I believe in education and where necessary its reform and concerned about the dialogue in politics that affects our school's diverse group and many legitimate, if divergent, opinions.  It’s easier to discuss, for example, politically, the sorcery conjured by the emotion provoked by the topics of abortion than the same of the topic AIDS, and yet this isn’t really cogent grasp of the fact that both concern sexual intercourse.   The categorical classification of abortion as an act of non-violence has caused problems because most people who love children do not see it that ways, as a result the failure to institute meaningful sex education as a way to address this significant majority subculture in opposition to legalized abortion, provided an opening for military pornographers to launch the AIDS attack and then bray, despite how criminal and brazen it was, that the evidence which proves this happened is, by their political recommendation, instead to be see as something else.  Endorsed by Warhol Museum, the Union have presented events in the mid-80's on Mt. Desert Island as a Special Education necessitated by caustic results of a neurological experiment conducted by the Jewish Holocaust Survivor Community with the awareness of Pitt Administration and the NAACP, seemingly so innocently. Virtual combat is implicit.  No one is supposed to address this affair.
        Touching briefly on the ruin and injuries they inflicted, a long monologue from the Veterans was in voice over, sneering that I wasn’t man enough to be heard on the subject of opposition to the Vietnam War as a child when they chose to attack me in slaughtering blows blind side.  Meanwhile they have engineered to advance a representation of my testimony concerning torture as criminal mischief at best, and use of social media for terrorism. Apparently to manufacture and pad this justification for cancellation on freedom of the press and right to know laws, rules of journalism, and community ethical standards, my outreach is often cast as asking for censorship or reprisal.   How does my investigation fare as an academic question? Martha Gellhorn seemed to weigh in for a war game in asking me, do you have AIDS, with limited insight as to how I might feel as a child in the 60’s who worked in a Medical Library when the pre-treatment atlas arrived with tragic, tragic images and criminal mischief, at best, was at work in Washington.  How my heart was lacerated.
         Given the political direction of the 60’s, why weren’t questions about the mysterious appearance of the germ questioned in the context of a severe military junta promoting a brutal moralizing agenda while pursuing an arrogant Christian apocalyptic Arms Race?   What gives: in the pattern of names, Ronnie and Kasper, behind the men who brutalized me? How many times will those Gellhorn characterized in a letter to me about this situation as “unconcerned and unaffected” evade recognition that these same names were on high, Reagan and Weinberger, but also in the attacks long before anyone knew they would be in office?         The problem recurs in a letter written to a Congressman, Mike Doyle, back home today, provided here below as an Open Letter:

Dear Mr. Doyle,

            I realize I am not ethnically the preferred type of the City of Pittsburgh and that my father, Chair of Philosophy of Education at Pitt, was deemed too powerful and intellectual of an outsider to embrace by the various persons who were more settled there, but I want to convey a picture of a specific incident when I was 14.  I lived on Bartlett and was a freshman at Taylor Allderdice High School. My neighbor saw blood marks in the snow. By the standard of County of Allegheny this man, Leonard, was a professional detective, he followed the blood and to his dismay he found me in my pyjamas in the freezing cold, in shock and awe, with a gaping wound in my face.  He took me to the hospital. It required 14 stitches. No one asked why an adult had inflicted yet another of a series of slaughtering head wounds (there was no reason), why I went deaf, why I was a virtual orphan with a father like mine, why I was sexually attacked for years by Warhol Museum in the rages of Peter Gabriel on a bizarre, misleading race warpath towards me, after he came shopping our city for precious children he could sacrifice to his sinister cosmic assassination mentality.  Now we have a ringleader of character assassination towards liberals like me after years and years of politics of murder, torture of a child, on high in merciless D.C. Yet you cannot even follow the blood in the snow and see what these predators are doing who so many in Pittsburgh think are the high bishops who alone fathom the nature of reality, the shepherds of sacred lottery spoils, etc. This situation is criminally insane. Who is going to explain to the history books of County of Allegheny the insane tragedy that Kuntu Repertoire theater and Oliver Stone, who all but directly addressed me about it, have authored in Gabriel's glove for assassins in Japanese pornography?  Is there some doubt that Yoko Ono was behind it? Gabriel provided the card of her attorney when he announced hostilities. Who will speak for the silent, weak child they molested? Andrea Swimmer? The forceful call girl who Braunstein/Blumenfeld crowd in the jet set of our neighborhood set upon me while I was being savagely beaten and held hostage in a state of pre-linqual trauma? It is insane Michael. You have to stop the Warhols from letting this speak for what Dr. Proctor calls a “province” of Pennsylvania. The alternative is a battle with my pen, because I know what this means. Warhol, a friend of Trump, chose Pittsburgh to act locally and think globally.  Do the children of your Public Schools mean nothing to you?

