Just because things rhyme, Crary, does not mean they are connected, I know, but they do overlap enough on occasion that under the circumstance it seems advisable in such an event to compare signature and fingerprint not just to projekct the claim of a priceless forgery, because I fear that the truth is much more strange here, AH for Alfred Hitchcock being an example that springs readily to mind.  My mother, Nancy Jane Moore, told me she refused to see, “Psycho,” while pregnant with me. The abortion symbolism is buried in that image for all to see, perhaps it extends to my double loop ring’s disappearance over which she said, “I’m just sick about it.” Maddeningly for a soap opera poet obsessed with such verses, Ryland told me they divorced over stillborn twins. She also mysteriously asked for a Trophy Cup daddy discreetly hid under his bed, waiting for his fifth wife to leave, and told me to get.  It was in my closet after his death when she asked, “I wonder whatever became of that awful cup.” It was missing one of three walrus tusks. Again, her letter mentioned an image from the house she delivered me to, that of Wattenmaker, who loved the scene in Joan Crawford’s Berserk Nancy seems to borrow describing the work of Ian MacDonald as a spike through the head. Intricacies in poetry do not inherently involve crime, but it was the pun writer Steve Langer who told me, “rhyme doesn’t pay.”

       Cyril Wecht loves masks.   He has them all over his house, like Dr. Proctor.  Together they lived to promote The Story of the Bird by Gail Burstyn and whoever Joy was.   But by identifying the gurus of grave secrets we do not quite disclose the invisible Caligula.   

      As I write, Wuhan has been hit hard by a 911 attack that resembles the anthrax of yesteryear, and you may remember how afraid I am of Diamonda Galas’ high risk mandate, sometimes promoted by the gurus of the Elders as the Blessed Union of Souls whereby those who hate the collective organized one, promoting it as delusion, and fixed a pyre.   All is well, because the Elders know the collectivity of the mind’s sublime inherency, and so on.

        It is to be noted that while we were in the era of 21st century digital disconnect that we have only just barely begun snapping out of, the bees disappeared.   Bayer, Monsanto and Geffen seem to be determined to take all of earth as a souvenir to hell. What follows in this essay should untie the hands of Law Enforcement in defense of our society and our children.   The attackers conceived of my role as a prisoner’s dilemma for testifying. The likely author, Durrenmatt, was endorsed by Vaclav Havel. The core group, Reagan, Elizabeth Taylor and Company saw themselves as a theater group assigning their roles to second person saying darkly, if we lampoon ourselves the guilty will be our lampoon. Obama was a tawdry little bought boy who was out in the woods morally with the scriptwriters, basically the Johnny Cochran of Kennedy’s killers.

       I have mentioned in the past, often in desperate straits due to the profile developed to hide torture at Fulton Elementary School, how devastated I was when a black student’s notebooks were kicked by a white antagonist.  One reason for black bias towards me is that it is well-known that I stand or fall by Western Enlightenment. Ayn Rand would have conceptualized, I believe rightly and so I would say understood the kicking of the student’s notebooks as transcending race, and being a program of hatred and spite for the mind.  Black on black intellectual violence came with South Africa’s mission. One could argue an ingenious, even Krugerand, symbol in the gold coin given to me by Brecher only half of which was the one found in the guide book, either as a metaphor for Public Relations or still worse as a symbol of a hidden leader behind the killing of Kennedy.   

       My father had a saying, “Let’s not and say we did.”   I’ve come to wonder if my father was really the man he claims in the book.   Certainly, I am the one meant to believe he was, and for whom it was scheduled to make a stand by the ideas of the Texas Schoolbook.   Recall, if you follow my affair, that The Humanist, which I never knew papi to subscribe to, started in Jan. 1964 with a bi-sected image of JFK very similar to the bi-sected image that month of King in Jet.   The Humanist, which was evidently part of a play in what Riback called The Setting for a Tragedy (multi-media) that fateful year featured Robert Anton Wilson, still going strong doing introductions to Washington state ecology books in the 21st century as perhaps JFK or many more children of his would be had he not been such a juicy object lesson for the tribe.  “Let’s not and say we did,” is a very overbearing slogan when you discover the real meaning of Caspar, Casper and Kasper representing both Star Trek and Hitler in Argentina as shown by the courtroom scenes in the trial and death of Jack Ruby, also known as Rubin, a trafficking figure in Dallas. Yet when father was done in, and I do recall his real surprise and remorse at the death of Roberto Clemente, his obituary was defaced, like his son, with the scrawl Donohue, a taunt meaning whodunit.

