Hey Mista Brey....

here's my 43 cents worth on the question...the thing is you have to read this continuously for full effect...K?

Bastard Nation is the last great spiritual revolution of the second Millennium....Gulp!!! Open Wide.... it is the politics of aversion and the principles of careful codification of nuance and neglect in the ongoing die-A-Lectic of the hitherto chosen ones... a wafer thin solution to unswerving parallel plutonium "child centered" principles in the post nuclear age.

BN is your interpretation of these words.

A singular unified presence of like-minded individuals who share the common uniqueness of being something "other" by definition of legal status adoption.

Bastard Nation has no identity. Like Godhead. Like the measurements of deep space before Chronos, or Joey siph Campbell for that matter. Or Auntie MATTER. for that matter. Or no matter in some matters.

Bastard Nation is Oedipus before his retinas snapped. Or the Harley Davidson that Pamela Lee Anderson rode through some ring of fire in a Hollywood movie. Or the BARB E Q, we all thought we were going to before we discovered the mosquitoes and the bright smell Tide left in our clothes...mmm...

Bastard Nation is all and it is nothingness.

It is Sartre, Foucault, Goethe, Rilke, Barthes, Camus, Doestoevsky, Paul, Peter, John, Jesus, Lloyd Bridges before Corpus Christi, a bleeding grey blood suit bag in a Florida Everglade, Spaulding Grey Swimming to Kamchatca after his Dinner With Claude Van Damme, before the Woosters and lofty like Hamlet... it is the first definition of the first dawn of the first summer of Sumer, ...it is a paper cutter in a social services office in downtown Baltimore, sometime on the Sunday visiting sunshine mid April, l996... it is the cannibalistic vigor of the ancient Mayan religion of Olmec, and the floating raft of Medusa. It is the paranoid delivery of once great major league speed ball pitcher, say a Ryan. Or a vast fleet of stars, say Orion. Or an integer of electrical impulse say an ion...or a Captain of the Quarks, or a James JO-jo’s cykick Allegiance, Joycian novella-like, running on empty, Jackson browne, songs from my past antagonizing a frenzied revelation of minor warrior like proportions... It is all of the above and none of the below, as is, as was, will be, without, inside, a blastocyst of nude fleshy ambivalence...and further poor spelling habits. Grammar. Fuck! (Another one for D.P.)

It is the first phoneme we heard.

Its the moment the curtain was pulled back and the big brown roving eyes of bliss, gratitude, and serenity bid on love. My love, our love, the nurturing older woman sleeping beside me, rollicking we were, in laughter, like some hours earlier, like a Milleresque beaten queen, laughing at our seclusion, drugged in ether, “down with me..” she says “now!”...smelling my favourite beard, loving me, why me? She could have had Moses...she picked my floppy disco jaded white ass...Bastard I say....Nation I say...marching out into the cool winter pick up hockey game, slumming the thoughts of this new found nation....in the smell of torment I smelled me a rat....and da' rat says, poetry first, and Bastard next...be a nation when you get loved....so I did.

My love. Our love, this bastard. This torrent of geo-diversity on the playground. I asked some woman once if she was my mother for a joke. For a joke.
As I was lying beside her .
"Well...?"

No answer, is the Nationality of remorse. Cuz it's fucked up. Cuz it's fraid of us...of our stamped wings. Of our curly wurleys in the Saskatoon evenings.

Basterd. A little fucking, fucking Bastard!!!!
BASSTTTARRRRRDDDDD!!!!!!!
It's a nationless Bastardy piece of prose....example...

The man behind the counter clenched his teeth as the silver gloss fraction of a nanosecond exploded what logic before he handed the killer the keys...some symbols, of value...as he squeezed out his second to last breath, his last words being....

"Son of a ....bastard!"

I'm gittin off topic, which happens from tome to tome...back to the linguistic jump rope of the definition of the words ....Bastard and Nation, together...again...ahh, Estrogon? Lucky?! is that you?

Of course I speak for myself, as though I need to remind my self that.. Just so we don’t get the wrong guy at the trial. Yup me and Joeseph K we been tried in the same court. Well different rooms same epoch. You ever read Kafka? That is pure Bastard Nation! Or Ralph Ellison, he was a bastard. One of the best!! He lived in the nation. Bertolt Brecht. BN survivor, and definer. German head smacker, chainsmoker, poverty activist, theatre guy. Terry Fox, the one legged Canadian Runner. He had Nation in his blood.

Bastard Nation does not exist.

This is a plea for non existence!?

Bastard Nation will refuse all handouts, all Alms, all orphan Annies, and Trains and Brandos whose racist, sexist bullshit won't wipe the sweet sorry ass of an American Buffalo, no thanks to D. Mamet, and all glare from the goofy footlights of deceptive evening wear....and on and on and on and...To think Brando refused an Oscar for native american rights, who is he fooling? Mr. Dressup?

Oh, yeah, here is the statement....

What is Risk but uncalculated Fortune. I just made that up. Or how about this one. “I will swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but....”

Bastard Nation is the anatomy of all things evil, equal, excitable, exacting, and easy. It is the frost on the window on a cold Boulder Co., morning.... It is the dazzling parade of lights that cascade from a Northern sky on an open prairie, sometime ago. I recall.

Bastard Nation is a mythical place. A place of refuge, and healing, and wisdom and nurturing. A place where wolves cry Peter tend my flock I tarry...and the heroes of wicca rebel. BN is a epistemological quandary. It is blasphemous. It is feminist, and masculinist. It is a sorry violinist standing beside the I-5, playing Dvoric, while the asphalt deepens from the certain summer weight of cedar and red oak being rocketed by via some 18 wheel Weyhauser agenda. "Rollin' rollin' rolling'...."

It is the private corporate boardroom, where the VPs and Party executives trade parting shots long before the war on wisdoms belongs in the quantum physical space of profits, mergers, and actors for re sale game.

Bastard Nation is a concept of people, here who write statements against the immortality Act, circa, 1973 South Africa, apartheid. Bastard Nation is a hollywood with a vision, a Wall Street with shower, a papal picnic without leading edge security folding chairs, a Winston Stalk car without the filters...the sounds of the oval cacophony, a fugue of infinitely regressing temperatures...all for the love of Nationhood. Nation-hold. Ahh, yes, the poser's and the power broiler's. Those who disseminate, and those who incarnate.

The right folks at the Registry. The Bastard Nation key grips. Those who help delineate the corruptness to our Nation state. Those who paint the colours on the fuselage before the turbines say...”look out carrier pigeons, Gideon's got nothing on these winged immortals...”

So it comes to pass, and piss, and the pace of sanctity just went nuclear. To trust with love.

Bastard Nation was a stale piece of bread. A broken coke bottle. A mirror. A reprehensible strategy of assimilation. It’s this. And me, and tho'....

For now....
And...

Bastard Nation is the least bit of difference associated with the free form poetics of post intellectualism with a fanatical tinge...best viewed in the Spring time. Bastardy.

There's more on this rant, little said enough...

And so our little euphemistic eulogy to the question....”what is Bastard Nation?” comes to a screeching latent steep and subtle....sticky in places...you know...you can feel it, just can't get to the end.

Me.
I.
A shadow of doubt...
Bombastic Nation of Beautiful Bastards