A lot of black people struggle with how to say things they know are right, weighed against the fact that their audience may be manipulative.   Things that are hard to say to begin with can come out wrong even without the extra considerations. For black peers I am like Nietzsche, for saying things really well occasionally amidst a lot of things they just don’t like at all.   Since I obey the law and regard people as innocent until proven guilty I’m a strange sight on the streets. I just take people as they come, perfect as strangers unless otherwise abridged. It’s hard to know whether I’m friendly or unfriendly in that ways.   There is both an air of confrontation and benign acceptance, an attitude of live and let live, to the conviction that no one owns the sidewalks. Since Martin Luther King was an early political awakening for me, I would regard having a gun as being about as welcome as growing a tail.   I don’t speak for anybody and don’t like speaking to anybody, I’m not a politician, but I did go through the tour of duty one associates with responsible journalism. Poetry and philosophy are one thing while strangers at odds.

     Churchill said, “In defeat ~ defiance,” and I believe that very sincerely.   I believe that Kennedy was gunned down like the bikers in the metaphoric film made by his killers called Easy Rider for giving John Wayne, the prototypical hicks in the pick up truck, the finger.   I’m never had the misfortune to have to sit through Officer Serpico spout on the subject of De De Allen’s placemark in the film made about shooting him in the face, or how Peter Maas and the crew could have fathomed how unendurable being given a medal he no longer wanted could be, unless they were being advised by holocaust survivors, which I now know to be the fact of the matter.   Nor have I had to endure him dissembling on the topic of someone John Lennon, guaranteed to render his finer feelings crank, but I do admire the man and part of me wants to tell you outright where and how what I learned from him fits in, but it’s non-iconic, it is the simple Serpico's research investigation as a detective in New York City that concerns me just here, things he recently wrote.

       A Black Psychology professor in Pittsburgh recommended me for Psi Beta after a holy row, in which he said basically, I just wanted to be sure you would stand up to me.  It was an honest sentiment and I fear to malign him for such sentiment. His warm, caring, compassionate concern for me when I left a notebook behind in class was very clear by the urgency with which he told me about it.  It was the sign of a man who knew that another man had been through too much and whose only hold on anything like psychological survival stemmed from freedom of expression. We are not in safe hands.

      What was done to me does not belong in Pittsburgh Public Schools.   It was an act of guerrilla war that holds administrative authority from the Department of Corrections in the State of Washington.   They attacked us on the streets of the City of Pittsburgh. The more Seattle denies it the more I will scorn them.

      The impairment of thinking processes in the post-Obama nightmare convulses with the vomitbag intellectualism of Universities in Pittsburgh and Washington, working together as little martial estates of corrupt unionism making sport of the delicate newcomers enrolled.  Western Heritage is a little off in that the dialogue about the struggle between democracy and totalitarianism always tended to be a discourse of white power. Black culture, wanting to be different, had an open invitation and nowhere to turn but to fascism.

        The crying shame of America’s tragedy is that its fountainhead fell into the hands of genuinely infantile travesties, the invisible leadership of nobody’s nobody Tony Levin, crackpot super-bass player.   I’ve seen him around and because they were writing to me I witnessed some things that really embarrassed me before they even tried to humiliate me in the despicable way they announce as elite eccentricity.  Like, for example, through the window of a limousine in Philadelphia I saw him bickering with his incredibly childish girlfriend. I know the type. Dia Douwes’ cousin was like this. When her uncle, the only man besides my father, Ray Geiger, Jr., and Mick Ronson who ever kissed me, put a rude remark about her tiny green beret into play she refused to wear it and cried as he tried to force her, flailing around.  It was a pretty cute beret. They also had Great Danes. It seems like a digression but Anton Le’vin is the pewter dish complaining of sacred insight to wow mass murder victims by snake oil spells.

