Success in murder has made it habitual for the neo-authorities, tears pour involuntarily from my eyes at turns thinking about what they have done, enduring unending cruelties, no hope, no law, no decency.   My father’s short life seems long now. Some of it must be Johnson related, he was the one who bribed the NAACP into taking on the Vietnam War. They are devoid of scruples, and I remember Ku-Guy. I’m still in shock to realize that they contracted for my birth as a gang team project in the AIDS attack.  So, I have been slow to rake the coals of what it really was, trauma has a hypnotic. You end up just staring into space.

       Poison crimes are so common towards me.   It’s what they all get into doing. It’s a wonder that no one has ever called their parents.   Nerve agents, heart poison, mouth poison, there have been so many acts of torture, ripper murder, rape, I mean the Warhol dacoits are real fascist maniacs.  They are horrible people, and they called themselves Amnesty International, my God. Apparently it was all wired through police services in the names of Fripp and Reagan.

      Prestigious it must be to have Queen Elizabeth’s pillow and Isis Warriors!  Warriors! At his crib on his team in the manner of show business rockers. But much goes back to East End of Pittsburgh, where as a Little Boy I was shadowed by Fat Man, now Tive with Midori and Sinfield.   Then there was Nathan, who tickled me at the Ruskin and then browbeat me as though I thought I was Gluck from King of the Golden River, man was he mad when 1717 Murdoch Penny had a gallstone problem and sent me running for him, who? Who? Where Penny, outside, outside, he didn’t want me knowing he was still around.

      Then there was monkey vivisection Bill Peckham who set out after me with Cohen when Cohen kept me late, wanting me to smoke, so Peckham could catch us.   I often wonder if Gudren and Crista knew about Nobuko’s stupid code, but Harpers won’t tell.