A dozen or so people who either love and admire me or consider it acceptable enough to be asked to receive my dispatches have suffered some fraying of the nerves due to my experience of having been attacked blindside as a child, been ravenously tortured by a cult led by King Crimson, betrayed by some people who got real close, poisoned in the heart and this latter fact lately aggravated by double beats due to discovery that a medicine being used to treat the cause of diabetes has complications; the result is that I write too quickly, send too soon, for ingrained and unshakable feelings that any moment could be my last. Into this chronic mistake came a letter only too welcome, the happiest I have been to receive words from someone since Martha Gellhorn penned me a letter from Belize in 1990, a word from her equal Julia Fennell of the CCAC Honors Department commending me for my poem and its delivery at the Spring Honors Ceremony. Were the circumstances better for my confidence going forward, I would save the text of this important work for a website I hoped to build on my train to Tacoma with the skills developed in me by Prof. Ron McLeon. Instead, I am imparting what I have written as I move house and study hard for three more Final Exams this week, to the best of my power concerning the topic at hand of: Open Mic Bullies.
As a Medical Library Clerk in 1984 on whom a nerve agent had been used in childhood, I have followed the AIDS attack from the beginning and investigated the manuvoeurs of those responsible, following them many directions in securing a foothold for public awareness that it was planned from the days that JFK was used to illustrate the idea of a reversal of fortunes for the FDR power base in the United States. It upsets me and is very grim to report that many of the actions of this combine are local. The Community College of Allegheny County has always been correct in making anti-racism a part of our educational mission but the Confederate opposition who gained control of police society through the power of prison gangs, a power so great that our Corrections textbook admits that Texas has fallen from within, are also large groups who have wealth and science at Carnegie Mellon, manipulating our civic leaders, particularly the NAACP, by status dreams and petty rivalries. I doubt our front will hold, but I have no hesitation in being there. Among the most frightening things that I have proven irrefutably is that on the wings of the Sexual Revolution, as the 60’s have been called, the Federal power elite created a government of human trafficking, observing merchandise as we grew up in schools, hatefully lying on the tables of the record books from among old klan lines in teacher unions, guarded by the guns of the Democratic Party and sneering with the brutality of Reagan’s long arm from Hollywood. People who know what has been done to me are very aware, even those who are not very astute, of how criminally deranged Michael Reagan and his team in King Crimson are extremist closet revolutionaries. They used me to brag and taunt that no one dares say a word. Chop one up, John Stockwell recounts, and throw out the body parts as a warning.
Clearly, I have reason to be afraid of Seattle Gays. The way I was used on Mt. Desert Island is a heartbreaker for having been pulled off with the help of the Zappas who lied to everybody about everything. There is an episode of Maude where she cuts up the macho of John Wayne throughout and in the last scene he rings her doorbell and she melts into his arms, “Oh, Mr. Wayne!” The Zappas are titillated by the same tendency, and Zappa would sing insult after insult, then crow, “Yes it’s some real Pittsburgh style torture tonight,” and then chop his guitar silent and hiss, “but you all love it, don’t you!” and they would cheer. There is nothing to love. The Zappas have created a justification for Seattle Gays to kill me, and they rippered Shannon Harps to death to illustrate their intention. They say I insulted them. Oh, well. My sister saw me when mechanics were hired to kidnap me in stolen cars and otherwise play between the soundtracks of tapes from Bell Labs executing orders off-camera behind my father’s back. She said however that the only time she ever saw me truly boiling mad was after Mt. Desert Island. It was on behalf of Queers, in fury at how they had been wronged, yet the stupid Gays of Seattle backed the people behind Mt. Desert Island to the hilt, and jeered while I was subjected to endless nightmares of sadism.
It seems very mysterious, but it isn’t. The authors of the script, some of it penned by Gail Burstyn and Greg Karl, were involved with Sean Strub, who gave the Lennon Brothers their ticket to ride on the excuse of pretending to be a leader of Queers with AIDS. Like the buddha who set himself on fire in Saigon, the willingness to take AIDS voluntarily, claiming a mandate from the Fab Four, after being filmed outside the Dakota with Mark David Chapman, made Strub the champion of Sir Paul McCartney’s dirty, deadly liars club, as Peter Gabriel wrote the magical, mystery alibi for Mt. Desert Island which I have proven a thousand times cold blooded lies. Meanwhile, Reagan and Robert Fripp sent in agents to threaten murder over a penny at the microphone of poetry readings and other cheap thrills, a fact I will return to, once it is all in proper context for you.
