I have been tortured by the Green Party Death Row behind the AIDS attack.   UW went along with it. With the cerebrals of acid rock they figured out how to convert the trauma of being kidnapped and molested as a child, resulting in neurological injury, making it changling, (as simple as taunting a mentally retarded child into a holy tear), into date rape phobia and announced it was too good to be true when it worked.  By this weapon they could unite Reagan and Lennon under Trump, and obliterate the snitch, at least that is the found art explanation that ignores the dissertation describing “forces impinging on the persona’s experience” (Karl, SAMA) and “the puppet’s dance” (Sinfield). They had the help of a woman named Abby Silver at Carnegie Mellon. Silver is a recurrent theme in their legacy.  So is Abbey.

       The tragedy of America is that they still imagine the criminality of the attack to be friendly decimation by secretly loving fascist elders of knowledge and great understanding.  They think if we change to suit the insane it will all work out for us and them, because they/we are so special and earnest. When Dolly Meieren says, “U.S. Out of North America!” in a blood red letter about Guerilla Theater at the YIKC and about King Crimson and when Hitler-styled trolls muse with soothing noises towards American Indians their all-understandingness, the Seattle brilliants think what have we got to lose by joining with their own assassins?   The black man shalt suredly rescue them, myuh, just as implacably as the Hutus calmed down about the Tutsis. Paul McCartney and Leni Reifenstahl should win, the rest is conspiracy theory.

         There were notorious chat massacres.  I tried everything to stop them. Isolation is too painful.  I’m deaf. I have no friends. I go online to talk the news of the day.   The English think it is very fitting, snickering look at the lucky, lucky storyteller serving the great ones in their soothsay and muse.   One notices the magnitude of Federal complicity and incompetence as they gyrate to fulfill the plan, remorsely promoting forgery and slur, as though the Kennedy curse were the dark matter that rules the American universe with which they must vie by prayer, flagellation and combat behaviors, tapping twice, whispering Abdul and living thusly.   I find such staged and faked, but lethal and depressing theater of war humiliating. I don’t think the breakdown of our legal systems is a statement of national honor.

          I remember seeing a black student taunted fiendishly.   When his tormentor kicked his notebooks scattering the pages it ignited such a shattering explosion of despair.   Oliver Stone and Steven King worked together on the Burstyn script about JFK and what it means. The Beatles tapped the conductor’s baton.  Sarcasm about love’s false promises inundate their songbook of chump revivalism. By traumatic replay, with gloat, Stone and King bring it slowly towards the realization, making soothing noises, to the pig blood of Carrie finale.  For John Lennon was both Devil and God, Yojimbo, devious manipulator of both sides. The soul of the killers will fiddler at the gate of Kings heavenly estate, the quarrymen gas chambers.   

       I had hitchhiked to St. Louis foiled by my own sincerity, I ran towards the murderer I should have been trying to escape.   The British are gloaters. Pulling off the heist of JFK’s murder while forging my name on their own war crime seems to them the epitome of their supremacy.  The rabid like to rap that living life lawfully is trusting to luck without their syphilitic alchemy hovering over our Constitution. The more they admire themselves the worse it gets, and they just rub it in.  Lisa Cassidy wrote to me during their frenzy on Mt. Desert Island, “I don’t believe in the Uzi, it just went off in my hand.”

       I’m trying to report torture.  I’m not sending signals for revenge.

       Stirring their witches brew, the shamans of Warhol inevitably brought the Silver hammer down on Iowa Molly, nothing matters less to them but they will queue up with crocodile tears from their crocodile rock while informing again of their schizotronic domination.