A few people who knew may reflect occasionally with the thought, what King Crimson did must have really hurt him, he really liked them.   In reality, the wound they inflicted is much worse than just what they have done to me, although that is their shield. There was, in my attempt to get help, the possibility of early intervention in the AIDS attack, and a saving grace.  It isn’t as if Woodstock Nation was entirely unequipped. Lennon didn’t even perform there. The song, “Four dead in Ohio,” with its sorrowful representation of the Chief Executive Officer, could have been harnessed to make clear that a sex bomb was ignited, the killers arrested, the nation warned, the affected mobilized to address the meaning of such an act in a crowded world and mobilized for climate change.   Instead, the British scoffed, said it was about money and went into closed quarters with Reagan to justify the war crime with a joke from Trump. King Crimson, who planned this all along has tried to make it look like my doing.

       There’s not really anywhere to go from here.   The plan they put into domination by secret government is so bird-brained and hateful it offers nothing but disgruntled persons despised by the new regime lighting forests on fire as a scorched earth reply to a society that cut them out.   King Crimson’s snickering, better go teach them peace, queerbait, before I shoot you is nothing new for them. King Edward’s villainy included this horrid revenge on Mahatma Gandhi. Martin Luther King himself was scripted by George Romero and Yoko Ono as a version of the sick Japanese film, “Audition,” with its main character getting the role of being wrapped in a plastic bag and ruthlessly injected, dissected, and subject to weird, disturbing infamies.  Dexter King? He went along with this sickness for publication rights.

      On Mt. Desert Island, an agent for Geffen, Don Denis, wrote a note, “you want responsibility for this?  I grab it back and pour it on you steaming. I hope it’s enough,” the night I broke out in scabies. When I got back to Seattle, years later, at the invitation of NWAsianWeekly and Jay Inslee, they poisoned me in the mouth with something dangerous enough that it may be spreading to my brain.  Insisting, throughout their hostilities ON BEHALF OF those who started AIDS that symbolic relief was being offered by the British/Germans in acts like the 911 attack, my assertion that the public’s Right to Know had been violated they answered, you love symbolism, too, with the murder of Saoirse Kennedy, again evoking John Lennon.

         A gang with the Dalai Lama has a group for the environment called REDD.  Well that’s what Gail Burstyn, the author of the script, used to say, “Jimmy is REDDDDDDD.”  It’s an indexicality from the plan. Obama’s Federal violence of a gang code direction shows the complicity of the entire staff of Democrats.  They called it Clean Up Time at the time of the attack. I guess that made the hypnosis at work in the 60’s Throw Up Time. Chow Yun Fat and Mi Yung Joo worked on me through a leathery fella outta Granger Morgan’s estate, while Seattle played old tunes, “You wrap all your money in a big brown bag...baby you’re a rich man, too.”  The Beatles were always glorifying the loot.  

         Playing as though money was proof of Godhead, Muhammed Ali, appearing on game shows with Reagan and stuff, arrived as back-up in Charles Bronson’s wife-stealing mission.   Who is Julian Castro to heap derision on anyone about forgetfulness? He doesn’t even remember what we stand for. As a child, I was planted in a backwater of society where I could be set upon by Karl and Colucci (lets call them Carlucci, for short).   Not one of the yokels braying from Seattle to the glory of Warhol admit what a shit the putrid behind the films “Gummo” and “Kids” are, they deny that they are cheering Epstein? They probably think they are scientists, lisping Arthur C. Clarke’s adage, “thometimes dispassionately they had to weed.”