Bedlam holds us hostage by the accomplice spread by denial.  The magnitude of forgotten lines of narrative-discovery found in the esoteric circle operating out of University of Pittsburgh cuts me down with wearying losses.  This is not education.  This is clairvoyant war.  Police, Administrators and educators in the Tri-State region evidently enjoy reading of the serial depravity, knowing it to be true, feeding on the certainty that help never came, privately gurgling their cynical satisfaction, having incubated a creation in cold-blood worse than Stalinist Russia.  The impunity to do something this criminal was advertised by the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and has its origin not only in right wing derision but also because leaders of the Democratic Party found it convenient to name a child, too good to believe for the role, as rightfully selected for a common enemy.  I remember now the dark stare, smoldering hostility in the Vice Principal of Fulton Elementary’s eyes when she advised me without congratulations of my high I.Q.  in sixth grade.  I gulped as though being given terrible news and didn’t know why.

    The facts in the case involve crossing power lines of celebrity, class and politics in such a way that their declaration induces fatalism and lowers the likelihood of being taken for what it is.  For such a sharp-witted gal as my old mother, who married the parochial opponent of her ex-husband, my dead father upon whom she wreaked revenge through me, to play oblivious with denial is conspicuous.  My mother knew; she is a hard-boiled sadist towards me and the first witness for the defenders of gang lying, heaping scorn and derision on my petty condition as her lifelong slave to a shrouded series of attacks, deliberate misdirection, and the agony of suppression by false witness, originating within the home.   No one was taken in, everyone here all wanted to play dumb, and consecrate the sacrilege.  My mother tells an old story from time to time how Hitchcock’s film based on the Robert Bloch novel Psycho was in the theaters while I was in the womb and she says that’s why she wouldn’t go.  How it stings in the seance of many parables focusing on abortion in the era it was first under consideration as a prospective new law.  

      There are a lot of reasons why no one will help me or love me.  Big name ripper hatter Peter Gabriel contacted the Post-Gazette and my college Honors Department many, many years ago when taking custody of noxious claims for them.  To date me would mean having the snarling Sisters of Mercy launch a blood-curdling whisper campaign against the offending woman, with voices from Heinz Museum and WQED snickering with hatred, oh you’re the girlfriend of the guy whose dick Peter Gabriel cut off, because that’s what really happened.  I even have diabetes now from the malicious medical malpractice and hospital violence he authored in his punishment rampage for trying to get warning out.  It’s a death sentence to my welcome.  One can just hear the gurgle of satisfaction at WQED where Matt Marcus started it all with libels, rumors that Peter Gabriel took up as cat calls, smearing his derision and libels over a broken deaf child with neuroplastic head trauma and bulbar syndrome, to name a few, hissing that my guilt was being in the dark.  About what?  About what you will deny while hurling spitballs of blame.

       This essay is to settle once and for all that King Crimson was a mission of foreign terrorism, which most people took for affable delirium meant to be heard as though it was pot-smoke curling downwind from tremendously talented schizophrenics.  Robert Fripp organized a gangster culture created by the AIDS situation as a self-declared jurisdiction Council bellowing that I should be judged invisibly by super-cronies of John Lennon and murdered by extreme cruelty in the name of their chosen AIDS victim groupies.  Part of their Academy was the 911 demonstration of Pink Floyd’s grip on the thunderdome.   The action said clearly by anthrax, do not judge lest you be judged, because the rippers have a nuclear idea to settle if anyone comes between Queen Elizabeth and her hostage American little Prince, the insignificant one who you asked to pay.  Hitchhiking from Pittsburgh to St. Louis just to hear that cut-throat weasel Robert Fripp prance around in a free record shop with his musical pulings, the summer after I graduated from high school, only added to my status as a laughingstock.  The British iconoclasts recognize their hatter spree as ink oil, they brag of their alliance with Gail Burstyn and Leslie Katz, who set upon my name through WQED after I was horrifically held hostage and mutilated as a child, and they call this their glorious history.

      The union grins at me with hatred and snickers, “Whose pen is that you are using?”   Each detail of their rhapsody contains a tale within a tale, assembled as a series of parables, what Greg Karl referred to as “a bewildering myriad of surface details” describing fundamentalist thinking, and this is how Lennon’s ghost from Pentagon-Disney is said to have won the war.  Identifying me as an omen child who Yoko Ono and Black gangsters would mutually deride with suspicion and hostility, Pittsburgh made a burnt offering to the tribe.  Yoko Ono says the Museum mafia with approval, is supposed to be disturbing.   Their theme is to play the manner of my murder out against public recognition with the morale that even if people finally get disgusted enough to let me sue, I won’t live to enjoy it.  For the Jim Carrey surrealists at work


$ > law.     


