Today, I came across a frail, unassuming, piteous, lovely, frail girl, emotive of the absolutely heartbroken protective instinct I associate with encountering cheery, but devastated victims of the AIDS attack, swept under the carpet by our media political syndicates.   I remember wailing in my Chinatown loft watching depiction of such a girl in the film: Remembering the Cosmic Flower, a movie now lost to time and memory. It makes people wince to admit they’ve noticed the way my writing and poetry have been used for military massacres by the machine over the years.    The ability to detect the mind of cinema operators and defend those judgement calls as real takes educated experience, but Oliver Stone’s mind comes out in the historic figures he represents as saying things no one could possibly know they said in the film JFK. Thinking of Clay “Bertrand” Shaw saying, “this whole thing could be so easily misunderstood.”   As a rule of the thumb, that is what his faction are aiming for. They lead the captured minds of the public to believe what is going on is something else, while trying to convey that my questions have caused trouble.

      Talking about lies is drudge work in America.  Every liar on the block hates them and denounces them and sees them in every other head.   It’s a fixation and obsession in the public discourse, normalizing itself in accusations of denial.   People haven’t just stopped listening to each other. They’ve lost the power of being observant enough to notice that they are all saying the same thing in their disputes.   Calling it disagreement is just a way of making sure it isn’t called anything else. So talking about the character-building nature of important people falls flat where important people are just the opposite.   They weren’t born yesterday and know a lot more than I do, but self-depreciation can also become a redundancy. I know just enough to be aware of something that many people seem not to know, or are keeping secret en masse.   The fact is that a war game called Two Virgins Pussyball was clocked to the AIDS attack, and this was made into cheap thrills by a Federal and State production company of Yojimbo settlements, meaning, the Elders, secret team, council, Taliban, party leaders, whatever you want to call these jokers from the Illuminati of Hollywood, smack at both sides and then step in as diplomats bringing peace.  People think they are seeing a feud, and that’s a hard thing to break ground with by mentioning harsh to the ear words like contradictory indications.

        AIDS was so huge an act of evil sorcery that the poetry attending it from the soundtrackers behind it was epochal.    They command the day by saying they found, not wrote, the script. Nobody is allowed to question that because it is kept under wraps.   Failure to warn was accompanied by alternative medicine, a communal mandate. The murders at Kent State were amputated of their exceptional status and became a norm of existence on campuses in a society that decided they love the military with the same passion that Ringo Starr loves brother Reagan, but with an attending contempt for law.   Rioting, always fun for rockers in rage, took the place of rational investigation, and this looked good for the production society line at work. AIDS victims were told, don’t get mad, get even, and offered leadership for their sport. Intellect, of course, is highly prized and epiphanies, those one night stands, in deadly times, are coveted.   Leading intellectuals made clear this never happened by saying nothing. Noam Chomsky, the revered Leftist, made clear this never happened by saying nothing. Despite this, an academic presence must cross the Chomsky River to reach the safety of fair hearing in the blackboard jungle.

      People with experience, of the spirit, the world, of the holocaust in Europe, of riches and fame, are what this criminal case is all about, and it isn’t really possible for a disabled man living below the poverty line to do anything about remedying that, but knowing that what they arrived to and are selling could have been understand already, and the evidence says it was, prepares you for the shocking truth that they planned to sell this music in advance.  The spiritualists used AIDS for their seance, but managed to wriggle out of public suspicion in the matter, despite the brazen existence of the script. Young people didn’t have that knowledge, only the terror and burning thirst for the riches of knowledge and understanding in evil hour and pain. The rabid knew every human pain. Knowing something, however, does not inherently translate into being sincere.

       The people who did this and brought a flower of redemption to the party were sadistic freaks.   Despite this, they won the day. If you can imagine an Alfred Hitchcock character, some priest who was rejected as a lover, frantically raging that mankind has lost their soul to the senses and don’t appreciate the true works of God, making this case, hatcheting it together, sending it spinning as a macabre apocalyptic lesson, you would still miss the point, because you did and that’s the long and short of it.    

      Yet even in this trap of mass self-deception run wild, we have to encounter each other and our hearts go out to each other, in reality or at least in word, which makes vocabulary like empathy, sensitize and consanguinity come in handy.   Even if you reach out and touch another, you are still a spectator, and the wise ones accuse you are hiding a snicker. They envisioned mass death as a freedom ride, and you are James Farmer of CORE looking into the frightened eyes of a girl you abandoned who cries out, “You mean you aren’t coming with us?”   Amanda Harcourt, that fell name of the 80’s, clucked, “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” and identified this one small task as paramount to the sale of the ingenuity. They don’t call her partner Share Ill Levin for nothing.

        Magnanimity played an interesting role in the 80’s.  It seemed like a miracle of Gay dignity, then behold, but who should arise to denounce it with fangs, but the cursing Yoko Ono fuming at the myth of the “noble widow.”   Magnanimity became a trick to be hated, the wails of little Jimmy asking to be spared. The God of False Processes was announced as plotting retribution by ordeal. The soundtrackers from Britain, having used Warhol to convince Seattle, glowered that The National Fool would be rendered a wraith for their derision, for in their mouths, the forbidden malicious gloating was sacred.    At root of this, as all of Pittsburgh know, is Andrea Swimmer and a lawyer’s trick by Obama. Sex in abusive settings is not inherently sexual abuse of the girl. I had been rendered coma traumatic neurobedient and Swimmer offered something different from terror and battery. Like the police prerogative lording over blacks, my pre-pubescence meant nothing but her diaphragm was my fault because I thought of her when the soundtrackers from The Tubes played one of their songs out of Laurel Canyon connivance.   Political correctness had found a sacred cow with a carrot tape worthy of Oswald the Rabbit, certified by Brian Eno for Jaime Carbonell, linguistic gold digger. This was part of the Carousel Club Putsch by Donald Trump. Nobody gave the slightest thought to arresting the scriptwriter Gail Burstyn, Lennon’s little Nicola.

        The University of Washington has the whole country staked on the allegation, “Lennon made you eat the sour candy, Crary, or you die.”    There are many types of liars and those you fear. Did it ever cross your mind that awareness of an important fact or principle can confuse understanding?   Noam Chomsky wrote me a letter, a dedicated and earnest individual he seemed, in which he said that in a corporate-state nexus the specific politicians are decoys, expendable and irrelevant.  Taking Nixon down meant nothing more than changing a flat tire. At issue beneath that adjustment is a structural problem. Grasping the electoral process as a sleight of hand in this material facet is difficult but necessary to reform, and while that may be partly so, it is necessary to amend that view.

       Politicians do serve a purpose and it isn’t just legerdemain.  For all the utopian fascist machinery of the Krupps, for Walt Disney, Franco’s man, to make it run they needed Adolf Hitler as necessarily as they needed oil.  The sleight of hand then may be something else in appearances. We hear that Bush ran against Reagan, Reagan ran against Nixon or something, but all the while the game is one of passing the torch between brethren of the Bohemian Grove.    New York Plastic Reality, as they called Fake News in the 80’s, can double up on fantasy and make proprietary calls of linguistical changes in service to the inner Tong. Which brings us to something they call moralism. These are people who know when not to laugh.   I can just hear Ronald Reagan, alias Mr. Ree, saying, “Jimmy will always have a secret he kept from his mother.” This made me a Ron stat, easily blackmailed and pushed by the goons of the NAACP, making sport of a battered white child, graduating from child bondage to psychiatric lairs like Mt. Desert Island’s Semester-at-Sex in search of Michael Reagan’s favorite scene, scene so dirty he gloated, will it save the queerbait, find out next week, same bat time, same bat station.