Everyone who reads me now knows that power has defeated dignity, law and the United States in the AIDS attack abetted by an enemy within.   The transition to understanding this fact and the difficult work of its occupation asks a smooth representation of the truth for focus, learning and the impossible request of acceptance.   The looters attend this freedom to know. As they like to say, they impinge. Anyone who respects schools, learning and the Western tradition knows that study can lead to comprehension and moral study particularly to necessary reform.   This issue is not an exception. There are ways to clarify the situation by reference to the tall tales of the aggressor and by historic comparison from which we are not yet entirely cut off by digital disconnect systems in place towards that finality.   

     Amanda Harcourt, the lawyer for the Beatles and Warhol Museum, who lied about all this for decades, is a joke, I mean, not that ripper murder is funny, which has been one of her tactics, but her lobby is the New York Times and there lies the absurd theater.   Very recently, these weird and un-American molesters of the news crowed that James Garfield’s murder was a non-event, and believed their whole hearts that in so crowing they rendered it so. From a student standpoint, meaning from someone expecting a teacher, that’s obviously ridiculous.   Garfield went against segregation 18 years before the Plessy verdict at his Inaugural and was shot over the 14th Amendment. Now the Teddy Boy syndicate would have you not know that and believe that because some dumpster offed him that his only spiritual legacy was the misuse his talented pen was put to by the Silver Shirts and Silver Beatles mocking him in Confederate derision by a form of Indian slander.     The man was truly great, and more to the point he gave his life in gratitude to the value of Black Americans. Well, Amanda Harcourt would tell you no, and you would be expected to believe it, endorsed by The New York Times, but that is not alone the explanation that works quite well really in exposing the superficial absurd theater of Britain waging war on America in crimes dating back to Oswald Mosley, a partner of General Edwin Walker in the murder of JFK, a fact kept out of the news.

          You will rebel of course, and unsettled you will declare that being wrong once doesn’t prove a policy of lying.  No one says it does but them. Factually speaking Harcourt is from the frauds who killed Garfield and her garble contains the same oath of derangement as the gunman who set back Civil Rights a hundred years.   To the New York Times this is nothing and they are very suspicious of anyone who feels differently. I don’t want to belabor the point because there’s other ways of explaining why they like themselves than the success of adding insult to injury, or their proud gurgling of hiring superficial dacoits to wreck beautiful dreams.  In order to Impeach the Giants of The Beatles from their White Album seat as gloved hands behind the curtains of the Imperial Wizard of the White House, more than one very obvious exposure of their deranged mind must be entered into discussion, quickly, for murder is their routine. The snipers offer interesting discussions of course and love to lecture on proper procedure.   This primarily constitutes an obsession with sex snivels over the privacy rights of the other, and occupies their mentality as lewd slurs from the forked tongues of concocted race rage deployed in second line formation by human traffickers to prevent escape after mandatory services. They have gunned down people who tried to help me. A scientist who testified that scars on my eyes corroborate my testimony of unspeakable childhood beatings lives under the shadow of British murder, and the State of Washington support the criminals, not the victim.

         Proof that they started AIDS is a possible Death Penalty case so there is no doubt the government wants it derided.   The best defense has been to orchestrate our entire society into a madhouse of accomplices. Warhol just tossed some change on the sidewalk about it.

          Now my notes contain examples of critical problems to solve.  For example one from today: Bronson, Lincoln, Biggs, Nathan.   It’s a serious problem. It contains a neuro fibrous junction of important stuff difficult and unwieldy but critical to informed understanding of inner workings suggestive of a plan to give appearance of racial division while secretly working together on the attack, a backknife leading directly by evidence to Britain.   I face this as a very difficult task, very stubborn but necessary problem to solve. It has come up in my notes in the past and disappeared as marginal, too hard, or hoping to be found again. Let me try to crack it this way under the light of such an introduction. It may even yield the purpose of providing another glimpse of the over obvious being neglected.  Or it may yield at least material by which guarded scrutiny can prevail over allegations of inflated ideas about what went on.

