The Islamic Enzyme

There is to my personal history an image that emerges somewhat as though from psychosis.  It traces to the time after developing schizophrenia, which began the night I heard Midori Goto play I Siciliani Vespers on her violin in Pittsburgh.  This ordeal was at its worst from then until about the time of the O.J. Simpson trial.  The  image that formed in the background of my thoughts was when a pair of young teenage girls went down to the railroad tracks, laying  down to be smooshed by a train.  It seemed to me almost as though they had heard of the scroll proclaiming Lennon’s death a symbol of martyrdom and responded.  This affected me so deeply because no such sacrifice by American kids would bring to the lips of  Yoko Ono a sneer of more satisfying gloat.  The issue, after all, is about hoodwinkers.
The Government likes me because I have made their lives so much easier for them by following their designated role-playing.  This happened once after they murdered my father Ryland Wesley Crary and then publicly put him on trial as a Red Witch.  I answered them sarcastically, which they planned, so they could demonstrate the superior firepower that they exercise when lampooning someone they had brutally, brutally tortured.  To laugh at the prey, how nightmarishly satisfying that was for them.
Then of course there was the fact that I developed schizophrenia just in time to be discredited regarding the  postcard from Will Zell Broome and surrounding circumstances.  I was just about a danger to National Security, myuh.  It was better than having a mother selling their tune when I pursued infamy out of bounds from my school and they caught me on tape barking like the devil at them.
Mr. Karel Douwes, from Rydal, PA was known to me.  After he had a lobotomy to get to an optic nerve tumor, the surgeon dropped by, mimicked him cruelly and remarked to his family, “he sounds like a Bolshevik now.”  In this way, the  Government also thanks me for defending Muslims.  Like the idea that opponents to Hitler were communists, it makes any anger I feel towards those who started AIDS into evidence of a secret sympathy for ISIS.
The evidence is actually very clear that they planned a personality change chemical to make me possessive, as though like a detestible Honor murder Islamicist, and when the chemical forced its way to the surface, visible with agony, they laughed off the cheat.  It had worked, so nothing matters less.
Ironically it was the coward Fripp, who practices the sort of frat boy Jewish Defense League routine that  is so much like bragging about his penis size, who led me in the  direction of Islamic Studies my first year at Temple University.  Taking things as they were was too hard for this Witch Doctor to the Attilla Ringo Starr.  Things as they were was a teenage deaf poet, in trauma, but fair and nice, with a good father and gramps, who loved King Crimson, and had hitchhiked 1400 miles, to St. Louis from Pittsburgh and back, just to hear him play.  That’s a nice little story, not a legend, but pretty cool.
They had a different angle already scripted and resented very much that unwanted intrusion on my own name.  At the sound of the bell, you should have seen the feminists gyrating.  Pittsburgh doesn’t even try to explain the unusual program of sex tracking that began in childhood.  All is justified because I’m such a joke.
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