I wish that I could make it illegal for you to refuse to read this because it would make the situation a little more fair to be able to hold you legally bound to admit you read and therefore understand what it says. The crime I have suffered, which has rendered terror an endemic condition, comes with a weird absence of remorse among those who pretend they don’t know what I am talking about. For them, it seems to be an educational experiment, a study in depriving a badly injured victim of torture of rights, a concentration of mockey.

The script written by the Union as a narrative for this play, as they see it, in which they taunt me as performing for them, focuses their eye in the door image on the way a little girl was hired by Wattenmaker, an Attica State Prison psychiatrist, to seduce me when I was six months older than her, 13 years old and 12, as though to say, for The State of Washington Patrol who castrated you without trial after taking custody of your arranged intended, a woman playacting for this purpose, the issue begins with a statutory question. 12 TWELVE 12 ~ a big number a the rage in these parts. The symposium of assassins, in other words, doesn’t open the book five years earlier when a huge, rusty nail was put in my grilled cheese sandwich, underside, at a downtown Pittsburgh restaurant where my father had taken me. Nor does it address the armed gang of men who brutally attacked me blindside and from whom I had taken in hiding with this person, De De, from the Wattenmaker play in which she is openly cited by the Israeli author as grounds for the murder of Martin Luther King. Nor the nerve agent they inserted for the fun.

Mistreatment of the vulnerable and defeated is, for one side of the fence in our world, so normal (I see it in Chinatown/Little Saigon) that the face of pity has been studied by studios as a floor plan for getting the truly needy eating out of their hands, meaning the haves giving leftovers past expiration and worse, to the have nots in the most vicious cases in return for slavery services, sexual access, Dr. Andrew Cho would exquisitely say, in fact, Rotterdam Womans’ Conference has determined that sexual trafficking and bondage almost always begins with love overtures. This conforms to my experience of recording artists at Amnesty International, and what they were doing and setting up while I was busy trusting them. Still, it surpasses credit that in 2021 we are already a society from climate change famine where a crime so serious it advertises the impossibility of legal remedy is somehow a new normal. In fact, for testifying, I am given a fish as though on display at SeaWorld.

There is some satisfaction in at least trying to help peers become literate against a giant attack, but it is only in knowing I have tried. I’ve always tried. Greta Thunberg’s voice was the brightest light of hope I have ever seen. Imagine my dismay when she turned up with Attenborough, long suspected of being in on the Little Girl De De, and with Amnesty International’s gang of poachers. Greta upstaged a lot of people but her purpose may have been pointedly to humiliate me. It has about it a theory of love, emanating this time from the media beam, after the Act in the Play of the Intended, a torpedo/vacant hottie who ran off with the State of Washington who did the knife to the play thing. All of which came from Warhol, who still toy with me in downtown Seattle, and Yoko “WOMEN ARE IN CONTROL” Ono.

As a victim of group prey in the family structure, too, the State Department enjoys having the control of me as a deaf person confused about how to proceed and kept in isolation away from advice except, of course, to comply; and now I’m almost 61, in a bizarre pandemic. I was the age Greta was when I began singing her tune and have seen the world’s societies squander an opportunity to shake off the Final Solution, which is where the Trump/Ono alliance came from, after JFK was exampled, the sweet cheat gone. In my family, my father left his third wife, my mom, who had my elder half sister’s name for her middle name, the first and last of which matched Strom Thurmond’s bride and mother moved us to Winterton Street where sister Jane lived and I could be poached easily by Wattenmaker. Jeffrey, sister’s hubs, was a Blackfoot Sioux offspring who built dams in Japan and worked at J & L Steel a long time, capable, in fact, of designing the foundries. His lookalike, Mancine, De De’s brother, waylaid me for Manson Films, NEVA, a porno giant, the Israeli Script naming their other sister Neva Mancine, and Nobuko, the Japanese star of Children of Hiroshima, for a Japanese smut organizer, (there’s on at the nuclear bunker in old films of Jack Ruby) named Robert Lee. Pap was a radio room Lieutenant off the coast of Japan in WW2, so he was followed, I mean, by who? Gus, the first wife, the only time I saw her she looked at me with dreadful hatred and pain.

Due to the fact that they wrote of “impingements” and used tawdry old Andrea Swimmer, Pittsburgh chick on hand for Martin Andelman of Wells Fargo to announce they all knew me by, as the source for Adrian Belew and Robert Fripp, getting me to regurge something in outrage they’d played into my ears while in hostage, it is possible that my father’s adage, “Let’s not and say we did,” which he liked to play at various times, and which, in fact, is the truth about the Houdini job in Lennon’s Double Fantasy, was not his CIA breeding on Bush’s ship, but learned.

I can figure things out. Brian Duchin at Code Red College would often make verbal note if I offered a comment to the effect, did you raise your hand? It may be that the way I got letters from Martha Gellhorn and Courtney Kennedy, the latter when Peter Sinfield and Attenborough decreed we would “taste the sweet and sour,” is why school finally allowed me to take classes, often with my tormentors from long ago. It’s always something other than being awkward because deaf with them, and a laugh, because an unarmed poet has no military credibility, just look what Police got done with wifey, hahahahahahahaha.