      The concocter of poison and hate, this infant totality broker, called up a travesty so mind-shattering it can’t even be kecked out into notation and not because details are not known, it is because the pretense is so scary and deep that one cries with horror being asked to pretend he was actually, monstrously selling an idea by which he had fooled himself.  Surely he knew he was playing boss of the exterminators, surely. Tongue in cheek, he leers.

        Okay, this does not belong in public schools.  If Dr. Ralph Proctor and Nelson Harrison, his nephew, behind my back have normalized what Pittsburgh did as the standard of a province fire them and send them to home or to a formal recovery and rehabilitation institution, and post the reason in court papers for being critical attaches of Hitler Reagan’s abomination.   This insufferable derangement comes from having holocausters, Jewish ones, with access to our pupils in the 70’s. This is where Serpico has been a little bit helpful, spotlighting the psychological warfare that allows Jewish organized crime, but he lays off the NAACP, which in Pittsburgh is how. If there is no law in Pennsylvania, pack up and run, but I don’t advise coming to Seattle.  They were right there in broad daylight in Pitt News staging eugenic “Two Virgins” Pussyball for the Federal Emergency Management Agency as part of the AIDS attack. The NAACP evidently contracted for me as a child at the Ruskin. They were in on the AIDS attack.

       Serpico is very important for another reason.   My incredibly courteous, professional, stoic, sensible, brave, perceptive African American History professor at Community College of Allegheny County Rashid Murphy Sundiata was shot in Homewood in his car.  I don’t understand how that is possible but it is. The assailants were evidently other black people. He never should have been denied tenure. He was. I don’t understand how that is possible. When he wrote on my paper, “Your admiration for Fanie Lou Hamer is obvious,” he flew in the face of what Ming Na Wen was doing to my name as a profiler at Carnegie Mellon.   The last time I saw this man who never dressed any way but absolutely impeccably, so professionally in fact that you almost took him for a member of Nation of Islam, which he was not, he was a potential Rhodes Scholar from Temple University, the last time I saw him he had a two inch cut through his face down the lip. He spoke to me calmly and asked about my studies. I hope, that my admiration for this brave, intelligent man is also obvious.  I told you why I mentioned Serpico. You figure it out. I have no information.

       Homewood has a branch of CCAC and brings in big movers like John Edgar Wideman, a super estate mogul of literature in the province.   At Pitt, the NAACP monsters construed a nerve agent implanted in me by Israeli vivisectionists as the turmoil room of the heart. The rabid in Britain worked with Reagan’s Promise Keepers to blow up people and structures to the Pink Floydian verse of terrible screams.   Their guru Jewess, Tami Simon, kept a Victor Frankl-like notebook reading, “I, the dreamer, clinging yet to the dream as the patient clings to the last, thin, unbearable instant of agony in order to sharpen the savor of the pain’s surcease.” This does not belong in Pittsburgh Public Schools and I want the people who say it does out.

        The way Black Psychology blocks and filters the message through which they find their voice caters to, by necessity, the smug inner city intellectuals of newcomer socialism in places like Seattle plying the honor code of sophomore sweethearts only too glad to break the heart of some kid for a souvenir.    They are too witless, inexperienced and satires of themselves to even try to comprehend what really happened. They have an ace in the hole by saying Jewish experience is a trump. It isn’t a trump in this terrible case, it is a model, a designer crime, and if they think it isn’t they should be expelled from our schools.

        This is the diving board into the totally disallowed.  I love Black people, they’re cool, well, some of them are dangerous, sick, forlorn to the point of contempt for the rights of others, but you do have to look at what kind of world they’ve faced.  They’ve been subject to Orwellian conditioning just like everyone else. It’s not easy to make sense of what is happening in this post-Obama nightmare. The point however is that the criminally insane are not our keepers and they do not deserve the secret recognition they are enjoying.    I will have to take you now down that terrible grade into what they are really doing. It is a mistake to believe these seasoned actors, these ripper sadists, these lopers, are sincere. That is their miracle weapon. The idea that they are.

