Adbusters publishes The Red Pill

Published in the May/June 2010 edition of Adbusters, #89.
Preview below.

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From the original post:

Poisoned Milk

the moon grows large
as the oceans surge.
the largest its ever been.
a week from the worst devastation.

Japan toppled like a house of cards.
waves wiped dirty a new start.
destroying towns like a board game.
on every channel you can see the lame.

walking wounded with no home.
fearing radiation from the spewing domes.
as a new war ia brewing in a far off land.
as a dictator digs into the sand.

all of this in one day we see.
all of this as my baby girl turns three.
as we trek to the land of Mickey.
to enjoy the faux beauty built for you and me.

one ticket to ride them all.
a children’s paradise before the fall.
we will embrace the world that Disney built.
we will not cry over the world’s poisoned milk.

not letting our children know how we feel.
let us rejoice today in the land capitalism built.
see the plastic rainbows in the sky.

squint our eyes for a moment and make it real.

The Smiles We Lost

torn apart.
my heart.
lies on the ground.
gone out with the oceans sound.

my world now gone.
the children to which i sung.
the home that we built.
the love that we felt.

is ripping me apart
not knowing where they are.
not knowing where to start.
i wander the streets alone.

my town now a tomb.
too many lost to know
numbers too high to bestow.
i pick myself up today.

so that their legacy will not sway.
so our memories will continue to play
in the minds of friends and family.
as we dwell on the smiles we have lost.

as we think of the staggering cost.
to rebuild a town once strong.
a fishing village long gone.
where my life still lives.


Our Human Shores

Humans are at the center of design
As we can sit here and recline.
Life critical systems operate all around.
They are hidden out of view and can’t be found.

They produce the water we drink.
They produce the electricity we use to help think.
All prototyped by cross disciplinary teams.
Created by engineers, scientists, sociologists and machines.

All working in concert to not be seen.
Make our lives better and longer as never before.
To remove the misery from our human shores
Where the mental meets the physical.

So we can progress past petty wars over land.
So we can progress past limited resource problems.
The designer is at the core of the solution.
So that we may overcome our limited evolution.

To explore the universe to which we have been birthed.
To extend our consciousness through the space we search.
Human centered design is essential.
So that we may realize our truest potential.

Culture Vultures

Blood sweat and tears
For too many years.
They took us from our land.
Sold us lies with a smile and a hand.

For hundreds of years we dreamed of this.
Etched and painted white faces.
Passed our stories down to our children.
We could have never prepared

For the pain and suffering the future held.
Forced into sand boxes in far off lands.
The trail was far too long for any man.
So they gave us alchohol to forget.

Now we drink too much with no hopes of employment.
We try to pass our culture down to our youth.
But they leave as soon as they can, to seek their truth.
Living a life of ghostly memories knowing

That their ancestors once lived proud and free.
This land was ours before any white man was to see.
As they make dream-catchers to find themselves.
As they sweat out their poisons from their tumor cells.

They have taken our culture and ate it like vultures.
Regurgitated it back to whomever would eat it.
We saw this coming but we did not approve it.
There was no stopping the white man in the end.

Now they take tours of our holy places and think of our spirits.
They see our burial mounds and think of our magic.
Tears still flow from the trail we were forced to veer.
We watch now as they destroy the world, how tragic.


In Your Eyes

a note in one’s hand.
tucked away to be read again.
words to remind one of love.
a time before the world begin to boil.
when children were tucked into bed from above.
so much food children did not eat.
a time when children would rather have treats
than to eat a good dinner.

now years later i unfold this letter.
tucked in my pocket i re-read its warning.
i think of the life i have lived within.
how i have shut off from everything again.
turned a blind eye from all the death.
walked over bodies to seek food with less.
this letter was written before all of this.

now i can look back and read fully.
the warning that was told with love.
a father hoping to help guide and help steer.
even from death his words help make this clear.
as this was all predicted for many many decades.
even back then humanity struggled.
all the writing was on the wall.

but as soon as one wall fell another grew tall.
food and water did become scarce.
oil prices did rise over night as we drove from place to place.
vehicles were abandoned along the highways.
now used as shelters for plants and strays.
unemployment the norm everything closed down.
no one knew how to farm or use their hands.

clicking a mouse did not help grow real food on land.
the grid went down as the note did warn.
my father told me to take joy in the moment.
i now know we are the last generation.
no new children born into this once great nation.
i sit here on this mountain watching this sunrise.
the clouds are beautiful dad, as i think of your eyes.

A response to: Letter to the Last Generation

My Beloved Land

The job of a dictator isn’t that easy.
So I write this to help you understand.
I have to be tough and kick skulls and slap hands
As my people ask for their universal rights.
I throw them dollars while taking pills.
But there is no food or water left to borrow or steal.

Four decades later what do I see.
Lots of delusional youth looking up at me.
Poisoned by their psychedelic pop.
Not knowing that I’m all they’ve got.
I hear this nonsense of a war going on
I see adoring fans in my beloved land.

Like so many dictators before me.
I will leave this world as I see.
No amount of reality may you tell
And I will go to paradise as well.
Surrounded by all I have created here.
For an eternity this ground will swell.

For all the oil milked and shipped away.
For all the blood spilt here today.

Riding Fixies

All rights reserved by Farl

Sitting in our homes, blocked off in our foam
environment. Contained and reclaimed.
All physical friends long gone.
Memories from childhood gone wrong.
When we all drove our separate ways.
Relocating across country to follow our dreams.
Trying to stay in touch but it never seems
to happen, the way we want it to.

We all have now ventured online.
We all have built up our digital tribes.
Many collecting friends like pennies.
Hoarding them in bottles for hard times to cash in.
To shoot a tweet or message of a loss or a win.
There is a new generation that has only known this.
Has never known life before a text messaged hug or kiss.
And they do not question.
They have adapted and will reinvent.
They will find that the tribe they built has no limits.
Because they are tribe builders. Leaders of connection.

Paradigm shifted so quickly they knew no reflection
of how the good old days were before all of this.
They are geotagging their status updates as we reminisce.
They are blogging the next big invention. Are you listening?
Their tribes form and collapse at will with intention.
Passion depleted and grown as quickly as political campaigns.
Beliefs and hopes killed like terrorists’ bombs on planes.
The revolution will be on facebook. It will be liked and
shared on an iPad. Making a text message donation
to a cause or a fad.

Drinking beer, riding fixies while whistling dixie.

For the Greyhounds

cuts in education
cuts in healthcare
teachers need nothing
so let’s be fair.

let’s cut more jobs.
let’s take away trains.
let’s take away planes.
let’s cut the arts.

let’s cut all that makes us think and be smart.
let’s cut anything that helps us use our hearts.
let’s cut the cutters who create the cuts.
let’s cut all those high paying jobs for the poor.

after all that is what the middle class is for.
let’s cut the green jobs for our future.
dismantle the unions who hold our bleeding sutures.
let’s cut all of this and then cut some more.

for China will soon pass us their offering plate.
these cuts are far too late to the starting gate.
greyhounds can’t catch the rabbit who is long gone.
as the Terracotta Army waits patiently for its pawn.