Layton
Canada’s greatest poet, Irving Layton, grew up in the hardscrabble area of Montreal where Jews had to battle for their rightful place. Irving Layton was not a whiner – he was a fighter. He learned from experience, street experience. He advised me that survival required two punches to the face for every one punch received. Good advice.
He stood up for himself, and by doing so, he stood up for me and for you and for Canada, and by extension, for everyone on this planet who believed in the primacy of the individual over groupism and tribalism, of freedom of speech over muffled speech. He stood up for himself. He would never have countenanced a government agency standing up on his behalf. He would have rightly regarded that as a weakening of his own survival skills.
Irving Layton wrote: “There is no force more subversive than poetry and that is why tyrants have always feared it and sought to suppress it. But not only tyrants. Everyone who has a vested interest in preventing the individual from discovering the truth of his own self and his own capacities fears the liberating power that resides in poetry.”
Human rights commissions have become the current equivalents of the censorious U.S. House Committee on UnAmerican Activities, which was launched with the good intention of stopping the spread of odious ideas but ending in disgrace and injustice, so much so that President Harry S. Truman referred to it as the "most un-American thing in the country today."
Human rights commissions are the step-child of the defunct Ontario Film Censorship Board set up to protect civilians from smut, pornography and immorality, proselytizing that society needed to be protected from the epidemic of rape and sexual assault that would follow if there were no censorship. The Board ended up becoming an embarrassment of injustice when it banned ‘Not A Love Story’, an anti-pornography movie because it contained images of oral sex, but the violent scenes were okay. The Board was ridiculed by the international community for its continual harassment of the Toronto International Film Festival.
Human rights commissions have become a re-re-re-tread of the zeitgeist of Victorianism, protecting the widespread cultivation of an outward appearance of dignity and restraint while practicing its antithesis; it was quintessential hypocrisy but now with a 21st century style gag. Human rights commissions do not decrease instances of hate; it nurtures them by driving them underground where they cannot be seen, where they cannot be fought in the full light of free speech.
Human rights commissions have become carriers of the infection of the alcohol prohibitionists, of the marijuana (reefer madness) prohibitionists, of the porn prohibitionists, and now, hate prohibitionists. The carriers of this prohibitionist infection are always the self-righteous, the interest groups claiming to protect society from itself, asserting they know what is best for the good of society while preventing the bad.
These prohibitionist groups have a fundamental mistrust of democracy; they cannot put their faith in the common sense of free speech, or in the historical record of the liberating power of free speech. The prohibitionists view the civilian masses in a democratic society to be intrinsically weak, that Canadians are a hair-trigger away from committing another holocaust.
The liberation of societies from the tyranny and oppression of the divine right of kings, from dictatorshit, from totalitarianism, did not come about from restrained speech. Democracy owes its existence to free speech. How can the continuity of democracy be assured when it is permitted only one arm to defend itself against totalitarian or ideological enemies, when incompetent human rights commissions tie the other arm with the restraint of censorshit.
The prohibitionists are poetry prophylactics; they prevent the conception and creativity of wit; they disarm the word warriors that are most effective at fighting hate. The prohibitionists are imposing their own bigotry on our democratic society. They are committing textual assault against free speech. It is not freedom of speech that needs restraining; it is the inept bureaucrazy of the human rights commissions that need restraining. They have become nothing more than a mafia of meddling mediocrity rats of the lowest disorder.
I have developed a deep and profound hatred for the contaminating effects of human rights commissions. I hold the entire group of human rights commissioners in naked contempt for their textual assault on free speech. I will continue to call for their complete liquidation as a group in our society. So there you have it; go shake your rattle tail to the nearest human rights commission near you.
Monday, September 1, 2008
A GREAT SONNETEER
With thanks to poet Cantara Christopher for bringing this to my attention.
John Gillespie Magee, Junior (June 9, 1922 – December 11, 1941)was an Anglo-American aviator and poet who died as a result of a mid-air collision over Lincolnshire during World War II. He was serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force, which he joined before the United States officially entered the war. He is undoubtedly most famous for his poem High Flight.
