By: Mac Crary

    It was over so fast, like description of the lobotomy of Francis Farner.   I walked in to be looked at for exhaustion.  I was homeless.  The nurse orderly glinted maliciously and said my blood pressure was up, gave me an unwarranted medicine, dared me with his eyes not to take it, and in the blink of an eye I was castrated.  Gone all hopes of a romantic adulthood, a wife and a child, the comforts of dreaming soundly in harmony at night, my grandfather’s hopes for a dynasty, avoidance of pornography.  I’ve been mugged in a mall.  They were Vera skin, came over as gays with a vampire smile, they took my credit card and hid it under the cash machine, all but refusing to give it back to me.  I’ve heard they are associated with Israelis, which maybe explains the mall security tolerance of something so demeaning and alienating, painful to the elderly, always there ready and on watch like shark fish, their demeanor the full metal jacket gangs of Tel Aviv Police, pushing and slapping a Palestinian nobody, until in his pride he pushes back and is dead in an instant.  They took me with a laugh and I was thrown in the discard pile like a Vegas encounter with a gigilo who was accustomed to transmitting his AIDS and winning in court.  I was an empty set, given the black spot by an English who said so on the morning after 911 in Sit ‘n Spin: I sat there in shock but not awe, set with a receipt from their amusement park.  The so-called medicine they used endangered and affected my heart and led to diabetes, combo with the stomach poison so-called medicine it all significantly increased the odds of being wheelbarrowed out of classes in school as an adult student trying to make good on the long-deferred promissory note to an education, by Red Cross Emergency come to scoop up what Adam Eisenstat called, “refuse of an era” the debris of peace tie-dyes and the object lesson of Antidisestablishmentarianist counter-sexual activism.

       Yet it is easier for my friends in Our Commonwealth to accept this than it is to accept the truth which makes the whole thing double trickery.

       When Donald Trump is no longer President, people will forgive and forget the theme of his stampede in 2017 about Fake News and the media menace.  His swag normalizing contempt and dismissal of the plight of the world’s poor is already being smothered in the next month’s periodicals under the cherubic smile of Meghan Markle and Prince William.   What little is left of me will be fobbed off in a cardboard shrine for a bard rendered laughingstock and then pitiful by righteous hatred congratulated, to be forever wormtongued and backknifed as the man who cudda saved John Lennon, even though I was a child when the script came disguised as another child’s letters.  Therefore my testimony here is already a dangerous lampoon but announces how I know that Lennon faked his own death in an imperial device giving the United States a cover story for an AIDS war game on Mt. Desert Island alibi’d by Yoko Ono and her museum mafia in the name of the scriptwriter’s partners.  It is a popular culture tribute to Hitler’s vengeance announced for a jest.   It didn’t happen that Lennon was sacrificed symbolically to lead the AIDS warriors, which secretly is their conveyance, which they say adroit, brave, able minds can understand in their code, which is careful not to alarm or scare seniors.   My name was scripted in an illegal homework under Nixon and ransomed to an ultimatum that my only escape is accepting responsibility.  AIDS was like Northwoods, a test Kennedy failed when he refused to authorize a plan involving the sacrifice of Americans by the government in the name of the greater good.   The illegality of the mind-shattering abomination of it gloats to be holy war over abortion.  It bears British endorsement not least empowered by their refutation of the afterlife and claim to discovery of what they actually wrote and kept secret until time was ripe for a cowardly game of pin the tail on the prey.

       Our Supreme Leader is widely admired for showing a liberal pigeonholed for a symbol while still too young to understand what had happened to him in the night at the age of nine awaking all covered in goo.  What Mr. President means by superior manhood is attacking a deaf child blindside on the way to school.  This isn’t manhood but the act of a mouse.  Along comes the Black Panthers who imitate President Mouseman and laugh at the prey, too, calling it proof that they are men, too.  It doesn’t matter what they say, it only proves that they are micemen.  Even for communists using a golem hostage for brutal, traumatized self-dirtying as a oil strike for sadistic laughs is loathsome extremism.  Neurobedience is going a little too far even for the sacred moralists of the so-called anointed tribe of racial celebration, but you can’t reason with mousemen, they bang their Roman shields, hissing at JFK and King, a dreamer and an idiot, they say, who aren’t here to defend themselves, and as Churchill said of his own times:  They are afraid of words.  The only time my system was forcibly crashed at Pitt News was when writing of Mike Seate, the Black man with a huge swastika tattoo, partner of the Gail  Burstyn confederacy.   That Gail Burstyn worked for Oliver Stone is also very important.

