The White House From Mars

Writing effectively and even being believed will never bring her back, nor will it restore the years, undo the death and tragedy, capture the guilty, halt the blitzkrieg of killdozers. Our society has capitulated without a fight, frozen by the rock and roll wormtongue at their ear. Martha Gellhorn said that even though writing could not save the world, she couldn’t stop trying. In writing my memoirs about the meaning of my life, I don’t think I can express what it means, but I have to try.

When I went back to college, at CCAC, the Community College of Allegheny County, I knew that my mentor there, Dr. Ralph Proctor, author of: Voices From the Firing Line, a personal history of the Pittsburgh Rights Movement, had worked at WQED-TV with Tom Ammons of Artek, who had locked me in a house when man named Kasper from the Ku Klux Klan who brutally tortured and gassed me as a child, and with Matt Marcus, who sold LSD from MisterRogers Neighborhood and had been the source of bitter sorrows due to his mudslinging about my ex-girlfriend Leslie Katz.

I met Leslie Katz at the Pennsylvania Governor’s School for the Arts, a scholarship I won, though deaf, for Poetry. She ended up Valedictorian of Ellis Girls School, and led me on down a long, painful road of unrequited love, tendered with the intimacy of my service to her as tongue cleansing service of her vagina, a fact not overlooked when her Jewish Glee Club, led by Mike Xslur began saying, “You blew it,” and she had laughed, “Why should you get another chance?” That is why there was never a fair trial. They had all this knocking against an impacted neuroplasm causing me pre-seizure agony that their scientists had put there and knew I was unaware it was in the there, throttling in my cranium, having ravaged the roots of my facial nerve.

Everyone has always hated me for how I got bullied and entrapped into that rejection complex, phrasing the Helter-Skelter question, “did she want me to make her?” and how it hammered and echoed around my head in a tortured neuroplasm, but the way they set up something I thought was very private has always shocked me. Central of course we know now was how Peter Gabriel worked with Mary Anne Steiner of Bard College, who I met at Matt Marcus’ band, “He’s Dead, Jim,” to use Rapid Eye Movement hypnosis to fuel brain yammer interrogation of the neuroplasm with the dark allegation that the way she eased me off contained “Defiant Trespass,” for which they demanded settlement by dint of deaf Jeannie’s rape and my castration, punishment for exposing the AIDS testing war game on Mt. Desert Island, all of which they claim is another story.

Stories just pour out of Fox, like their heartless, obscene Presidential Candidates. Much of the News is trivial digest and filler, even the scandalizing elements of big campaigns. News Reporters are said to be practical idealists because the qualities of perseverance, initiative and curiosity are recognizable qualities which carry risk, and you learn to live with those risks, but the shop talk and watch word for much of this now is that persistence can go too far, you can cross the line. Just as the majority of police hired today are hired in jobs of private security, more than on Police Departments which are filled with malcontent, abusive human beings, out shopping for victims, so, too, are the News Desks, always ingratiating themselves to Municipal, State and Corporate favor, filled with hired guns, after the money shot of a broken man who they tortured, weeping in pain, falling to the ground from an impacted injury they targetted knowingly for spite.

How could King Crimson do that to someone? They did as part of the ruse visited on the Peace Movement after the murder of Martin Luther King, and in the name of John Lennon, to restore the traditional Honors Society value code by the AIDS Onslaught. It was a Great Backstab of the HAIR Generation with a buddy-buddy ultimatum. The secret of the AIDS Onslaught was the inside confederacy of Black people. I was told as a child, “you are a liberal, here are your values, now you are going to perform for us.” My lines were dictated and my non-conformism as prescribed as my ordering of celery ice cream in State College’s Baskin and Robbins, to the carrot tape made by the Caliban Bookstore gang on Celeron Street by Kelly School where black students were endangered to thrill the hatred of Manette Seatte of WQED-TV by libelously claiming I was the driver. Jimmy Crary was abducted and brainwashed to be the City of Pittsburgh’s laughingstock. My sister Laura chimed in by calling me, “I, Claudius.”

The claims I have made about Reagan staging an assassination attempt on himself as a rear guard action for the way he and the Obamas planted the Jimmy Carter/Jimmy Crary/JC letters of Gail Burstyn on my house, to author a deranged narrative from the desk of an illegal Draft to be a secret President, whose poetry was used by Admiral Mullin, Admiral Crowe and General McChrystal for bombings to sanitize the suffering of the plague by acts deemed subconscious resonance by the Beatles, are well within the purview and power of Pentagon-Disney. This is proven by the spoiled, stupid, cowardly, vicious way that Peter Gabriel called Mt. Desert Island, “an Experience Park.” They have the magical mystery to do any such act that they want, and their escalation dominance towards the Ultrahigh weapon is proof that it was written to be called paranoid. The alibi abstracted into a theoretical dimension that conscripted bias and credulity while executing torture and threatening reprisals while they lied, cut and paste, destroying the evidence, chiding their victim that he would never see the woman he loved again if he didn’t tell all.

So they milked the brains of their ear marked golem as entertainment for the slaughterhouse. The hit and run postcards that Robert Fripp sent to me were doctrine about the service culture they manipulate into consumers loyal to their deranged misleadership. It was the old in and out. It was the ethic of the liberal who must by their decree accept rejection and in accepting rejection remain unmoved to show that they are strong, that abortion is painless, that rejection is part of the game. Crying from an impacted neuroplasm isn’t the Walrus.

My potentials are none of their business and not subject to illegal Draft or special education requirements. The FBI took root in Appalachia, among child molesting hicks and police pedophiles to pull it off for the Reagans. It seemed credible enough to Seattle, who wanted to get their licks of sadism in, too, to shriek at little Jimmy as though he were Big Brother, the white suck who offended Allah and must pay, while the Queers, ripper murdering, sided with the AIDS messiah sent to them by Michel Foucault, Amalgamated, Sean Strub, a partner of Mark Chapman and John Lennon filmed at the Dakota the night Pentagon Disney disappeared Lennon into an Experience Park of Magical Mystery.

My point is that their alibi for Mt. Desert Island proves that they were equally capable of staging the hit on Reagan as a sham, which explains why the never allowed anyone to see Lennon’s body.

The hostages were held for 444 days, just as Marilyn M. of the United Bible Fellowship lived at 444 Dearborn in Chicago, because 444 B.C.E. is when Hebrew Law was canonized. Gail Carolyn Burstyn had come as an emissary of Reagan’s Plague Machine with the Injunction that they were building an Ark for the Black Man to lead us to safety. The entire Civil Rights Movement went along with the AIDS Onslaught for personal profit of a race direction.

When AIDS struck, the wrath of God people came to the pulpit, God Hates Fags types were in the Oval Office, and so the Gays reacted exactly as their death leaders, Dia and the syphilitic rippers of Obama, wanted. They protested with their lives, burned their own house down, and then seething set upon me with Paul McCartney’s snide, gutteral lisp, that if the victims come for a penny from anywhere, it will be you, queerbait.

Advertisements