The Report From Seattle

for July 24, 2017 is exceedingly grave. The Mayor is being dismissed over accusations of sexual misconduct towards a child. The hospitals are filled with police bullies capable of any misdeed, and the Mayor's resignation represents not an anomaly, but the condition of Administration on every level throughout the courts, the general establishment and the offices of resource, containing the manufacturing activity and world market target centers of the carefree and independently wealthy; the artists on the block have their tongues twisted around their heads from years and years of glowering deceit and the usual poverty fills the ranks not with hope, not with despair but with the tungsten of murder. Not one single person, anywhere here, has the slightest intention ever of squaring up or doing anything brave. It is as though their tongues have utterly foreclosed in their mouths. In Aaron Dixon's neighborhood not one black barrista, not one woman hoping for a husband and children, not one of the Angela Davis copycats thinking with her fists and hissing, "I don't owe you anything," from the attention getting jet set of Black Lives Matter, not one of them knows that AIDS was an attack, has the slightest familiarity with the evidence, or could give a god damn, not one. They all of them abandoned their posts for the mockery of a sex show. Meanwhile, their so-called leaders have known for years, abandoning them to the solidarity of hopelessness, nail-biting, abandonment and the increasingly sad feelings of suicide-longing among the mentally destroyed. The distance between the people and show business that makes naming names pointless has become the vehicle for persecution by the secret state acting on behalf of our killers in the names of the invisible man. You can be arrested for speaking truth to power and indescribably betrayed for speaking truth to the powerless.

The evidence is sitting right here, irrefutably on my desk, alone, unheeded, a dizzying travesty from the era of emptiness. The rabid implicated have enjoyed letting me assemble it with the greatest of enthusiasm, conveying to me the fascination with which they will delight in seeing me "die trying" to summon awareness and assistance. The bank knows its game, laughing to the sick and dying in the margins of the streets, "he's after the money."

No one, not one single specious person, anywhere in the gazettes, the schools, the book rows, the houses, the churches, the cafes, the courts, the post office, the police station, city hall dares to say a single word, dares any gesture that might hint of bravery. It is that taboo. They go about their business, pocketing cash sums that a brutalized invalid like me could scarcely dream of, as reward for doing nothing about abomination. They have so many songs they sing which amount to the same ugly refrain, "who cares?"

The degree to which the NAACP has bombed American civics is seen in grim enormity in the city of Seattle, an alliance from Pittsburgh which has been my second home throughout this ordeal of pseudo-experiment which the assassins call their research. My voice is the centerpiece that has had to be silenced, and I have heard my nicknames as they spat at me, "you aren't special," given names like "queerbait," "pussyball," "deaf white suck" as I tried to get help from kidnapping and child mutilationists who attacked me blindside and kidnapped me, poisoned my life and mind with a nerve agent, acting as knightriders for the Ku Klux Klan in a stolen yellow Lincoln Continental driven by a man named Ronnie Goldy, subjecting me to slaughtering blows to the head one honest man in Chinatown examining the injuries years later states has led to glaucoma. He is one of the reasons I came here when follow up attacks led to diabetes. For nothing will the killers stop. Everyone knows who is leading them. Everyone pretends they don't. It is their way of having faith.

The NAACP is shockingly deranged and what they are doing to the minds of our students and the children of our public schools is a lot worse than what former Mayor Ed Murray did to his foster son. They are teaching their children to do it and gloat, to bury their victims under tongues of hatred and spite, and to deny that the NAACP is doing this is so beguiling and spineless a recourse, so heavily rewarded by applause, that our politicians are falling over each other to lie for them. The NAACP has outlawed as an act of public asbolution for the role played by silence in Our Commonwealth, giving a victim of serial mutilation their due and has vowed retaliation and damnation against anyone who suggests the slightest remorse. They call their death threats at the doorway to the Courthouse not owing anybody anything. When it comes to the NAACP in Seattle and Pittsburgh: EXPECT ORWELL, because they are lying through the teeth with the most bloodcurdling refrains; and the longer they get away with it, the more they rake in, the more sure they are they are doing it right, and that they will only secure white help and white approval by scaring people so badly they feel the presence of the assassin in the shadows of their homes. Terror works wonders in getting ahead. The weak and unarmed white is so pitiful. Call its mother. If you truly love them, they hiss, you will not dare speak up.

We know what the NAACP did to me, unsafe and confused, terrified and trying to make a scene to get attention to unspeakable acts being visited on me, as a joke because the NAACP, after years and years in Seattle trauma care, allowed me to come back after learning sign, go to school, make Honors and then dismissed me with a wave of their magic wand as a notarized invalid, but of course, of course, this was their generosity, and there is standardized diplomacy to be consider, for our Israeli friends, and the nuclear politicians agree with them, all in fun, not exactly fair play, but backed up by the museum mafia with their pedophile films in the locked room. The museums held me hostage as a child, made such films of a traumatized child barely conscious from beating and ethers, claimed I was imitating John Lennon, hoped to make a mint, and due to Pittsburgh's provincialism got a cover story going from the desk of Peter Leo at the Post Gazette while targeting me in a nerve agent injury they had impacted, glorying at the sight of self-destruction, leaving me shrieking me in the streets of faraway Seattle where the hospital extended a soft hand, appearing all benevolent, as they poisoned me in an act of extra-judicial chemical castration for the crime of reporting child mutilation. The NAACPers clambored to the microphone to shout, "He's not special!" and "How dare his pale white solipsism cry out?"