       Although there is a scary perniciousness to their campaign of murder and refusal by police to address the cloak and dagger show, the idea that Reagan was shot, framed, and Lennon killed withers under the most trivial attempt to speak English about the affair because normally, you would think, that the stalwarts of the 60’s when faced with Mark David Chapman and his Israeli script allegedly found by the Warhols who planted them on me through a lucky agent of 20th Century Fox living in my house would seek to confound the premises and logic of such a mission but such an idea, arranged as a partnership of Reagan and Lennon’s support system, misses the point of the British co-production.  Foucault’s disciple Sean Strub was on hand to begin spinning a narrative presence in the AIDS attack to come, meanwhile a namesake of Dia was on the phone with me as her hostagehead. The truth is that instead of stopping a gangbang going on by the gang behind the script, McCartney acted like the old man in a WW2 story during the liberation of France who broke a child’s arm for an apple, in fact, in the case of King Crimson, the child was in the process of offering him the apple when he did it.

        This agency also allowed a book by Hans Jurgensmeyer which presented the very same sudden reversal of cause as a tribute to uncanny insight beyond the obvious call of learning.  His book about religious fundamentalism and the military, which might have sounded a clarion call against the Holy War dimension of the Church illness-ness of the attack, instead postured to decoy with but ah ha, perhaps we are jumping the gun.   All this was going on like Mark Lane in Jonestown as San Francisco cried over the spilt blood of Harvey Milk, brushed aside by the twinkie defense. Zappa cued the Gays to say in time with Jurgensmeyer aha but Reagan had a point about Jimmy Creary.

         After this little dance over Leslie Katz, the gang at Navos Psychiatric while construing the AIDS attack still focusing on UW’s obsession with me as antifa there was every reason for the bedouins of Foucault to celebrate.  Mania rejoices to this hour. It wasn’t just those using abortion to depict Creary as Hitler incarnate who left Moonunit Zappa unhinged, it was also the pro-abortion sorority united as one, making mincemeat of the queerbait who was coached by Leslie Katz’ handler Tami Simon with the words, “I the dreamer clinging yet to the dream as the patient clings to the last succulent thread of unbearable agony in order to succor the savor of the pain’s surcease.”   How Foucault can you get?

        The kids at St. Louis Today Forums are not really traitors against the hitchhiking music generation and they do see in the inspiring action of China to fight Wuhan plague the acts that Penis Gabriel shouted down in evil hour, and I what I have long conveyed as the stigma boom, which was scripted by the reference to horses running to a burning barn.

          A student from Haverford Boys College who would sing to Gail Burstyn, “Life would be a dream, shaboom, if I was with you,” (which Leslie ole Katz derisively mocked as, “Shabon if I was with you,” also quipped a pseudo-intellectualism to Burstyn with a kiss he said, “Post-Critical Analysis.”   Katz used to head out to the woods with Amy Shapiro to crow at the top of their lungs, “Gonna rape kill pillage burn and eat babies.” This is the outfit whom Navos and the Lesbians for Magical Religion in Colorado sociology evoked to pour diabetes, erectile dysfunction and heart electric malfunction upon the ghost their Rubin gang held in Kings Estate and gassed.

         Nothing has ever stopped the Pgh. goblins at work in this from poaching one another despite their common cause.   Therefore it wasn’t real hard for Ono to gratify some grudges and get their cheap and drooling undivided. Hip Hop, in my experience, is open to review for paranoid envies and dogma that announce their cause from the street with such conviction that they will never accept, acknowledge or understand Moxyland, the theme also of Melvi Belli’s And the Children Shall Lead.  Nevermind, they say, that Galas was with Burstyn all along. Why? Because the flamboyant soothsayers of King Crimson have jumbles of occult that beckon to the good life of Mick Jagger-Stoval by a jumble of self-regarding esoteric notions like Gurdiev’s cursing bell ringer foiling hate by primal screams, for the foilers of the Synod.

        Vince Eirene who wormtongued a rogue gossip column empowered by Ringo Starr, whose agent in Pittsburgh Saul Brecher knew Marzlak as well as Marzlak knew Zappa, generated a hoary revolution that was never televised with the help of Sheen, Shiono, Ono, Ruth Hammer and Dolly Meieren, redoubtable ideological double of Sean Strub, covering for child torture and trafficking at Fulton Elementary School by Ronnie Z and his big cardboard tube, flanked by Elizabeth Trautwein and the future Jehovah’s Witnesses of Taylor Allderdice, announced his street puppet show with a campaign against war toys full knowing that was exactly what King Crimson had planning in the wind.

I had just attended a meeting of the Chinese students’ Tea Club in their service for UW Sociology when I learned that I should be best advised to drop my last Math requirement to graduate for inadequate mastery when the news blew in from Wuhan. Karma calling.