Fascism as American as Apple Pie

We live in a society where victims are hated, I wonder if a little poetry can save me from that fate. Speculation about what happened doesn’t help but it’s impossible to ignore where the details lead. In a trauma and tragedy of ongoing, epic vein, where tears beyond tears is the norm, knowing it doesn’t matter to anyone is like oxygen deprivation. You may wonder if I am enlarging, aggrandizing, to vie for scarce attention, and what details await you. Are they lurid? Are they gross? Is there someone more appropriate to tell? Have police been notified? Pardon me, if on the last question, I bitterly laugh.

 

The problem in this case goes significantly beyond murder, although several murders took place; it goes beyond rape, although rape is the grindstone of the plot action; it goes beyond torture, although the magnitude of the sadism is mind-shattering, all of which is to say it is a psychological operation, a political war game, which etherizes it all very nicely. Since it is thus all a big sleep, why not leave it to God? Indeed, why not let the perpetrators have their way, since they are going to, anyway? Why not, if I may be so bold, forgive them? After all, there is something that isn’t being said, that doesn’t dare be said. Why should anyone have patience for crime so dire, parched and onerous that the slave of it cannot even tell what happened for fear of what? You know what.

 

My father was a Peace Corps leader, a Naval Veteran of the Pacific Fleet in World War Two, and an educator in Philosophy of Education. The University of Pittsburgh arrested me for reporting terrible crime and have warned me that they will do it again if I make any attempt whatsoever to tell my deceased father’s former colleagues what happened. As a student at the Community College of Allegheny County, deaf and 54 years old, with medical complications from torture, I have been extended two disciplinary warnings as I approach Graduation this August. My eighty year old mother retired as an English teacher and my last six classes have a 4.0 grade point average, facts that have restrained the Administration’s hand concerning letters circulated to school offices regarding atrocity.

 

A consensus developed around me that maybe I should just be encouraged to knock myself out writing, provided I don’t tell anyone. It’s analogous to Czech Republic during the Occupation when writers of plays and poetry were told they could write but that it was illegal to share, resulting in the Samizdat movement of smuggling manuscripts stashed in garages. All of this sounds very mysterious, but vague. Come, come, intelligent man, you are thinking, get to the point so we can laugh at you.

 

Since I’ve been trying to many decades to get help and intervention, you realize that I’ve brought this to someone or other’s attention before and didn’t get the results I’d hoped for, and this fact comforts you because it leaves you untroubled as to your own duty in the matter. If no one believed you before, why would anyone believe you now? It’s almost a matter of notoriety, to see who can do the most to mock such a sad thing; for everyone concedes that the deafness, the throttling neuroplasm in my facial nerve, the rape of my best friend Chin I, the ripper murder of Shannon Harps are, at best, a sad thing. Why make them worse by enduring tears about what happened? Further, the writer says that this is a case of tears beyond tears. Well, sorrow is very personal, dear friend, don’t you think alarm, exaggeration, and aggrandizing harm your cause?

 

We know from Shawn Brooks that a gang gathered outside the church where little Jimmy in tears of childhood fright took sanctuary and that Shawn Brooks threw him out, the day after Jimmy had bitten his fingernails bloody, being sent to the office, crying that they were going to kill him, and we know he disappeared for months from school and that there was no investigation. What happened is a matter of conjecture because Jimmy’s testimony is too consistent to be believed. Reports of brutal pedophile kidnapping, vivisection, brutal fortissimo poundings, weird experimentation, depraved child cinema predators this isn’t credible, and he said something unfortunate about the Reagans in college.

 

It’s not that child mutilation crime isn’t bad enough, only that it is really just the beginning. True it leads to chemical castration by Police Psychiatrists at Harborbiew Medical Center to punish reporting the circumstances surrounding the rape of my only friend Chin I, but even so, between child mutilation and chemical castration a whole world of retort must be considered, protestations that it was only right and fair, yes fair is the word that was chosen by a man of inimitable cunning, speaking on behalf of school authorities. In fact, so cunning a figure has made this pronouncement that the very fact of who he is will surely reassure you that the victim brought the whole thing down on himself by being ridiculous, by choosing to try and get help from Robert Fripp of King Crimson and Peter Gabriel of Amnesty International, that, merely that, is telltale itself. Who would be that stupid? My father, after all, was Professor Emeritus in Bethany, West Virginia, just across the state from Fripp’s Claymont Society. The issue of non-violence under siege could have been taken to Dr. Ralph Proctor at WQED-TV or the King Non-Violence Center in Atlanta. Isn’t there something suspicious about a young man fresh out of high school with an impacted neurotrauma causing amnesia hitchhiking from Pittburgh to St. Louis to tell a guitarist he liked the music that he heard with all that was left of his hearing? You would think so.

 

Secrecy seems to be at work. Secrecy in fact so weird it is an Executive paradigm, child mutilation as National Security. Of course, this seems far out. While it has been confirmed that John Stockwell of the CIA followed James Crary to Allentown, PA where he worked at Commerce Plaza with Walter Hoderewski of Fripp’s Claymont School, and spoke about his past on the CIA on Crary’s birthday, you really have to understand that Acid Rock Fascism of the Fripp variety is as American as apple pie. Nothing irregular about any of that. American campus life is meant to be both brutal and prosperous. In fact, Crary being traumatized with having been shown state nuclear secrets by Scott Riback was eloquently answered by Chancellor Wesley Posvar of Pitt when he brought James Dubya Child of Hancor Institute to the rescue, assuring the whimpering liberal idealist he would be permitted to speak of it without fear. There is about all of this a very ribald practical joke, as it were. Of secrets, there is more than meets the eye.