        Bronson’s film that came out with the heavy attack by Kasperowski who had his veiny arms was The Mechanic, with a woman like Julie Sellers doing what she did, and the odd remark, “chicken lickin’ is lickin’ chicken,” that so well describes the routine that went on about me over Leslie.   Bronson had a namesake in Dealey Plaza and was famous for announcing intent to steal another man’s wife, in that case as a symbol of stealing the country on the day they punished Kennedy. The assassins, including Kasperowski, drove me around as a kidnap victim in a golden Lincoln Continental they called a stolen Lincoln cont and the main thief was named Ronnie Goldie, outside the house of Charles Biggs, a black man, who knew the name of every car by sight, a friend of Gellomini.  Another Pittsburgh organized black criminal in this sacrificial homicide ring named Nathan saw me in the crib and was lovely the first time and hostile the second. Only by chance did I learn he was following me when I was in my early teens, because Penny Crary, the Jewish stepmother who called my father’s second son Adam had an unexpected gall bladder problem and she told me to find Nathan. Not knowing who he was I went outside and he was furious that I confronted him by name. I put together that they must be the same man.  I remember him from the Ruskin, back when given the book that specials a boy like me by John Ruskin, King of the Golden River, when my parents last act together before their contract fulfilled CIA divorce was to take me to the lynching tree at Storybook Forest. Nathan….Forest?? Maybe that name doesn’t ring a bell.

         Such details are the inimitable British thinking code written to present intellectual glorification of a map board for their program notes.   Such material combinations badly needing description and commitment to press are in my notes, hard to solve and sometimes even harder to find, but I try my best to keep up with the little prospect I have for distribution of what matters most, getting across the fact that this foul play has been made our name by the rebels of NYC.  Contrary to their lies, I am entitled to The Bill of Rights. Their hand illegally put my name on their sadistic writ of slander they issued and denied the blood drenched hand of Reagan to steam their killdozer.

        When people argue that isn’t evidence of anything their fraud should not be taken lightly.  Penis Gabriel, like his agent Gail Burstyn, made a lot of allusions to films and one of them was Wait Until Dark.   This deadly stalking film of a disabled woman is like what they have done to the smokehouse of our planet, delivering their ultimatum to serve its rescue by aligning with the AIDS attackers.    This was obviously planned, along with the fake mutiny of Zappa, Special Agent in Charge of Culture. I asked him a direct question once, what would you call a man who mutated and released in lethal force a common simian (lamb’s brain) virus, and he answered, “I would call such a one asshole.”  Well, I know a lot of assholes, but I’ve only met a few war criminals, and Zappa was one of them. He married a namesake of Gail and they worked together. Names have meaning in the Storybook of Nathan Forest, one of those names knew everybody in Zappa’s entourage well enough to introduce me to Napoleon Murphy Brock, and his name was Ralph  Marzlak. The fumes of hate that the rabid doled out came from my acknowledgement that De De, the starlet of the British war opus, lacked her virginity, and Mars is the God of War. That is what their whole manuscript was about, and they had it all set up to work for what it was with barely a glance when they signalled to pretend they’d found it by home invasion network involving my stepbrother from 20th Century Fox.

         A person who wasn’t in league with evil would  notice immediately that they punished the wrong person.  Gail Burstyn went free. They put me under their super-periscope.    Those are obviously strong indications of how virulently England is lying.   The reason I believe they planned it is because they did planet and for all their manipulation of victims they’re sitting back laughing.   Playing mad was easy because they are, just not really about what happened. They’re mad they have to share the world and decided to answer how you like it by removing the safety of rights in answer.   Talking with two tongues comes easy for them. Their argument is a doomed and lost cause because the idea that a 12 year old Jewish girl was planning Hitler’s revenge was not only over my head but they continue to deny it to this day and wear that denial as a mask through which to blame the symbol they chose for the America that they wanted destroyed, Kennedy’s.   You will notice that Kennedy isn’t John Lennon either. The New York Times will tell he is like Reagan, that Reagan was shot, too, but won’t explain why his attorneys from Pentagon Disney had me there, nor why he waved to me the night before, a ghoulish fact that brings licky chops to the headhunters from Warhol. You will also notice that all of their might has been used in black out, failure to warn, in order to help those they claim killed Lennon, and that nothing else matters, well, it does.  Lennon’s death is nothing but a trap door in Fu Manchu’s Headquarters, their Secret World as they call it, full of maneuvers, cheap tricks, Hollywood games and cold-blooded lies.

        How could anybody miss the point?  They spoke in two tongues about me because the entangled web allowed the happy situation to play to their music.   That’s what I mean about how simple it is. There is something wrong with Obama that he would see a victory in castrating an innocent deaf man.  I can’t get over how hollow that is, and he did it to promote the klan. It’s so weird that the whole world has agreed to a governmental blackout on the most shattering infamy we’ve ever endured.  He’s off the deep end, a genuinely weird and stupid person. I don’t like him at all.