The fact that this was all a production of spite and gall by white moneybags as a demonstration project in their premise, "If you try to help black people they will only turn on you," made not one shred of difference to a single member of the lewd chorus line contracting hookers to mislead me in an agreement of 50-50, as they led the deaf white cow to the gas chamber of AIDS infection on Mt. Desert Island and only got away with it because, amidst the burning Jackson laboratories, and explosion on the USS Iowa, I raised enough holy hell that they didn't give me the virus, only diabetes, only raped my deaf advocate, only castration, and only if I cooperate. All of it straight from New York City and Carnegie Mellon where Cameron Brown of the New York Times helped organize the ripper attack on Shannon Harps in Capitol Hill as a money ultimatum from Robert Fripp, grand dragon of the Invisible Man's Empire. Nothing will work against such an alliance of slander and greed. They were playing a game of Save the Jewess. Leslie Sanetta Katz had ridiculed and cuckolded me, and in the terrible fright she visited on me in the streets where they had molested me, I penned a letter accusing her of incitement. This was called a godsend, Robert's gold.

Tacoma in Seattle is the land of suffocation and trolls. For thirty years since my school played an atrocious dirty on me for the NAACP, setting me up with a girl I loved to run riot over my broken heart and justify for themselves such prison-cop symbiosis crimes as the brutal and terroristic rape of my deaf advocate, which they dubbed the an act by the avenging angel of karma, my only solace as a semi-castrated deaf poet has been what I can make of online pornography. No one in their right mind would allow a human touch again after being used for a walrus by the abortion crazy museum mafia inciting church rowdies in the name of the Invisible Man, and the NAACP has no intention of allowing a human attachment of the sort they pay for with hidden cameras for their ongoing production team as a sentence for thinking I was better than us. Their archangel in the high crime, the African singer who Peter Gabriel, long bedfellow of my school's so-called Honors Department, where I was allowed to be the dickless wiz kid, Youssou N'dour is an independently wealthy Mick Jagger who hasn't bothered with birth control and is now a rival of twenty sonned Charlie Chan. He issued an Empty Set decree and had me handed the Black Spot with the ripper murder of Shannon Harps as a reminder they are watching my nephew and niece.

They yammer the whole deal for Yoko Ono in Senegalese, so there's no mistaking the message, all of this proves that AIDS wasn't an attack after all, but the queerbait is to blame. Such dacoitery works wonders among the spineless and well to do.

The British manage to keep a straight face as they intone that they are learning by inflicting evil, that even if the NAACPers have become Adolf Hitler's Fifth Column, nesting in tight with Asian militants dour and hateful towards the dominant paradigm, a pale white suck who has never lived above the poverty line, that is the due of the real victims. Among the soft hearted liberal whites who try to make Peace Corps style efforts among the lower classes, they fail to derive the depth of the intelligence system, and arrive only at the blood-curdling den of Black Rage where the African ghouls from the Hutus of the heart of darkness hold syphilitic seances for Japanese witches on high. In Pittsburgh, the Hutus of Kuntu Theater bray that Black Lives Matter while cheering on the exterminators behind the AIDS attack, a hypocrisy less visible than Black Civil Rights Advocates demanding closed borders against a wave of immigrants after their jobs, jobs, jobs. My teacher, in a class on understanding violence, took a fine moment of self regard to relate how a friend of his became addicted to knocking out white boys by head blows with his fists. To them I was delivered for endless rounds of sadism after being softened up as a burnt offering by murderers from the Ku Klux Klan, but sadly enough, my father Ryland, now dead, suspected poisoned, also is said to have thought he was better than them. They didn't bother to hide where Peter Gabriel got this intelligence, he signed it Penny, the name of the Jewish lesbian who preceded Leslie Katz in the same mode of trickery.

The Internet is fascist with their follow up seance. The condition of Japanese Adult Video is noxious and hard to find anything that can warm the heart or stir the blood of a semi-castrated poet and if that isn't bad enough, they are still watching, just as they watched as they bukkaked me in my sleep as a nine year old, waking me up in tears, "what is it, what is it?" "Mayo! You got plastered hahahahaha." They want the jizz, they lit a jizz bomb and they extrude the confessions of the deaf suck claiming it lies for Yoko Ono's scrutiny. The Sheriff of Allegheny County, on a signal from Clinton, tried to upload child smut into my poor little computer. The sickening pop up appeared suddenly and although I got my computer shut down before they managed the upload, the point was nothing new. They had used me for an AIDS testing guinea pig, earmarked me, and want the evidence proving the case for an attack kept in their spotlight of shame, lie after lie.

Midori Goto works with these huns through SONY. She omojas a day when the shotguns of Nation of Islam line the block protecting her favorite, the Klansman Kasper who tore my head off, leading a procession of the Black Panthers into town hall to claim their rightful place among the machines of DeKlerk in the post-apartheid wisdom of Desmond Tutu and the Elders.

Although I am accused of delusions with an acid flavor none of this is new or even especially interesting to the authors huddled around the desk of Peter Gabriel's satrapy with Brian Eno, Michael Reagan and Roger Waters. Reagan understood early that Blacks weren't really romantic enough about Black unity to admit that meant advocacy for Africa and the child rape dungeons of the Cameroons. The Kennedy whites of the Peace Corps had already given up on Somalia under Bush, but he also knew that for face-saving reasons the NAACPers would gladly evoke African loyalism as a license for cannibalism when he gave them the idea of a white voodoo doll for cathartic therapy in the AIDS attack. How they gloated of big concepts like collective consciousness while piling on with new anthrax attacks, new defamations, new wonders from Pentagon Disney, speaking with sooth to the anger within by burning down buildings, answering the tears of the children they betrayed by pointing at others in tears of pain, look at the white suck, how it suffers, laugh children hahahaha, laugh, clap clap for despoilation, clap clap. All of slavery avenged at lost, and they owe you nothing; and not one of them will tell the truth, not now, not ever, even though it sits here right on my desk, unanswered, and unobserved, invitation after invitation.

The black stonewall of the Obamas allowed for the AIDS attack.