   The hypocrisy is so deadly it is like a plastic explosive going off.   Pittsburgh’s NAACP supplied the devious deemings of the churchly, sneering that what they had to blackmail me with was klan actionable, not even pretending to hide their alliance with the Ku Klux Klan.   By establishing a reverse token to immolate, a white innocent to pay by a script to bring them all together and bind them, they followed the story of Frank Herbert’s Katsuk in his novel Soul Catcher.   Ralph Proctor of WQED, assured the blessings of Teamsters, Peter Gabriel, Colin Powell, who is a buddy of Fripp, and various local Black mavericks on the beat, bulwarked by J. Edgar Wideman, gave me a glimpse of the magnitude of the grudge he evidently claimed needed African purge, thus springing on me by the Imperial Wizard of Oz the use to which I was certifiably put in tribal allegiance to the old powers of Apartheid, making new deals with Blacks in Hollywood for a new age.   Dennis Brutus, a crony of Nelson Mandela, was on hand when WQED, Ming Na Wen and Carnegie Mellon extruded the death sentence used not to explain how I was carnivorously devoured by child smut operators working from the Museum Mafia, but to extend congratulations to the porn industry in capturing a sea lion.   I said the unsanitary refrain I was garbled up with in child trauma, which was caught on tape to the malicious glee of Ono’s racketeers, it was deemed so unsanitary that they roared approval and derision, it was planned by brainwashing and set to the tune of so much Federal hilarity that it was pronounced a revelation by God Almighty.

      Pepper on the brain, Claude Brown might have said.

      My writings about the situation in the 80’s contained some passing mention about the idea that making America great again meant summoning up the Peace Corps vision and in answer from those barricading us in to prevent non-lethal intervention in the world around us, I was told oh very good I would serve as they laced up the situation in such a way as to pit me against their deadly intentions and allow them to take my life’s work in synchronized war games unfolding as their seance.   For the city and school it was more convenient job-wise to let them just subject me to absolutely terribly mistreatment, worse than torture.   Meanwhile my stepfather, John L. of Mark Mark crossroads, who described himself as a “trained Medieval scholar,” arranges the tunes for Umberto Eco’s pendulum that crows, “damn it still hurts,” as well it might when they aren’t addressing the real problem; such that I need to match wits with the arcane symbolism of Nabokov, a white Russian, to grapple with (as you lose the grip) the insane authority authoring war on America from inside the cryptic intellectual dungeons of the Bureau of Prisons, who ran out of space and patience with what NASA assures them is over-crowding on earth.  Gail Burstyn hissed the Beatles’ refrain:  “Thanks for opening my mind/not enough,” a bloodless call and response.

      Play like this is schizophrenia.  Play like summoning Muhammed Ali wasn’t just exactly the sort of tripe and politics that Fripp and Eno have always used to wow.

      Yoko Ono launched a superwave of malice from her pitiless, hideous children and their sympathizers that ruthlessly demolished our society’s first principles, and unfortunately, implacably, this was planned, as certainly as Rushdie and Milano Kundera’s precious The Joke.   Gail Burstyn declared the intent to supply “X-amples,” as Greg Karl sniped, “the persona is subjected to successive degradations of the X-motive,” emphasis added for having been long ignored, while the murderers openly plied a pussyball war game of racial eugenic scheming, as just like Bernard Goetz, a different Bernard looked at his victim and said savagely, “you don’t look so bad, have another one (ie. bullet).”  Klan actionable, they seethed, talking over the closure they offer, the closure of devourers.

       What a performance by Pentagon-Disney.  There is a scene just like the one offered up by Aaron Dixon in Seattle from the Nazi film Der Suss where everyone laughs as the worm cried out, “Let me live, let me live, I want to live.”

       I am a poet who could have been a model, a teacher, any number of things, put to use and then to death by snarling women, spider women, hyena women, who eye me still with their last licky chops.   Damaged with severe intent, I am used by speculators on our nation’s heritage, who claim to be protecting me, really from themselves.   As the British engage in digital mud-wrestling to promote the sour deeds of the authors behind the book from Pittsburgh titled, Sexual Self-Destruct the Conscience of the West we are treated to the Royal Family’s dissonant and nasal pronouncement that it was top sacredly secret love.  Boko Harem has nothing on Pittsburgh’s branch of Neva Corporation.

     How low; and it’s all right here in the semiotics I unearthed that they won’t let me teach my school.