Open Mic Night somewhere I just usually like to read a poem since I think giving dramatic voice to a verse is good, but due to my age and past people wonder if I am really healthy in my spirit and psyche and I started thinking what if I gave a synopsis of my life. I'm not really going to but maybe if I had to briefly, it could go something like this.

It sometimes seems like the movie set started for me when I was 12 years old, essentially alone when attacked blindside by what I realized were armed men. It was like being shot, I flew face down. I had never seen the assailant before. The ordeal was extremely cruel, made sadder by the fact that some of the bandits documented it, spelling out that kidnapping was involved, with a so-what attitude because I was targeted for being a liberal, the most despised race in America. We had to move because I became too traumatized to go to the area high school. I disappeared from elementary school for months, no one asked what was going on, or where I was, or seemed to notice that I was missing.

We moved back to a Jewish Holocaust Survivor Community where I grew up. I was deaf now. I read deeply into history books. By then the Jewish Community had taken to sort of promoting me as a joke. Apparently they, at least, knew what a fall it was for the son of Pitt's Chair for Philosophy of Education. In 1984, which are the first digits of my Social Security card, I was put to work in Falk Medical Library and saw the untreated deaths from AIDS in the earliest books to arrive. Since I was the type to question, in fact, John Stockwell, formerly of the CIA, who went around the lecture circuit in American schools showed up in Allentown, PA on my birthday in 1987, I think this tendency of mine, to question, and look deeply into the history books, being raised almost Jewish, as my stepbrother, in fact, is, gave a cover for disturbing things, to make a joke of it.

At this time, you have to understand, I still thought life was marvelous. Even though I had to work two full time dish-washing jobs to keep up in Maine's National Park, my poetry was getting circulated and the newspaper hired me. This was the time when some important people wrote to me, the turn of the 90's, like Martha Gellhorn, to whom Ernest Hemingway had dedicated For Whom the Bell Tolls, Eugene Sledge author of With the Old Breed and some rock stars. A murderer was more and more openly hunting me to poach.

Although I loved my life still, despite being deaf, I mean not that many people, much less with 98% hearing loss, can play piano with the identity, diction and accent that I yield when I have a chance to play a baby grand that has a tone that reaches me. This killer put a stop to that. My inclination to political lore gave him just what he wanted: a way to make it look like he had come up with a fantastic joke among his friends and cronies, what if we take away Mac Crary's rights because he doesn't have AIDS!!? The idea got around. Martin Sheen came into Pittsburgh's homeless community, talked to a Catholic Worker from my elder sister's class named Vince Eirene, found out that he was advocating for the child molesters who held me in grade school, and that he hated me. Driving me into homelessness for two years, he also got the ear of the local NAACP and petrified them with a story that a white, a White! was going to get rich from being a victim if they didn't take measures. So it was a real happy ending for Pittsburgh's East Liberty District where all this happened.

The nerve agent that boils in my facial nerve was semi-coma inducing and no one but them knew it was there. I was a frozen child, constantly terrified, not daring to move. Because I was raised to a non-violent philosophy, due to the times, I was considered non-masculine and after I fled to Seattle, UW nursing administration, again as a joke, chemically castrated me. It was the sort of thing that gave voice to the idea I had done something wrong which is ridiculous. The artists at work think this is particularly funny because my father was in the radio room broadcasting off the coast of Japan when the Little Boy bomb was dropped. UW serial comedians glog up my home attempts to socialize about poetry with sort of social ultimatums, cater to this transvestite now for credibility among the Warhol Gummo lobbies or Yoko Ono may make good on her worst serial poison threat, pimping the idea of me as emotionally damaged goods and them as producer savants.

Clearly, this is elder abuse in a disturbing lifespan ordeal by persons from Warhol who put on a scare. They have dared me to go in any deeper journalizing because of the bias towards me impugning their fame induces.

It's too sad of a story to tell at Open Mic.