I was born in the last months of Dwight Eisenhower’s Presidency of The United States of America, when our global reputation still had currency.  The American Civil Rights Movement began to get moving in the mid-50’s during the Space Race and Russian Sputnik astronaut program. In the 70’s many of the Jewish high school students in the holocaust survivor community I lived in spent their summers in Israel.  They were scornful of me. Nobody takes you seriously they would mock. You have to really want to know what happened to JFK and go after it to get the news. You have to really care. Eisenhower and Kennedy were respectable men. Dreams come true for those who sought the brotherhood of man in a commonwealth of nations.  It was still possible.

      When Donald Trump finally released some of those rotten JFK files that all of the Presidents up to Obama cheated us of seeing, we found out that Jack Ruby was contact with an agent named Gail Raven Wichita, Kansas.   Since my house was settled by the Moores of Wichita whose friendship with John G. Neihardt, whose nieces Gail and Kasper augured the Texas Schoolbook planted on me when I was attacked by Ronnie and Kasper, gassed in place called Kings Estate as part of the AIDS attack plan from The Crown of England and Graham Foundation, after the Moore Family married into Crary through the radio room lieutenant for Bush in WW2, what with his secret brother Donald of Dallas City, Iowa, I recognized from Gail Carolyn Burstyn’s nom de guerre that G. Raven was a symbol of Luke 16, put no graven images before God, who watched over us in Dealey Plaza, being King Edward, the Duke of Argentina fame, bringing us the good news, even for the church ill.

       It seems to have come together for the Quarrymen and Pitmans because of the Suez Crisis of the mid-50’s when Eisenhower infuriated the British by repulsing their attack on Egypt.   This was the influence of FDR’s anti-colonial sentiments. FDR wanted the French out of Vietnam, not supported, knowing them to be the Vichy allies of Japan, whose protege Gen. Aung San’s daughter causes so much consternation because of the Rohingya.   The cataclysm in Yemen is not only the end of Arab Spring, but the end of the influence in world affairs created by American resolve to support such independence movements, an end of the American Civil Rights Movement. It was due to Eisenhower’s position on the Suez Crisis that Yemen had hope of tying their fortunes to our human rights drive under Martin Luther King.  FDR, Eisenhower and the dignity of the United States were shot down by the pro-German madmen in charge of the U.S. Army, led by John Wayne, whose photograph with Lee Harvey Oswald testifies to the true meaning of the weird film, The Green Berets.

        But when you go to Pittsburgh, where the Texas Schoolbook was fermented at Pitt, seen through the crimes of Obama, who was the retainer of Bush in The White House, working with the cabinet of the AIDS attack in their sprees across the Middle East, you find the nest of churches who created this little beehive of abomination.    They had a twinkie defense using me for carrot tapes in a blame game of Oswald the Rabbit, courtesy Peter Leo, Paul McCartney and MisterRogers. Donald Ostro had held me prisoner for child mutilationists organized for the Warhol and Carnegie Museum mafia by Gail Burstyn and the Braunsteins. Michael Tive was a particularly cruel special advocate for King Crimson and Midori Goto in a war game clocked to the AIDS attack by the Rockefellers and Morgans called Two Virgins Pussyball.  It is here, in Pittsburgh, that the partnership of Graham Foundation and Queen Elizabeth was felt most keenly when Peter Gabriel engineered the staged and phony fake discovery of the Burstyn scroll and set upon me with loudly broadcast libels while refusing all checks and balances, shredding all the evidence he could secure against recognition of the nerve agent with which I was poisoned by Wattenmaker.

        Shawn Brooks locked me out of a church as a child where I came crying after being attacked by armed men.   His friend Stewart Sheppard, whose mother worked at a church downtown around the corner from another church where Derricky, the klukker Italian who organized the starlets of the Burstyn script for Neva Corporation and SONY, was a best friend of Brooks, and used to write coy songs and makes various statements in support of Peter Leo and what the Morgans were doing.   He used to pronounce the name of a disfigured classmate, Bert, as “Heh Bert” like Herberton, on which street Wattenmaker who made the sarinesque that poisoned my facial nerve, “like a tractor drove over his face,” Sheppard, the artist of the stew, Stewart, would say before going to Kenyon. He derided me as an “immediate gratifier,” in a demonstration lab of Tin Roof sundaes, always making clear his superiority by saving the cherry for last, and this was the parable delivered for Lazarus of the Suez and Franklin Graham by Barack Obama who left his calling card at our college with a transvestite sticker reading, “the joke’s on you.”