       We are talking here about a dangerous hypnotic school of thought, led by a sybil of death.  It’s never fun making sense of what people say who don’t understand what you do.   Behind our society’s assumptions about what has happened is a complex set of storylines that the Beatles have unfolded which is heaped in disgrace if you comprehend them, but glorified if you simply accept their lies at face value, so they never offer a clear text, wangling that direct intuition works better.   On the subject of black experience they say it is better and pointless never to explain because the white can never, will never, understand what it means to be black.   Alexander Solzhenitsyn once wrote poignantly, “how difficult it is for a warm man to understand the concerns of a cold man,” but never understand?  Have they tried explaining properly?   It reminds me of the Maharishi on Dick Cavett being asked to perform levitation, squirming in his chair to utter, “we do not do this thing in public.”   Suppose I had the same prerogative of a Ph.D. with FBI blessing, to attack cruelly those who weren’t deaf, to humiliate them, mutilate them, deafen them, and spit they still don’t understand.  Our students aren’t Jewish nine year olds screaming with horror, fully alert, being pushed into the ovens of Sobibor to die in flames, our students will never understand, does that mean we should cook them up?  How dare you protest such empathy building?

       My girlfriend Kate from Montana believed in me, was sincere, and considered marriage.  She looked at college visiting me in Pittsburgh but could feel that something was hovering over me there.  She knocked me and said her goodbyes with love and friendship.   She knew I couldn’t both fight and research what was happening and be a normal, loving family man, even if a wife could be found to endure the problem of deafness, but the shadow over my house is a dark one, and very hard to make clear is there.  Not having actionable evidence is not the same thing as misidentification, and in a world that acts on misidentification, awareness that procedure is our most precious asset is much too rare.

     I’m starting tomorrow at my new friendly school Tacoma Community College with one scheduling revision from a class in History of the 60’s which was cancelled for low enrollment to Multicultural Communication which I think sets the stage to the idea that betrayal of the 60’s while clandestine was globally approved, a notion that makes me partial to a feminist position I read recently affirmative of fragmentation.   An honest person tends towards agnosticism even if they feel faith instinctively.  In this sense punk liberation theology of the sort I believe in goes against the traditional atheist of the anarchist per se.   God does seem to me an authoritarian abstraction meant to give the invisible bully to the power of tyrants.   Behind what King Crimson has done to me with a neurologically fomented neurosis based on character attack resultant of being unable to hear myself and shy about my bearing which led to the hypnotic paradox of being forced to accept peer rejection and ridicule as the rite of passage to allowances for my condition, which cause was denied.   This gizmo was from the Fine Arts Rebellion surrounding anti-clerical rage during the appearance of AIDS and became a bandwagon.   This was a study in market forces of commercial intents at Carnegie Mellon meant to depict the prey as rejected even by his own.

      Most of the Templar Ringwraiths of the Warren Commission were obeying a far more powerful Illuminati order.   I accepted the apology of the Mayor of Pittsburgh because the simple truth is I am very much like standing in his shoes.   The issue isn’t that AIDS untouchables were abandoned to their fates that fact is too basic to the new age of walls and obvious.  The text of the script was sneered at by the Beatles and Reagan as caca for Bangladesh, a communist scam to get help for unimportant people but the elite rabble rousers at work have traced back to this staged and phony discovery alliance.  How good to have your cake and eat it, too.   Trump’s ulterior designs on the USA and boob tube Obama’s halfwit Cold War New Order have shaken us down for weapons saying they thought we didn’t want them, given them to the old fascist order of the world in the name of North Korea and called it racial advancement even though Obama behaved like a monkey in a space suit.   What they called my role was more an incident, a fact they deny with lethality.    To fight me, they’ve engaged in the manufacture of unintended consequences, killing people set to the tune of my attempts to warn, and hollering, “See?  See?”    Yet there are glaring inconsistencies in their imposed meaning to events.

     In grave remission from the trauma of having my fiance taken cruelly and the school splattered with photos of my foetus in the butcher baby retaliation by McCartney and Trump, remote from the world, observers say it doesn’t seem to matter to a brother no more, and fault my usage more than anything, exclaiming over the poetry sense that Rosa didn’t manage to steal.  Experimental holocaust as hazing or special education seems tonic to syphilis addled heads professing ability to read the runic of the syphilitic ashiatas from the Bohemian Grove of Mickey Obama.   After all, holocausts happen and post-occurence analytics are just a season of graphs.