In the 50’s there were black and white television commercials showing a shunned woman with a baby carriage being mistreated as she walked on American Main Street in humiliation with a J. Edgar Hoover style voice over: Don’t Even Think About Sex. The 21st century by contrast has charming and reassuring Harvard Medical Journals about healthy intercourse between couples in old age. One of the mesmerizing perversities of the Reagan Era is that American Liberals were told to do penance for our dislike of the Red Scare Era witchhunts by repudiating all rational discourse about whether the phobias reignited by AIDS were a result of bad faith by extremists in the military laboratories.
The crux of the issue couldn’t have been more lopsided. To prove the victims weren’t creepy people the creepiest of all were brought in as killers to announce on behalf of the perpetrators. This was called sacred wisdom of The Beatles and boggled the mind until they made their safe Brexit to boot. Not one word they spoke was considered admissible against their bray of authenticity. I’m not the only mind in the world. There are several ways to come at the crux.
I was used as a satire about the attack. In muddling up the meaning of what he was trying to say, was it deadly serious or sarcasm, Randy Shilts put forth a mirror that captured the soul’s projections, focusing on the idea of Conduct Unbecoming. Was that an attempt to upbraid the inhumanity of the scolds who stood by? Was it conscious irony? Or was it a shrewd pronouncement by one of the suicide bombers about the little shi/ts. Shilts didn’t make clear what was going into circulation from the hidden hand of the Publishers’ Project. By dint of the rumors also coming out about Kennedy, calling his secret life a question of character, JFK became part of that satire. Meanwhile, the publication lobby offered up Larry Flynt, a ghost of Jack Ruby, to lead from the Carousel of the damned.
Nobody even tried to warn or get the truth. They were too busy jockeying for ego dominion, all laden with skillful encryptions. Ian MacDonald called his record Driver’s Eyes, revealing the advocacy for Yoko Ono in the script. Kasper, their fave rave, a brutal car thief, had Asian eyes that made him the hun of choice among Schwarzenegger queers. His initials JK are known for Japanese Kogal signifier. His haunt near D’Allisandro’s funeral parlor, made clear the link to Warhol and the premeditations of virginity as evil. Give yours up and be saved by the audacity of Arkansas. As they wormtongued the golem they surrounded with incubating nerve injury and trauma, they called their pet cat, a wicked fluezy, by the name of Repa, planning to repossess the script on the slander of imaginary potential for rape cooked up by misrepresentation of resistance to the Neva porn voice overs from Ming Na Wen. There was sensitivity to wordplay in Gregory Karl’s invocation of the word: demarcation, the pussyball line in the sand.
Don Kohler was planned for the lockdown of don’t call her, you jealous possessive in the Alan Parssons Project of Ayn Rand control tower targeting a symbol of America for derisions unending, and followed by Don Timmerman, of the West Wing Catholic Worker, to mimic the cry, don’t I’m her man, as they raped us cockeyed and she play acted the same for the Liars Club. Ah, mentalism worth a fortune at Ozenby’s. Scream, little queerbait, scream, for Ezell’s chicken Koop, the tipping point being an oracle’s gore for the parallelogram of Thornton horse redeemers, as Pittsburgh laughed about the pussy, snickering philosophically, “That’s what it’s all about,” and WQED X-slurred, myuh, just fucking with the demon enzyme you deaf white suck, lisped the Hollywood Mau Mau Uncle Toms with Sen. Tom Harkin, harkening to the Ark of Qolorz.
While Rockefeller’s State Police printed a Nanotchka Kennedy, Jesse Curry put the faces of Oswald and JFK together as duals, the doubles of doppler Red shifts.