He received flight training in Ontario at Toronto, Trenton, St. Catharines, and Uplands and passed his Wings Test in June 1941. He was sent to Britain initially to No. 53 Operational Training Unit (OTU) in RAF Llandow, Walesto train on the Supermarine Spitfire later that year and then to the newly formed No 412 (Fighter) Squadron, RCAF,[1] which was activated at RAF Digby, England, on 30 June 1941. The motto of this squadron was and is Promptus ad vindictam (Latin: "Swift to avenge"). Magee was qualified on and flew the Supermarine Spitfire.
Magee was killed at the age of 19, whilst flying Spitfire VZ-H, serial number AD-291. The aircraft was involved in a mid-air collision with an Airspeed Oxford trainer from RAF Cranwell, flown by Leading Aircraftman Ernest Aubrey. The two aircraft collided in cloud cover at about 400 feet AGL, at 11:30, over the village of Roxholm which lies between RAF Cranwell and RAF Digby, in Lincolnshire. Magee was descending at the time. At the inquiry afterwards a farmer testified that he saw the Spitfire pilot struggling to push back the canopy. The pilot stood up to jump from the plane but was too close to the ground for his parachute to open, and died on impact. Magee is buried at Holy Cross, Scopwick Cemetery in Lincolnshire, England.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
The poem starts at the 2:30 mark
John Gillespie Magee, Junior (June 9, 1922 – December 11, 1941)was an Anglo-American aviator and poet who died as a result of a mid-air collision over Lincolnshire during World War II. He was serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force, which he joined before the United States officially entered the war. He is undoubtedly most famous for his poem High Flight.
He received flight training in Ontario at Toronto, Trenton, St. Catharines, and Uplands and passed his Wings Test in June 1941. He was sent to Britain initially to No. 53 Operational Training Unit (OTU) in RAF Llandow, Walesto train on the Supermarine Spitfire later that year and then to the newly formed No 412 (Fighter) Squadron, RCAF,[1] which was activated at RAF Digby, England, on 30 June 1941. The motto of this squadron was and is Promptus ad vindictam (Latin: "Swift to avenge"). Magee was qualified on and flew the Supermarine Spitfire.
Magee was killed at the age of 19, whilst flying Spitfire VZ-H, serial number AD-291. The aircraft was involved in a mid-air collision with an Airspeed Oxford trainer from RAF Cranwell, flown by Leading Aircraftman Ernest Aubrey. The two aircraft collided in cloud cover at about 400 feet AGL, at 11:30, over the village of Roxholm which lies between RAF Cranwell and RAF Digby, in Lincolnshire. Magee was descending at the time. At the inquiry afterwards a farmer testified that he saw the Spitfire pilot struggling to push back the canopy. The pilot stood up to jump from the plane but was too close to the ground for his parachute to open, and died on impact. Magee is buried at Holy Cross, Scopwick Cemetery in Lincolnshire, England.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
The poem starts at the 2:30 mark
MOLSON 4 MUSLIMS; CANUCK YUK YUKS
For the past few years I take the 2-block walk to view the Toronto Labour Day, monitering it for flag protocol violations. Sadly there are violations every year, especially the unions with Canadian/U.S. affiliation. I have no problem with the display of the Stars & Strippers, but I do have a problem with it FRONT&CENTRE, with the Maple Leaf relegated to the sidelines.
This year's parade had a new spectacle from the End Israeli Apartheid cell. They proudly displayed 12 of their flags. One of the group came over to hand me a leaflet, so I asked where the Canadian flag was, a single Canadian flag. He shrugged. So I added, "well I guess they aren't Canadians." He emphasized that they were. I said they weren't because there is not the slightest indication that they are Canadians. (Won't catch a Muslim slugging back a Molson) The man gestured down Queen West and said he didn't see any Canadian flags with the other groups, so my complaint had no merit.
His observation was correct. In the entire parade the Canadian flag was hardly held aloft by any union organization. I wish I had counted the number exactly so that I could compare it to the 12 Palestinian flags being proudly waved. What a pathetic display of disrespect for Canada.
Click on image to enlarge
Front & Centre
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