One of the girls at school asked me if I were given a week to live how would I spend it and what do I think people will say at my funeral or what would I want to them to say. There were several follow up questions I will get to as well, but it put me in the frame of mind to author a piece about my week as a writer on Death Row. The school belongs to what I call The Praxis Generation, a sincere group new to higher learning whose philosophy and orientation centers not on political correctness as a stricture but on sincere open-mindedness and the power of listening. It’s impressive. A wise man in Chinatown told me it is always impressive to find young people open to learning about the hardships of the past visited upon other nations. I hope our society and global community arrives at and finds something to cherish with this Praxis Generation.
One cannot mention Chinatown these days without thinking of the unresolved matter of the death of Donnie Chin by gunfire through no fault of his own. The death of Donnie Chin has two attendant invitations; one, the dominant mode: an invitation to construct an agency without historic detail. The second is to evaluate it as a possible sequence of the chapterhouse I have written about in such extreme situations as the slasher murder in Capitol Hill of Shannon Harps. While I suspect NWAsian Weekly, who have printed me on this topically, prefer the first sort of rumination, I am writing on the second, more likely to be suppressed, but ultimately, I fear, more likely to be truth. Aside from the forensic dialectic of Warren Commission variety, the storyline leans towards sinister lure into an execution by a practice by the very stupid and destructive. Make no mistake, this destruction is very stupid.
The NWAsian Weekly leans heavily towards Asian unity in its digest as a theme of re-balancing the inequity of discrimination but restorative bias can be a curtain of conscription behind which many things can be hidden. The ideas I espouse have credibility because I say they do and NW Asian don’t dare notice the demagogy from Davis of Dixon or it’s contempt for the victim in Dallas, Texas (D.T.). Long ago the entire City of Pittsburgh offended the spirit of JFK and their University’s Chair of Philosophy for Education. Offending the Chair required certain upstart majestics like the local Bebe Rebozo/Bill Mazeroski, touting his hometown masculinity from Westmoreland County with the likes of Mel Gibson’s father and Wesley Posvar Chancellor who authored Reagan’s FEMA doctrines. Led by the Traitor Reagan they had great fun shooting down an Iranian jetliner in a Frippian call-and-response mirroring my letter of near suicidal levity in dissent and gallows humor stating of blackmail by organized pedophiles who held me hostage as a little boy, “the letter arrived by crow,” bringing the act by Admiral Crowe out of The White House dungeon lair. I was at Pitt News which in those days William F. Buckley watched like a hawk.
Hillary Clinton declared me a Death Sentence when Vince Eirene, a kiddie porn hustler, pimped illegal tapes internationally of me gurgling under holocaust neurohypnosis, a Brecherism of Oswald the Rabbit incantation in retort to Peter Shell’s mirror trigger nod from the authors of what Caissa Douwes called, “a scribble on the brain,”, “yeah sure, tied her up and porked her with a carrot,” after pallbearing at the funeral of a Jewish holocaust community member Lou Brecher (Lube Wrecker) (I was deep in grief) a man from the name game symphony that included Nester Van Sickle, a neighbor of Peter Leo, the mind jester of the secret war game hatched at the Pittsburgh Post Kzet. This led to a long ordeal of seizures in terrifying homelessness during the landscape of such events as the Branch Davidian tragedy and dispatch of Timothy McVeigh. Many people noted my hapless centrality, most notably Yoko Ono’s museum attorney Amanda Harcourt who summoned British defenders for the cult behind the AIDS attack, laughing that the Broadway cast of HAIR (always MK-Ultra) approved the abortion of James Crary for Franklin Graham’s militia stand at Pitt, while Penis Gabriel, the recording star, depicted me in stealth without I.D., a fetish of his, for a mirror snipe at Jesus, conceived by British Prog-rock as an HIV injection item put into the stove of special sacridity and supra-moral gaming in a zero-sum totality of Pink Floyd Reaganomics.
The secret that this was planned came out in the shadowy doing of Michel Foucault, easily descried from his Ivy League uploads, and time-consuming detonation plans. Believe it or not, every teacher even at my new school were too busy announcing their agency as tonic-bearers of the new understanding to protest and as surprised and heartbroken as I still am that the 60’s went along with the AIDS attack the violence of the attackers led by Ringo Starr didn’t give me many moments of reflection to waste on crying. So was the murder of Donnie Chin another one of CMU’s pranks? Is the secret that Ming Na Wen’s gang bumped him off to put a shadow on me? That one won’t be easy to clear the air of, and the reason is a street called Wenzell.
Having met Wen through Michael Mullin, the name of an Admiral while attending Mellon University, before she worked for Oliver Stone and did the voice for Mulan (Mullin, Mellon, Mulan), graduating from a college that bragged, “We ate your brain,” and our gamers wasted your Honors student, in Pennsylvania who matched me as roommates with a namesake or possibly even the man who led Obama’s Afghanistan ground operations, Lou Leto, in whose room I got a call from “Dia” Douwes of Der Mond circle when Lennon Pentagon-Disneyed his signal for, “Clean-Up Time,” and Ono’s grab on our nation’s history. Wen set me up to sell what Zell did on Mt. Desert Island as acting out my personal disgrace in a program of illegal scared straight suppedly to build empathy for the doublecrossed, but really, to make money for the killers. You would have to know this story to see the team-mate system at work in Mona Charon’s call-and-response, pseudo-adversarially, with the monster Trump. Charon and Penis Gabriel stalked me with vicious lampoon of their raid on my marriage bed from a theater marquis in Montana when Gellhorn wrote.
