Suppose Potentate Theory is true for a moment. It would mean that the Presidency was a step down for Donald Trump, a way of showing who was fooling with you/us. A Titanic and mythic hombre has stepped downwards from the land of invisible largesse and blessed this mess with his tweets, a sort of human contact tour from Mt. Olympus, at least on the level of chronic media occupy. There is after all copious corroboration, and not just the billionaire dollar rooms off-Brooklyn left empty for decades as tax write-offs and legendary justification for street hustler nihilism. He has the distinguished people of North America all teamed up with him through trickle down style Dante circles of ambition for the big kill in the sky. Turning friend on friend in the name of country, the style of Reagan, is nothing now. Yesteryear’s greedy rock stars feasting on the perils of fans held fugitive from ruthless exterminators that facebook can just barely summon the courage to call human traffickers, almost a badge of humanity compared to what they really are, have had their belchfest. 2018 and laugh with Bulbar Syndrome.
If Potentate Theory is true, then the rune: Acknowledgement to D.T. under the expression, “this night wounds time,” on King Crimson’s album Starless and Bible Black was not a legend to Dylan Thomas whose Under Milkwood the phrase, “under the coal black, sloe black, starless and bible black, fishing boat bobbing sea,” comes from, but rather what it scared me as being, a veiled reference to the murder of Dean Tierno that summer of 1974 while I was in Poplar Bluff, Missouri, by the droogs of Nicky Dibarno who held me in Kings Estate in a paper bag breathing a gin shop slag. I shrugged it off at the time because my mother didn’t canonize me as the lyrics by Palmer-James read, to the contrary, she hated me and has never been able to conceal it, but I didn’t realize they meant my adoption by Gail Burstyn, who called me her “chosen brother” and said, “I disowned you but now I am going to write you back into my will,” seething about a letter of sorrow I sent her having had trust the Jews beaten into my head, to which her agency replied, “I liked your last letter so much I think I am going to have it framed.” School Administration fell over themselves yammering, “That doesn’t mean!” They ran panting through the halls, voting Hillary, shouting in party streamers, “That doesn’t mean! That doesn’t mean!” They will read that and say all innocence, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It doesn’t mean that Spike Lee was networked through Mike Seate and Kyra Schon the George Romero and Hollywood when he hired goons that are spitting archetypes of the Cartieri who shot Dean Tierno and all but shot me. He wasn’t networked to the thumb and index finger poacher of monetarism in the film Network, and Sal’s remark about Donald Trump in Do The Right Thing wasn’t a suggestion that Spike Lee and Trump were buddy buddy about putting a Black picture on the wall in their diversion around Mt. Desert Island which was going on under the wizard’s curtain of Do the Right Thing’s release. Or does it? Potentate Theory says it does. Potentate Theory says that my being attacked at Vento’s Pizza by an armed mob of klansman across the street from where I went to Nursery School and Pathfinder Books, where Sherlock and Schugar Bear lived was arranged by the Donald Finnegan crowd of Highland Park behind the Texas Schoolbook as a typical act of that lewd, despicable punk we have the gall to have elected Mr. President. D.F. are the signifiers for failure grades. D.G. is the signifier for 47 Ronin, the patient avengers of Schlicklgruber Hitler whose namesake Donald Gruber humiliated me by spreading the word that Pittsburgh Medicine had lanced my penis and queerbait pees with forked prong. There’s a fork in the road and one of the lanes is as marked as the path found in Dallas.
Donaldo Gulligan, the baritone singer in California in 1987 on the road to Mt. Desert Island made a big, poacher bray about validation of the wrongs of the world. Trump and Diamonda Galas whose namesake called me to announce the fake news about Lennon in 1980, were together on Gulligan’s Mt. Desert Island decree. The Blacks were gonna get rich blaming the white suck. They tsk their naughty fingers at me for being idealistic, but I’m entitled to be appalled. How in the world did they find queers willing to hide the truth about AIDS for money? Potentate Theory says that Elton John and his smashed bottle lyricists Peners Gabriel and Sinfield knew all along, since before Love Field in Dallas, when the bloody racing glove of Sgt. Peppers welcomed the Ruling Stones.
You would think the vermin of State of Washington would have been grateful. I hitchhiked from Pittsburgh to St. Louis trying to organize a resistance. I put my life at risk. One of their stupid, far out, white chivalry toting strutters made off with my fiance, a beaut, at the roulette wheel of neurology fraud, but instead his classmate in the Greens who murdered my dad poisoned me in the mouth and called it staving off the apocalypse brought on by those who used global warming as a false flag for the AIDS attack, announcing validation of the victims. They went around whispering, spiritually you are really with us!
Today was my 58th birthday, October 20, 2018. If somebody reads this and gets back to me that they have it would be my finest present.