Crary is an old name in America. Been here since the human rights dream of the Five Indian Nations who inspired our Continental Congress. I have abandoned neither my education nor my reconnaissance, further my memory goes back to childhood stories under JFK from a father in the Navy of WW2. I have investigated Hollywood. Therefore, if the problem in Our Commonwealth is in any way a language barrier about the past leading to misunderstanding, I can help. The new generation of Kennedys are coming, but we know what they are up against and how vulnerable we have been made by witnessing their losses.
The three primary idioms in play are planetary jeopardy due to carbon dioxide pollution; plague mass and the attending Gestapo; the enduring pursuit of happiness. As a first order of business I will describe how I was framed for the AIDS attack to coerce compliance in the shadow government program called The Green Party, led by a sinister wizard of the announcement, associated with Geffen Corporation, someone Obama. Raymond Geiger of Germantown, PA told me an anecdote that was very revealing about the hustlers surrounding Maxfield Parrish. Give us some of that fairy idealism, stuff, he said they would grunt with chuckles through the corruption of their tubercular cigar smoke.
For those who ride on the coattails of English eccentrics like Adrian Belew, blind wit and its meaninglessness takes on a sacred dimension. Operating through such dacoits as King Crimson, Ringo Starr has barred witness protection in a truly gothic ordeal of sadism and hegemony, masquerading as a tyrannical ogre engaging in retribution while secretly promoting Caligula war games at our schools. King Crimson should be arrested and sent to prison. Not only did they use their art for vivisection, but when turned to for help they masqueraded as discovering the event and filled it with malodorous justification and satisfaction. Bush, the hoodwinker, slapped five with Robert Fripp, and lifted a finger for Colin Powell to kneel before Queen Elizabeth’s Hollywood Death Row at Pentagon-Disney.
There is quite a bit at work in what they have done, and nothing infuriates them more than attempts to look through the records of what they have done in the past. All the same very slowly some help has arrived to the dreadful scene of unbearable contempt for the human species. A good place to begin is in the old 70’s pop song called, “Signs,” in which a wanderer of the Ted Nugent type pulls off his stocking mask and lets his long hair down, telling the baron of klavern pimpery, “Imagine dat, me working for you,” and that he do. This writing was on the wall as surely as the road sign from Tacoma to Seattle reading: Kent 8, Seattle 21. You’re not allowed to signify that you know what that could be shaped to have meant. In other words you are slaves to the rational processes of public relations and refused permission to explore how the old breed, looking down at the young and inexperienced, organized initialisms and abbreviations to convey gangsign neologisms, so I will help you. Kent State was a game of sinking the 8 ball by shooting students with impunity. 21st century was the road to the big kill courtesy the cooperating long hairs in Seattle. Entering the Sodo Busway you get the big picture. LOVE-EVOLVE and Exterminators.
The illogic of the Cold War was nevertheless a barbershop of bigoted power. Demanding the bigotry of blind faith, they opened the door to the driver’s seat for invisible men. There is an echo of the jest in Donald Trump’s word game about illegal immigrants, “I don’t know who they are! I don’t know who they are!” Nobody knew who he was during his cameo in 1976, the film Network, but he was there, partner of Spike ole Lee, while into the blessed grove of shared bigotry straightforth the dapperest of nerds with a gruesome lisp that catered to the fascination of the police department on their night out. The vacuum of fear created by irrational persecution of the government built by a democratic establishment concerned to relieve the tensions caused by inequity, allowed the upload in the game of Obama as the Sphinx of Lennon. The game was on as Colin kneeled.
That the gruesome lisp came catering harbored a forked wormtongue is less important at places like The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and St. Louis Post-Dispatch than that they lisped that High Brother Reagan could do no wrong. He danced with Imelda Marcos as Colin danced with Coretta King. Elton John signaled for the bard to play. The inner worlds of the captured minds were droned to the prophecy that they had been honed to learn “as one.” Jimmy, in distress, had let on what CMU Drama was doing with Leslie Katz and Ringo Starr, instead of intervening bravely, announced he was too clever, and gonna give the queerbait a taste of the sexual good life before execution, the bravura of Borges, the lusciousness of the backblade, so despite his concentration on evidence and attempts to signal distress, no one was properly warned. Attorney for the Beatles hummed, “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” and punished me with the usual vicious intimacy for depicting their licky chops. Jay Inslee lured me here, the I of CID (Cho, Inslee and Dixon) left every indication of luring me here to poison me in the mouth. Seems the kid from Singapore has it in for me that I think I’m better than the grunting nine years old back home who are so manly with their Havana cigars.
The Elders Project where black-o-rama soothsays bay from turned out not to be very responsible people. They stood there in Pittsburgh bullwhipped a white child in tantrums demanding sexual access. The Zappas and Bush knew a thing or two about escape behaviors. They also knew that being sarcastic, while an expected part of the minstrel show, is a lot easier to do than matching wits with exterminators. They made light of their Hitlerian Table Talk. Just as Kasperoski would snicker, the black man knows Kung Fu, but he knew lead pipe, so did Mazeroski gloat, the Zappas know the Grand Wazoo, wait til they meet the Grand Ma-zza! And David Mazza went to England to report how Toyah Wilcox turned on anyone named James in her shrieks of fuckerbucker ball.
The assassins have taken to quoting Victor Cervi, who told a crying, traumatized little Jimmy, “if you die, you die.”
Since the British are the source of Jimmy Creary’s “persona” I believe the fate of their estates should be treated to what they had planned for me, beginning with Mick Jagger, suspect of the Oswald Mosley klan from Jagr-Sto-val.