 

It stands to reason that when with the help of imperial administrators like Chancellor Posvar both rock stars and super-conservatives are brought into soothsay concerning the discredit of testimony about torture by a hostage deaf child with neuroplastic head injury that all concerned would be sneering and laughing along the way in search of ways to make the sadism and mistreatment meaner and more insane. In fact, the truth of it is so wild already, on its own terms, that a farce could make a banquet for those of us already amused by the pretense that a free people are governable.

 

We find in the record testimony of a teacher named Mr. Kraynick of Reizenstein Academy that during his years at Fulton Elementary he had to run to his car after class to escape Kenneth Ferri, an armed and dangerous weird criminal who was only one of a huge armed and violent gang who got control of Jimmy Crary, putting my glasses in peanut butter as I sat too frightened to move. Kraynick was eager to work with my stepbrother David Lucarelli of 20th Century Fox and Rick Finkelstein, the music teacher I pleaded with in tears to help me escape a violent pedophile named Don Ostro who broke my sister Laura’s ribs and gave me fourteen stitches to the mouth. Finkelstein said no, but I’ll buy your synthesizer for 75 bucks and laughed, “Friendship is friendship and business is business.” Lucarelli was married into my family on the heels of my mother’s terrified escape from the neighborhood where I was molested as a child. He pinched some letters sent to me by Gail Burstyn and gave them to Fripp through Rusted Root and WQED with whom he was acquainted or worked in sound as proof that Fripp was just going to be fair in keeping a secret that no one dares tell, even now. A secret that would make you blush.

 

You see the closer you get to the heart of this narrative, the farther away you drift. It is an amazing myriad in that respect, consciousness of a sort so treacherous that one is beguiled. You don’t want to pause, wonder what’s this about rape, ripper homicide, child mutilation, instead you licky chops, oh, boy, what’s next in this story, because if you do not, well, then it’s just another whiner pimping his victimhood for a dime.

 

Of course, one can, technically, go the road of evaluation. We find in the script of Gail Burstyn the nauseating fact that Hollywood planned all this. In fact, the details of Burstyn’s script are rather fetching for their appeal to Nazi money instincts in the herd mentality. She went to Bryn Mawr and is now a rabbi. Her letters explain in great detail why they murdered Martin Luther King and why they were planning to kill John Lennon, a plan on which they made good and Robert Fripp held me blameworthy. This is interesting a good many respects because the cunning of Gail Burstyn resembles the mind of no one so much as Robert Fripp himself. King Crimson came out on the heels of the death of Martin Luther King, and the content of the first record was very adroitly recruited by Gail Burstyn for the presentation of cause in the murders of King and of Lennon. There is something altogether fetish and British Royal in the fact that they describe a war game called Two Virgins Pussyball clocked to the AIDS Onslaught and that the name Sinfield, Fripp’s partner, plays such an undistinguished role in the cover story offered by Britain for a premeditated AIDS testing war game on Mt. Desert Island conducted by Fripp’s cult of Gurdjieff. Sinfield’s Pussyball is said to have been an Experience Park devised from an intercept of the script all of the evidence which shows it to have been stage managed in advance meditation.

 

Burstyn says I blotted my copybook and this worked nicely when Peter Gabriel came advocating for Yoko Ono and Nancy Reagan ransoming me to slave labors as he pinched a nerve caused by impacted nerve trauma with libels told by the child molesters he recruited for his final call. Indeed, the NAACP at CCAC where I worked as a library clerk before the neuroplasm erupted and left me too disabled for anything but screaming in the streets of homelessness, were eager to work with Riback and Gabriel in an attack prostitution home invasion operation starring Rosa Monteleone who humiliated me by becoming engaged to me, so that the school administration could scoff at the idea that I was anything but a paranoid delinquent whose deafness must’ve been a result of self-sodomy or something. That people so powerful can be so sick is dreadful, but it is a lesson in how to remain mature if you ever shot as a hostage in a bank robbery, just remember, Reagan didn’t know, and you will be comforted.

 

I have a book by Eugene Ionesco signed by Akrim Midani that I find very curious as a keepsake. Ionesco wrote the play: Insulting the Audience, a marvel, I’m told, of the anti-theater movement. Midani was introduced to me by Brian Kaup after he and Matt Marcus of WQED read a letter I wrote of break up nature to Leslie Katz, a favorite of Fripp and Burstyn with whom they justified the AIDS testing war game on Mt. Desert Island that Zell of the Gurdjieff club organized with the help of John Stockwell on Mt. Desert Island. Ionesco, like Saalmun Rushdie is about free speech, like James Dubya Child, Rushdie is about both free speech and omerta, death threats for talking, death threats like those of the gang, some of them Black, most of them armed adults, all of them sadistic and brutal, who held me hostage at Ostro’s. Yet, in the end, we are clapping, for insults have been allowed, free speech has been deemed sacred, and although friends of the deceased grandparents may blush when little Jimmy is forced in tears by Fripp and Michael Reagan to tell again, yes again, how he cried after being bukkaked at the age of nine, Midori Goto and Zubin Mehta are on hand to clap their hands, yes, wonderful, exoneration is assured. You will remember of Matt Marcus that while working at MisterRogers Neighborhood he burned the arms of Noel and Page, one of them gangrenous, with a poker from the fireplace to bring them back to reality, so in the end we aren’t menaced or mortified, but morally reassured by the rape of Chin I and the slasher murder of Shannon Harps who served the bitter fairness of Fripp’s war game, because, well, we won’t say it, but the queers feel bit better for a while. How dare you say such a thing!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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