711’s guard gang used mirror of the soul theory on me by describing what they said was a messed up Palestinian kid and played a tape made to sound like he was finding a tape machine running and he said, “there’s something going on here,” just before it went off. One of the voices on another tape he played me sounded a lot like Wattenmaker.
The Wattenmaker kid surrounded me with a lot of prophetic imagery. Playing the first King Crimson for me when I was nine and then poisoning me with a nerve agent, his brother had a Disneyland After Dark poster and his mother Edith, his sister was Patricia, same as Fripp’s mom and sister’s names, Edith had a car with lips ignition that Bernard, the Marion Doctor from Attica Penitentiary Psychiatrist team tried to neurohypnotize me to when their dacoit Kasper told me to look for the lips. Willy, his brother in Neuro at Pitt, had a game of balance to get a ball into the hole you wanted without falling, and a prompt adversary game where you hid your hand. Up the street was Rondy Tagg, my first music teacher, obscure, like Fripp’s Rodney Toady, and not real good looking. When Ian, the brother who showed me a Venus Fly Trap that turned out to be their metaphor for where they were planning to lead the 60’s generation, which plan leaps from the screen of Neva Cinema for planning the murder of JFK to be found in the films only long after the fact, with Two Virgins Pussyball, gloated with malice when I mentioned De De. For graphic imagery he also showed me an American solider in shock, a painting, crimson blood flowing down his arm from a lethal chest wound.
Wattenmaker’s mom had us spend a lot of time at Alpine Arena where King Crimson first played the area. He liked hockey and watched a lot of Roller Derby, with that woman who bashed people like Tina Caliguri did. Runco, their gang vice president, got a job offer from Buhl and although he thought it was neat, catch the phantom planet stuff, he said he’d get lots of better offers. He’s in advanced materials and devices, friendly with Serbia.
Just as wind talkers were Indian code breakers of WW2, I Talk to the Wind writer Penis Sinfield chills the investigation by leering that Enthoven, sort of evoking a deaf musician, is answerable to Gaydon, but we begin to see the Sex-O-Sociology of Moral Green Inslee and Nordenberg’s Plan It when the gargoyles announce that difference of opinions about a Black man’s status is Defilement! Defiltement and the role of my seduction by Alpana, who passionately played King Crimson that night to lace the neuroplasm of the pornographic extrusion machine with demonic possession impacted to explode like Regan’s head spinning in the Exorcist, poor devil Jimmy, the Zelig of the Zell league of gentlemen.
Wellness, they klukked, could only be measured by letting the neuro-seizures broil as Midori went on her sexual rampage to balance the Trump pussyball ledger, while giving smoke and cover to the AIDS attack war game.
De De used to say, me, too, quite a lot on the phone, which explains the Hitlerian logic of Calhoun and Mt. Desert Island, who laughed okay American goody we’ll try it your way and illustrated the Fuhrer’s thinking by starving mice becoming cannibals, so, if you are old and gray, ta. Gray, ta.