      Catholic Worker and Martin Sheen are behind a lot of the way that the atrocity was reduced to an appearance of Pittsburgh typicality.    I can think of a few examples. Steve Langer who worked with King Crimson making up the Leslie Katz story, Jimmy cudda saved John Lennon but was crying over a virgin, with the help of a  nerve agent they used to poison me told me directly, “I’m not sorry for anything I’ve done only that it had to be you.” That’s because I symbolize America. My name is Pilgrim, my family were veterans of every war including the Revolution.   I am still loyal to JFK. They shot the President in the head and they work with the British through NASA and Princeton where Langer went to school broadcasting the ultrahigh brainwave sonar demand for forgiveness right into the mind of their target, a license given the brainwashers in the Beatles in their defense of HitlerReagan.  Yet the Catholic Worker then crows that I have no right to the Bill of Rights. Why? Because they are annihilators who sold mass murder to the victims by assuring them that I would be sadistically killed, too. Penis Gabriel sees himself as an International constituency, but to me he is just a cold blooded to the face liar. This power developed by NASA which can control flights, has a death ray, heat and infrared detection that can observe anyone in their bedroom, and is capable of remote teleportation, is not really peacetime technology for observing climate change.  It is part of the forcing house; climate change was deliberate to make us resent overpopulation. They refused mitigation during the so-called Cold War. It works too beautifully for their ultimatum.

         The British were behind it.  As a child, a King Edward protege in Highland Park told me he was, “going to start getting nasty.”   Three Billys, Billy Rodd, Billy Beck and Billy Flynn, the notorious Billy Club, working with Conan McManus, set upon me and I was beaten hideously by murderers name Ronnie and Caspar, just like Reagan and Weinberger, for whom the child molesters in King Crimson advocate for to this day.  They called me poor pig. Shawn Brooks, who locked me out of a church sanctuary when I cried and pleaded for help from an armed gang, before one of their sidelights, De De Mancine seduced me, had a friend named Stewart Sheppard from Kenyon who while barking about what he called the “jiggiboos,” for which he was forgiven by the NAACP in return for his inside information about me.  What was that inside information? Sheppard said I was an immediate gratifier who wouldn’t save the cherry of the tin roof sundae for last. A neighbor of Brooks had the remedy name: Richard Arujo, who laughed and sent cartoons, “Here Come De Judge,” downtown after a visit to the courthouse with Ruth Hammer, a friend of Dolly Meieren (Sean Strub) and Shiono. The Judge sure did come with a rouge O when Richard Starkey said Carrie Gister, kissed her and gassed her, for the Starr/Burstyn war over tanglewood’s sex star, a woman named Rosa he claims proves Roberto Clemente would sanction the use of his name for the rape of a Pittsburgh deaf woman to punish her for teaching me sign language after the British decreed I not be permitted to attend school.

The Day They Punished JFK

Zero minus 55 years;

Bush (on the ship of my dad) was the only real Army man in the Navy

Adept at buttons despite his skinny wrists,

He knew the swisher way to jump into the cock-

Pit.  Runt of the Little Queen, littl’ jimmuh quee

Was like a disease, fungus amongus,

Schooled to perform when opportunity knocked

Him down.

They put me in a coma so

I would conform to the demands of their seven beauties

From the Carousel Club

For Michael Reagan’s favorite scene.

Gibbering, he licky chops over that scene,

Gesticulating get to it again, queerbait, get to it again

And on

The day they punished Kennedy

It was like breaking the bottle of champagne

On the Inauguration of the Bullet Train of 64.

Well done, my friends.

We say this to you privately, but publish thusly,

The reason logical analysis of politics is forbidden

In all but post punkalypse Tacoma yet

Is that it is possible; and reveals the simplicity

Of Cirque d’Carousel wheel.  The existence of sex

By this osmosis becomes the sin they sneer

By which Lennon died as symbol of his horde

But wait, girls to the front, we ask, demand

Of you support for those who brought you these tears

And rage against the  pretender,

That  by this burlesque you side with the killuz.

Gee-ness, Von High.

While McCartney claims he took to this prah-duct

Like a big bullfly to a buzzard pie, oogling it as his partner incarnate

The Catholic rat pack beamed down Martin Sheen

Sheen the Catholic who would  kill one of his own

So he could take the part

Called himself the walrus of RFK, raping deaf Jeannie

For Evangelia Karmas of  Trump control tower

A friend of Rosa.

He brooks no rivals to the Crown of Thorns

Dubbed upon Sean Strub of strub-barrack fields.

Teacher, teacher make me pay

Teacheth me the light of day

Beat me, beat me make me kiss bad chicks

While you forge my name on checks

For the fossil hunt in the  punishment of liberals.