See the Bum: Attention Prime Minister's Office

See the Bum

Click the arrow in the upper left corner to access the sidebar, and click on 'Archives' to see the struggle I've been reporting here for the last few weeks.

(To see my work history, visit: A Canadian Artist's Professional Background. You may cross reference it with government records. I refer openly to police and the prime minister in this post.)

Hey, everyone, look, it's the bum! It's the bum who has no money when he writes hit songs! Let's go pay a band to steal his new hit! Look, he's still alive! Let's trick someone in his family to break into his room and cut his throat in the middle of the night! He's a bum because he has no money! Right, Revenue Canada? Right, Prime Minister Trudeau? Right, Pirate Broadcasters?

Have you local pirates ever heard about Port Royale? It was the wealthiest city in the Western world, founded on piracy profits. It was a coastal city, just like Vancouver. And when a tsunami drowned the whole population, there was little pity. It was understood as an act of God's vengeance. And all those pirate profits were suddenly worthless. Something to think about while you smoke another rock out of the stolen profits of my hard work.

And now for a word for my glorious leader, the Downright Honourable Justin Trudeau, the damn handsomest head of state in the whole wide world. I think I may have already used up my ministerial favour when I saw all those lying deadbeats getting clobbered by cops through my dorm window at the Ottawa Salvation Army in early 2013, which shortly followed my online request for just such a measure. (It was also around the time my brother Roger unsuccessfully tried to have me incarcerated on a false charge.) So I'm not expecting any such further help from the top. I just was wondering if he and other Canadian politicians have any sense of the horrors inflicted on my brain by our government broadcasting corporation, the CBC. Does Mr Trudeau appreciate poetry? How does he feel personally about such assaults on the brain of a poet as I have been describing throughout this account? Does he think Leonard Cohen should have his name on my poem? I don't know, I heard he was a man of letters. I was hoping he might be sympathetic to my cause.

A good example would be when I try to enjoy a widely circulating music post, such as Slings and Arrows. I can't seem to hear the music under a sea of putdowns and cryptic hate gibberish: Greef, Groof, Cough, Gough, Foof, Froof, Freef, Unfeef, Thief, Freak, Geek... I bet we could translate each of these unwelcome responses from Blue Rodeo fans and their like into a million dollars paid out to God damned frauds from my royalties in the last eleven years. And to whomever said 'you lock good', apparently not good enough. So they get my royalties for bullshitting everyone with this beautiful song and leave me to suffer this idiotic hail of 'slings and arrows' once the profits all drained to nothing over eleven years of radio airplay. That's a rather bitter truth I have thrust in my face every day of my life. It must be great to conveniently ignore it. And I think someone just called me a tramp on the way out of the washroom here in this public library.

When I am left to suffer this endless misery, I get more and more bitter. I may stop thinking of my country less as a country than as a corporation of human resources, with each unit assigned an individual number, which might as well have been scrawled on my arm at birth. Its people have the appearance of being a technologically controlled without their knowledge. It's not normal for people to hate an artist who pleases them. Something like that must require considerable mind altering. And look at the great result we get from it.

I find that as I get older, I remember more and more from my small childhood. When I was a small child, I could understand language. I just didn't know how to talk yet. There was this invisible chorus of voices that hovered over me and spoke to me. They'd followed me to this life from my tragic past life. I recalled, as a small child, that they'd appeared to me during an extreme crisis in the last moment of my previous life and tried to talk me out of hanging myself. I'd just endured a terrible injustice, such as what the CBC and everyone failed to do to me in 2010. Some band of creeps was stealing my things and pinning their crime on me. One day I was in a park, drawing the ducks, when four men sprang out of nowhere and each grabbed one of my limbs. I saw my legs go up in the air and still remember the sight of my checkered pants, which is why I think it might have been the mid 1960's. They incarcerated me on a false charge and I couldn't live with it. When I got home, I strung up a noose. As I put it around my neck, the invisible chorus said, 'you're making a mistake.' I responded, 'there's no way that this could be a mistake.' (Apparently, I was familiar with them.) I followed through. Everything went dark, but I was still alive, with the sense of something orbiting around me counterclockwise, from head to toe. (Maybe I was going back in time, or maybe I was reduced to an atom or something.) My very next memory was the warm darkness of my mother's womb. I didn't know where I was, but I liked it better than where I came from. I recall how I could taste the sweet stuff coming through the tube. Somehow I could taste through my navel. After I was born, when the voices visited me in early childhood, one of the things they said was, 'we told you you made a mistake.' The struggle of learning how to walk and talk again pushed out most of this strange memory over the years to follow. Of course, I could be imagining it all, but it feels like an authentic memory. So I won't be committing suicide this time.

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