In order to continue writing about the horrible, dishonorably gulag situation that developed in Pittsburgh as a primary U.S. Army function of the AIDS Onslaught I do have to write as if my reader knows something about it, postponing for another time attempts to put into perspective background tasks for those who operate a little slower Sometimes I have a few hours to work but those hours do not last forever. I have to work wisely. Thus it is not my present purpose to explain what Claymont was, which students of King Crimson are well aware, how important my father was in some circles, nor the home invasion by a step-family from Hollywood mafia allowing the staged and phony intercept, the blackout on the script of Gail Burstyn. Those are worthy tasks, but the tragic folds of reason which embroil the case in a series of defilements and murders does not allow me to play catch up this morning.
I propose to do nothing else but continue this narrative of witness. It is not my place to apologize to those who fight it. I can only answer that I went through this nightmare alone. Having friends at all has been dizzying for its unfamiliarity. The ruthlessness towards my dignity and soul from London and New York is fairly well-known. They are unworthy opponents by dint of their own nature. Such opponents have to be regarded very coldly, for their deadliness and the lack of civic virtue which might allow hope that some specter of decency lurks in their foul shells to which one could meaningfully appeal as person. This sad fact speaks to a terrible waste and a crime forged on the power of the dictat that you may not present evidence of wrongdoing against That White House Gang.
The idea that Jimmy Crary’s victimization was political, that his loyalty to King Crimson was praiseworthy, that his poetry showed promise was scrutinized by lopers with a script depicting me top secretly as in judgment for my life on the guillotine of bid for a role as the Walrus, a klan marriage certificate, to be repaid in kind, through the Church-Military Union (CMU of the Pitt), to Midori Goto, avenger hired by Reagan for a superwave entertainment of Paris salon fraternity queers. The idea of Jimmy being a substitute teacher and stand-in for John Lennon provoked such a hissy fit from Moonunit Zappa over the letter to Leslie Katz that Shannon Harps was ultimately ripper-murdered, slashered to death, in its expression from Eno psychiatry, High Dauphin of syphilis, sacrificialism out of Africa, the horn of London Royalism blown by little, little Youssou N’dour, the spiritual guide of John Lennonism long in ferment by the switchery and trickery of declaring his killers a basque of witches pursuing his covenant.
Loyalty to Lennon was declared defense of those who released HIV. The neuro-hypnosis used by Robert Fripp of Claymont and King Crimson to bang on about a date rape complex which factually proved innocence in the matter, allowed the conjuring of a bogey monster to do the trick.
The neuroplastic head injury was exculpatory in other ways as well. It constituted a neuroplastic mind block towards the letters, which I was only able to focus on in extreme duress after becoming aware that AIDS was manmade. I forced myself to search every corner of my house for evidence. I vomited for hours after reading them. Lewis Lapham intoned on behalf of Burstyn, Fripp and Katz, “what became of the President’s senses?” Jimmy C. was deemed out to lunch, on holiday when death had a party in a big way, “millions diecide”, to quote what Jimmy took to be a reference by Burstyn to the Holocaust in Europe about which she knew so much at a terribly young age. What Lapham didn’t say was that what became of Jimmy C’s senses is that Wattenmaker had impacted a horrible head injury which allowed Reagan’s defenders from the extreme and obscene fringes of JFK thriller theory to detonate the nerve agent injury as demolition of a Manchurian Candidate out to frame the Gipper, myuh.
Peter Gabriel sent in Rosine Monteleone for The Green Party just so they could strike the set and take everything away from me, which was a very dark thing to do, justifying terroristic abuse as survivalism in their sordid, foreign dementia. Throughout the case the murderers behind the script, its grab and execution have been subliminally seducing awareness but barring its expression. Reagan got away with AIDS by attacking Liberalism, but that’s cool now, Lennon was a badboy rocker who didn’t like school either.
What we learn from the partnership with Will Zell Broome from the WQED quarters of Black Confederacy in the crime, recalling that S. Toler (Sony/a) and New Pittsburgh Courier have been party to routine extortion by evoking Schugar Bear, a monolithic Black criminal who blocked my exit from Don Ostro’s by threatening to kill me if I stepped outside, and demanded the right to sleep in our new home before we moved in, after we tried to get away by moving, that Church sexual insanity, plugged with verminous, lurid pimping, the manufacture of delinquency, placed the evidence for AIDS being a plan right where you would expect it, in organized vice sting operations.
Don’t let Black America claim they didn’t know or weren’t party to it. From Farrakhan and The Rainbow Coalition up and down they were the hoodwinkers, not the hoodwinked. They cut their deal. It was as if Faust was told in cold blood by Deke Deloach, “You help us kill Martin Luther King and we’ll give you what you really want: A black-o Mr. President.”
It’s the simple truth.