As our Corrections textbook says, quite clearly and truthfully, as it is for all bosses of prison gangs, up to the Texas Governor who had Ralph Tive at the desk of Milton Shapp and manipulated my father into penning a screed about Gov. George Leader shortly before science delivered daddy to his grave for the Green Party parochials, so it is with Peter Gabriel, a ripper hatter, and his Trojan warlord Ringo Starr, (for as invisible as it was too me when Gabriel was writing to me for years, Ringo Starr is always at his side); for them, as all prison gangsters, a snitch is more odious, more dishonorable, more undesirable, more to be hated than a child molester, nay, more than a gang of child molesters. For the Foreign English, in fact, snitching on Kennedy’s assassins, who had their ring-leadership among Hitler’s friends in Liverpool, Oswald Mosley and others loyal to King Edward VIII, I made myself so spurned as a lamplighter in the darkness of evil hour that they wasted no time or resource in manipulating our schools and media outlets in Pittsburgh and Seattle (to say nothing of the NAACP) from their control towers in New York media, to elevate, extol, advance and encourage child molesters in violent acts of terror and revenge, all while Peter Gabriel masqueraded as being from Amnesty International. The stomach cannot handle the infamy and I will not ask you to try. Through his wiles, Sean Lennon and Rusted Root came to bat for Gail Burstyn.
In those days the Jewish Community who knew about Burstyn all along were promoting me as a joke and what had been done to me, with ripper barbarism as a child in terrible fear, as a joke, men with names like Exler, living on streets with names like Clyde, because machine intelligence was heavily amused by the web being spun, eager to destroy my name while uploading the deranged. Pittsburgh and Seattle society made a mockery of their own heritage and estate, as if it were all so to be expected, how could anyone think otherwise? Even in high school, the local kids all changed our lovely motto: “Know Something, Do Something, Be Something”, to “Smoke Something”, and that suited the Foreign English just fine.
Ringo Starr put into spin the idea that Mark David Chapman was “the man whose name cannot be uttered,” so that when Cynthia Lennon teamed up with Greg Karl and Greg Starsinic in “constructing a persona” through lies about my identity and doings, they could hire New York media to enforce ripper silence to the ends of persecuting me as the man who “cudda saved John Lennon,.” Why did he do it this way? To deny me the right to confront my accuser.
The deviants of this heist on our national estate have advertised themselves proudly as a Liars Club, operating with gangs trained by Cirque de Soleil. They tortured me and exploited neuro-hypnosis. They justified making a real rape film of my deaf advocate’s tragedy for their Sotheby’s collection. They slandered me to allow them make good on castration, but I promised not to nauseate you needlessly with the mind of Peter Gabriel, in his syphilis. Suffice it to say they are anthrax-happy.
It’s never been proven that Lennon even died to my satisfaction. Where is the body? Why all that talk before hand about doubles and fantasy? Why did the Foreign English take up so stridently with his killers in deranged deceits? How did a key vanish, pop right out of my hand? Why did the attorneys who Pitt and Reagan chose to bulwark Gabriel’s lies about the Island and pad the slanders used to control Seattle Queers, who bellowed at me, “Don’t ask us to distrust our shot-callers on high!” have me in D.C. with a wing of Pentagon Disney from Pittsburgh on the day Reagan claims he was shot? The master of Hollywood used all it so secretly and effectively looking to sell that victims should side with Hitler.
Sorry, I need the proof. I had nothing to do with it, and yet they murderously violated me and Gail Burstyn went free. The steady theme in what the Foreign English do and how they proceed is to get up close by claiming friendship to administer the backknife, the threats some in nicely written letters of conjobs, while people in the wings drop dead mysterious-like. They wage trench war against free speech in the name of their own, even threatening children, spreading no end of evil, without remorse, to incite hate, point fingers at innocent people while beckoning the terrorist and the depraved, all while hissing, “I love you, man.”