      First, a little dose of Reagan reality.  When I was ten years old, a downtown legal favorite of the County of Allegheny, Ralph Karsh, gave me marijuana to smoke, he was older than me.  The image of car, shhhh, like his name, followed soon after when I was kidnapped. This is stage management. It isn’t empathy. Whatever ravages haunt the mind of Dr. Ralph Proctor, imagining himself an African revenge warrior, unable to sleep from macabre dreams of whites raping African women from reading between the lines of our history books, like the wheelchair bound madman in the film Clockwork Orange, it does NOT belong in Pittsburgh Public Schools.    Looking for the real spirituality of Pittsburgh is futile. The scariest poachers in cinema gave Xiu Xiu the Sent Down Girl a smile and an apple. How that wheelchair bound man in Clockwork jonesed to hear screams. True they had a criminal at their mercy, but how much better when the English strategy involves a sacrificial white who is scorned for claiming innocence! They have attorney Kirshner with Karsh, clinging to the last thin, unbearable instants of agony which he calls last licks.   Curse for Kirshner and not least for Dia the magnate of 911 primal scream.

        That’s okay, that’s okay, Ono says, “Whoosh!”

        The physician from the Holocaust community who lanced my penis to spray like a fork in the road was Mendel “Red” Silverman.   “Did you see that come flying out of there!?” he exclaimed over a ball of wax when irrigating Jimmy “maybe it’s just small”s ear.   Language productivity in this neighborhood where best guess Niles Shortz, Nunu or Raymond Ocher painted “I LOVE SIRA SIRAN” on the garage in 1966, finds Ian Wattenmaker with a Venus Fly Trap, so cute to Seattle’s groovies, snickering, “Idea has struck the mind.”  The echoes of fluxus are not petty in implication.

        Every Judge in Seattle would rather kill innocent people than face the truth.   At the bizarre house on Black Street, Nancy Moore was hired by Gruber Intelligence Services )DONALDHUE( to inform on her son.   She lies now but one day she played as though she had woken up from a nightmare, a brilliant performance from the woman who ignored Gail Burstyn, screaming, “I THINK SOMEONE IS TRYING TO KILL YOU.”  And then acted just as though nobody was, even though I took to hiding in the towel closet from armed killers.

        At Eastminster Church, Ronnie Czsinski showed up with a Nazi bayonet, and somehow I got away from a black boy named James who scared me by terror threats even more.    They both said they were going to kill me, but for the moment I escaped, when James went after Ronnie over the knife. He wasn’t protecting me. He was in charge of who was going to rob me.

          Don’t touch my megabucks, nothing wrong with that, say the new Black high priestesses of the post-Obama nightmare.   Dia Douwes’ father, a lovely man, had a neurosurgeon who supposedly had to perform a lobotomy. I loved him. In my presence this Pennsylvania genius of medicine, his doctor, on a social call, mocked him as sounding like a Bolshevik in his presence.   Black feminism came jump and holler for the beknighted Jewess of the NAACP’s child pornography circuit masquerading as psychiatry from Warhol Museum, and if you are going to call it an honest mistake it is getting late in the day to admit that you made one.   Pitt claims innocence in the matter that takes the complex form of taking me hostage to the fact that they are party to terrible crimes, putting up an elite joke about how the eccentrics send out a bunny in a cake to see if the man of interest will “settle for a lesser violin” while targeting a victim of terror vivisection with Union blackmail.  This is foundationally so evil is has broken my mind. And they say as an afterthought, well not exactly a joke, you see, it’s Her Majesty’s idea of pacification in AIDS. Scarcity in the world should not take this form in America, it does NOT belong in Pittsburgh Public Schools.

    So what Pitt did as a hedge was say we’re going to give it our all for the 1st Amendment and let it be told, as though you need their permission, but we’re going to tell it as written and play like that’s a happy ending.

     I am dealing with the criminally insane.