       So there is my letter and who is this mysterious adult, what was his name, who gashed my face with such force and left me abandoned to wander without comprehension in the depths of a Pennsylvania winter snow?  His name was Donald. This does not ask for a detective? The grounds are perfectly legitimate and straight forward.
       I realize that mention of psychology from a period in history in a text that calls for an investigation of evidence in a crime might seem to be a digression, but there’s no real shortcut to asking for knowledge to attend awareness.   Once my mother Nancy and Laura, after we moved from the District where I was mauled, sat one on a chair, the other prostrate on the couch, bemoaning in wails to the high heavens what seemed to be a major disagreement, when I calmed them down from their tears, one was saying, so what’s wrong with going back to school and starting at Community College, and the other was saying the same.  This resolved the issue pleasantly and I felt to have been an effective diplomat.   
        Greg Karl had terrorized our family upbringing with notions of parochial dishonor.  A catty individual he meant his beastly incrimination and character assassination to hurt.  Frank Zappa did the same thing cosmically in publication industries but influentially back home with a different tack, to sneer that you were a dog for allowing words to hurt you.  In Seattle and in Pittsburgh, persons of peer status made clear they abhorred me and that to care made it worse. From this framework evolved a very bizarre sensibility about cultural ascendancy during the AIDS attack. The fumes of exorcism in the hands of acid rock stun the mind who detected the upload. Hollywood’s big adventure. It is well known that in exploring his Hollywood past I identified how that big shot Reagan went about advertising his role in Kennedy’s execution with a film called The Killers while professing to be Bigfoot, oh what a no man's theory, no doubt Godzilla’s big foot when he met Bambi in the famous cartoon short.
       Trump is a strange man to be dividing our people on catcalls of a double standard.  He doesn’t exactly meet the infidel test of womanizing meted out to JFK. Trump recently pulled a nightmare stunt assassinating someone he hated and then threatening cultural assets in the target community, and it seems to me this is wherein Caesar crossed the Rubicon killing JFK and then teaching, like the brilliant side in the film The Incredible Two-Headed Transplant the moron side how to walk.  When Donald left my mouth gaping with a widened hole he no sooner had said, “You think I won’t! You think I won’t!” when threatening a nuclear blast after claiming his friend Space Ape was building one, a sacred individual in Pittsburgh, having designed the stained glass for the Police martyrs church in Bloomfield District.
      My education has always come in bits and pieces because of the long struggle with deafness before I was learned sign.  I have a question at school quite relevant to all of this, as an emotional person, despite my trauma. This is an inquiry about creative writing tutor assistance from culturally competent persons in the area of Islamic Studies.  The simple question concerns a search for a third sort of Mourning tradition, somewhere closer to Dua than Janakah (jakanah?). My goal is simple enough. A double arithmetic is powerful in American military affairs.  It defined the victory of Reagan over Martin Luther King coming out of the Vietnam War when African American nativism drove home a privileged idea of Civil Rights that largely abandoned human rights, although divestment went on concerning what we accept abroad.   In this framework, the Iranian attack on Iraqi allies was greeted for "all is well," (the bogus man) because Americans were uninjured. The pursuit of new double arithmetics, the slurring of liberalism, for example, is ongoing (and it is a difficult question where Islamic foundations place mutually in liberal American society, if we exist), but this presents an emotional imperative of granting recognition somehow in the literary arts to the forgotten allies our leader brushes off for being Muslims, therefore insignificant and unworthy of recognition.  Rather than surrender myself to insouciance regarding the brutal and abhorrent condition of disconnection being enculturated, I remain very truly concerned.
      If school can't put together any direction for tutoring, that's okay, at least I tried to express the vacancy.
              The reason I haven't gone directly to tutoring, and am asking around, is that I'm not sure they would be the persons who are in touch with the Muslim community, although I will ask them or Student Government about any clubs.  I tried talking in passing to a fellow student I took to be a Muslim, but she thought it was a strange question and just said no. A teacher who has the field of literature at heart but also has reached out concerning the Muslim Student Association was unable to help, feeling it would only make the Muslim students uncomfortable.  If it were a Jewish occasion a writer could read Kaddish or write a poem of that name, as Ginsberg did (I've never managed to finish it) or in English a dirge, or something, but these practices surrounding death, Dua and Jakanah I've found in Google Scholar don't sound exactly right, since they assume them to be for one thing a concern for practicing Muslims, which I am not, and I need someone patient who might give me the benefit of the doubt in terms of my desire to explain my anguish and remorse about what I've seen.
     You see, in history, like in Japan, for example, the 20's and 30's had a lot of resistance and altruism that gets shunted to the side, inconsequential, they say, even about Weimar intellectuals, because they failed in the grand picture, to stop the mania, but they sometimes have made a good account of themselves and are genuinely worth noting, especially if we are reaching for an understanding of the lost or left out.  So somewhere in that is the issue: a poem of mourning for friends on the other side of a recognition line.  Personally, I am in favor of the liberal vision that capacities should be a priority in the humanities and not warfare spending.  Therefore, I still explore human rights.

I can, I suppose, still manage:

Coffeehouse poem for those lost in an Iraqi mortar attack directed at Americans.

Friend, I remember you.
Sometimes you were happy we were there.
Other times it was as though the sky has fallen and yet
you were neither my friend, nor was I there.
At times, being told to be silent
is better advice than its motive would portend.