Sure it makes a brother cry to be castrated by the company of the man who stole his fiance while his so-called friends look away.  It was their way of consecrating the slander and method they used in abomination. There’s no open review of the English eccentrics behind the casework.  I wonder if their droves of minions, the stock of consumers who aren’t allowed anything better, would continue to admire them if they knew how hateful, disappointing and misleading they are, or would there be disillusionment of the sort that lashes out at me night and day?    Sort of validation of the maxim, don’t be the bearer of bad news. Still, one look at UW and you realize that America courts being another country, like post-Stalin Russia, without a history. When you quote anonymous, probably violent people in admiration of a social movement you may protect identities, but you dissolve the academic commitment to diplomacy and comportment, what then?  At least, you should have the courtesy to the reader to admit: there may have been other things someone wanted to say about these purported heroes but didn’t dare.

         Anyone who knows Pittsburgh, no telling who all was behind them, Gordon War College or something, realizes a few obvious and telling facts about what was done to me:  first, it was a frightful, widely shared inside joke that while I was trying to get help from Reagan, they were keeping secret that Fripp was his agency man (with Donald Trump all along), and that everyone knew except me.   This allowed Fripp and Reagan to play like there was a dispute, and this allowed them to fulfill the plot of Yojimbo, calling it a secret world play on messy information papers.

          Thos. Hale and N’dour, two brain-rapists, are still trying to help Michael Reagan get to his favorite, “what’s Jimmy hidin’?” scene.   This Harvard sect, put together by someone Obama cultured juvenile post-traumatic welcome-of-me into little clubs of fake approval by way of a persona they invented.   Greg Karl used to say, “Jimmy is going to perform for us.” The idea of Death Before Dishonor, a martial law credo, was impinged on a child as a higher savant’s look into the nature of the cringing worm behind the atom bomb.   They demanded total humiliation and beyond (a school did this!) in return for buying time in an attempt to warn peers under conditions of slave labor in a hostile environment described by the assassins as a pigeonhole to die trying in.

         Assassins, they are.   What the killers in Dealey Plaza, Cord Meyer, Jacqueline Onassis, et alia did was give cover fire while dropping back to hand to hand combat, victory of the Cro-Magnon over the elitists.   They invented whatever storyline fit, because public consciousness to them is malleable. So is your reputation among friends. Whatever they’d rather say.

        Away ago, way back when, Temple University, before Union watchdogs were appointed to my classes, granted a hearing before Honors when I rejected an A from Prof. Jackson in sophomore English I had audited because it would have been a black mark on my otherwise red record.  Peter Tasch looked at my straight F’s and said, “For the temerity of trying something like this I will grant you a hearing.” He saw, after a conversation, that I belonged in higher education but was still trying to find my element, faced the obstacle of hearing loss, and let me take Sufism with Seyyed Nasr.   Nasr’s influence helped me focus on the impacted neurotrauma that was shaking up my psyche and eventually find it in physicality, in Iowa, in screams beyond screams, get it to pop open. I looked like hell.

           The loyalists to gangs behind it just love that they pulled this off, their loyalties are to an ideology they call the Feral Code.   They can’t wait for their Pentagon Disney limelight moment to say, “How dare YOU of all people accuse John Lennon of being behind it.”  Would you care to see the evidence?

         It must gall you, who can’t imagine the shock and loss, to hear that I am still a man, that in a life of searching for love, especially with obstacles like deafness, you don’t really want a woman you loved to be replaced.  Some betrayals are so ugly there’s no other word for them. Even though I realize the Comanches of hostile learning are going to keep up their acid-laced orientalization of martial pseudo-investigative tactics, the one thing that’s still okay is that I have made it possible for concerned peers to know.  It’s a drag it makes them unfriendly.