There are reasons why nobody should buy what Paul McCartney is selling. The language culture makes clear a primary set of talking points in Bush-Lennon’s metamagical opus. One, I was chosen as an heir apparent to the legacy of FDR, even birthed and named into that plot coding by Crary/Moore (of Wichita). It was a chance for the Old Confederacy to get Blacks on their side doing to a white liberal little boy what the Apartheid government found too distasteful to even do to Mandela, poison the brain to manufacture humiliation. It was production of the barking mad genius behind prog rock set to hate blacks by showing what they would do to a white who tried to defend them, all while cheering and bribing them, calling it proof they are men, not sissies. The Ronalds of Fulton mini-district symbolically kidnapped me in a stolen Lincoln Continental that thanks to the NAACP I would never escape, after blindsiding me on the streetside Ford theater of the Ford Brothers who signed me up at the Federal building as a child for a social security number beginning: 1984, deafening me in deep pit out Coal Hollow called Sir V (Cervi/x) reading me, “Why Not Swop?” and impacting a terrible nerve agent at Tove’s Tavern near Hebron Cemetery. It was an open secret that the venom unleashed by Robert Fripp’s terrible violence was neurohypnosis targeting a head wound within that they put there in alliance with Ian Wattenmaker whose comments to me even claimed the fate of my death by gunfire when I was nine years old and he was telling me about Yad Vashim, all while they assigned Gail Burstyn of MisterRogers Neighborhood and the incredible civic packaging provided by Black Horizons TV.
Another thing about BroPaul: the lout who called the release of AIDS “real love”, is that the language culture at work included an alliance with Brian Milnes at CMU looping Saul Brecher’s child bukkake tip offs like, “put a muzzle on it,” and “put a bag on her head,” (Mancine, who shared a story of special News operations first on the Fox because they staged the hit) with Andrea Swimmer’s jingos that semen chews are for protein, all wired up for translation-like to her loverboys at Warhol, Branch Davidia, Wilkinsburg and the Chinese Government, courtesy Granger Morgan, using my name for his doings as a hapless hoping to send me to prison on a case of mistaken identity.: Allah most illicit, another mind game from Adam Eisenstat, Incorporated at Celeron Books near the museum, husky Jewish boys disguising their ventriloquism as “Abdul the Terrorist.” Poor little Jimmy, Stone says really wanted something. Together, he and his natural born killer, Andrea Swimmer, transferred the baggage of her self-abuse onto the escape behaviors of little Jimmy, and Fripp provided the tape loops of the doctrine that I am lying. He said his game was the antidote needed to take care of a parasite.
Fripp of course is a swami of sacred effervescences and any advanced course in the study of Donnie Chin’s murder would have to take the barometer style of his readings of Jimmy Creary’s panic stricken response to persecution by the AIDS empire posing as victims, including some human torches, as swami nostra nostrums that might have had the killers laughing up their sleeves when they came as mourners to pay their respects for providing British Labor a weapon of implying that I am the jinx. After all, there’s still an emotional settlance in my having been chemically castrated of involuntary erections by their smear campaign; the humanist lives, on the Satan thread of viagara. Donnie Chin, they deemed, would hafta do.
Pittsburgh and their love sadism shock jock control freak behind the gonzo presentation of the staged and phony intercept mode named Penis J. Sinfield of SONY never missed a chance to play his pro-Nazi German war game of “Wear Your Horns Proudly. The crime committed in advocacy for Pitman and Katz, the huns who gassed me and then rubbed my face in it, by the rabid monster Celine Dion who pays Penis Sinfield to tribune her lies, is highly erasure dependent, for all their mentalplex scrounging for a leer. I’ve narrowed down a lot of the scrutiny involved in this culture to a study of their language circuitry about which they are so bold. Despite the fact that Ultrahigh weapons capable of inner thought broadcast are an assault on Our Honor As Americans, Queen Elizabeth (QE) has authorized it with the help of Donald Trump (D.T.) and Mellon Bank. They’re doing a lot you don’t know.
Al Souma of Seattle Central Community regards my intelligence as psychosis, citing my warnings about human sacrificialism being practiced by Seattle museum mafia gangs from Capitol Hill in line with Yoko Ono before the confirmatory murder of Shannon Harps. Lee Gutkind, whose department hired Alpana for the good-kind of Blacks at Aztek styled Artek the Salk Labor gang who locked me in a kitchen with Kasper, the hun who tortured and gassed me as a little boy, darling of Celine Dion (Alpana went ahead and seduced me to secure Obama’s “wheel defense” of Reagan’s X-tremism in the name of Midori Goto, starlet of the Texas Schoolbook script, a satire on liberal empire), Gutkind, I said, felt the same way as Souma. When Martha Gellhorn wrote to me he was adamant that she had made some sort of mistake. The letter was of course taken from me by force.
In pondering the recent and related sacrificial murder of Alina Sheykhet by Black Lives Matters it was interesting that it hailed from the Branch Davidian sect in Pittsburgh aligned with WQED’s darlings like Mike Seate at Tribune Review, sporting his Tupac Shakur jersey and wearing his horns proudly in another act so low that it is incomprehensible, like the prying at my plans to marry by loutish Black Christians on the job sabotaging my testimony of torture to protect Zell’s war game while depicting me as dangerous, dangerous. Although the paradigm of murdering a white is confirmatory it is a perverse gesture of gratifying the true killers which is clearly intended as new pretext demanding more, but you can’t get around the violence of gratification. As Dr. Ralph Proctor said, “It’s enough that Obama was Black to vote for him.” The entire upload by the attackers took cognizance of such sentiment. Obama had Queer Seattle raving his name, but you all love it, don’t you?
Everything we learn in school is in opposition to the mind of Britain’s King Edward who went to South America in World War Two to help his friends in the Axis. He has a good counter-attack though, in the rock and roll rank and file of men like Mick Jagger, answering, that’s nice, honeychild, just shut up and take off your pants for The Beatles.