One can imagine the gurgle of knowingness at the clarvoyant huka of fascism out in the boondocks, "Harkin and Ringo Starr gonna kill Jimmy Crary for saying it was Reagan, hahahaha." All the same if evidence in John Lennon's murder can be planted on the son of Ryland Wesley, an educator who saw the Beatles before their fame, then it is just as possible that the source is someone like Paul McCartney. This brings me to where things stand. It was ruled by a monster from show business working with Carnegie Mellon and superhaters from Nation of Islam that so long as the script in question not be construed to benefit me then it is up for grabs no matter the consequence to my health and sanity.
In Aligheny County, Pennsylvania where this crime was commissioned through the Warhol scene a cat was once found riddled with bb's. Half-blind, with 200 projectiles in its tormented body, there were still brainwaves, and god help it it was possibly still unneuterated. The fury that Harkin unleashed when it was found that the feline, gracefully put to sleep, had done it to itself with friends could scarcely be described for its apoplexy, for on its collar was the name: Ronny.
Amy Edelstein once wrote a poem that began, "I remember standing naked." It was clearly transference, since the image comes from the gas chambers in our Pittsburgh Community of Squirrel Hill, legendary for holocaust survivors still bearing their tattoos. Amy of course doesn't remember being naked in Auschwitz. It is a genetic transference. Jimmy Crary does remember being tortured, he remembers being brutalized and gassed. He remembers being stomped on in the head by a murderous gang, and pedophiled. He remembers being forced to breath inhalants in a dark garage after severe beatings while tripping and cutting school at age 13 by men touching him invasively and speaking to him in tongues. He remembers crying and crying and crying to no avail.
Jimmy Crary turned to Robert Fripp of King Crimson. What a mistake.
Everyone has heard what prilosec did to my appetite and digestion. Maybe I'll live forever but I never know what day is going to be my last. The klan used to have a saying: Stateways Can't Change Folkways. It's an admonition against speaking truth to power. We don't have a KGB in America because we don't need one. The locals know when to take law into their own hands.
When the letters were found on cue it was also found that Jimmy Crary was a campus swinger, in the one night stand battalion on campus. I was great Satan, enemy to all who value and protect virginity. Peter Gabriel's campaign to enlist Muhammed Ali, well, it's impossible to state clearly whether it derived from a masked hostility for Islam, since the child-raping element that took to the fore, slavery under the mask of Lewis Hyde's concept of the erotic life of property, was so intellectually enlisted in protection of the Mt. Desert Island cult who released the AIDS virus as all the evidence shows. Genetic warfare is de-personalizing. It is pursuit in campaign of a hate object for reasons of race, sacrificialism. The scapegoat logic made it sound like super-humanism. Since AIDS comes at the lower class of junkies, why not make the subclass who tortured Jimmy into saints of victimization and allow them to brutalize me again? As a campaign it moved to the groove of Pink Floyd like senseless beatings in a locked room, to the tune of Dexter King's high living. Devictimization as lucrative. Authorities have even talked of putting me in prison for protesting the rape of my deaf loved one.
The Pentagon really loves King Crimson. They move to the same demonology. After my poor mother sold our house and moved, my injuries aggravated and extensive, my memory fused shut from the swedge of neuroplastic, negation forming in the social currents, my thought processes ruled disaggregated by the likes of Baruch Fischoff, a highwayman in the thrones of supersonic society, dissociative from the blastings of opium war unleashed by British rockers, the military took therapy in the of rape a child's mind set to the woeful tunes of Lewis Lapham's womanly tutterings. My precious scribbles are orbited by Tang Speculators leering over the desperation scrawled on the paper plates of terrible homelessness. How moving, they leered from perfumed wigs.
Harkin crowed that my tears about the desertion of Rosine Monteleone, a contract hit of Federal home invasion, disqualified my testimony of social abuse. Nevermind the terrifying difference between life without her and life with her company. You would have thought when it was learned that my facial nerve was ruptured and I was in terrible, terrible physical pain, someone would have come to see all those tears a little differently. No one did.
It's clear why. No one taking my case has given these murderers the impression they have had a case all along.