This is a story from Dilworth School near Larimer in a stricken district of racism, poverty and violent crime kept for an outpost in the military neighborhoods of the American Legion folded away like Flint, Michigan in a nowhere land of Pittsburgh’s provincial Appalachia, spoken of only in mutters by the few who know of this forbidden, dour place, a haunted soccer field outside an abandoned factory of death, you could say.  Not far but well above lies a minor fairy tale land where George Romero, the master of horror, still resides. It is in Dilworth Elementary School where I first heard the explosive, hysterical yammer of Youssou N’dour calling out humanism for Migliosi and Bugliosi at Sal’s eternal pizzeria incarnate, you could say. All was configured, name by name, and laden with soothsay. As they might have liked to say in the Vedas, “that’s nice.”

      The day had been preceded by other days like it.  I was already confused by having been beaten up. New in the school and for a ten year old rare, being neither black nor gangly and not scarred from an early manhood burned by older Italian brothers stealing newspaper collections with switchblades as so many eager to fight were, eyeing me as meat for free smacks, tasting my fear as though breaking a virgin.  I was fair-haired, long-haired, eager to learn and speak, and, worst of all, wore peace signs and a black armband protesting Nixon. Those who feared McGovern could win hated me with bloodthirst so that when Cynthia Fazio winked at me, I was fooled and blushed, giving Joey Galasi what he needed. The voices still say I’m going to prison for what I am about to tell you.

      It was not unusual that week for someone not to have homework so we didn’t get candy, but I sat in the very back and old teach worked her way like a spider towards me.  Sweat became tears. I was all alone the last and I said I don’t have it, a wail went up followed by the yammer of N’dour. They waited for me, strong men, after school and beat me as I made for my house across the street.

     In Poplar Bluff, where I spent the summer that D.T. was killed in East Liberty where I ended up in a paper bag, we had a neighbor in the farmlands who had a guest from Africa, handsome, Ebony and reserved.  All day, while his guest was mercifully away, he would cuss what he called the niggers and yet he praised his African guest, so I asked him what his problem is, he said a good African like that is no nigger.  Oh, I said. W.E.B. Dubois almost seemed to feel the same ways when he talked about what he called the talented tenth, guess something like that went around when Obama came to dinner and led the feast, but that day at school we learned who wasn’t coming.

       In science class at Dilworth the teacher demonstrated electricity.  He grabbed a wrench to a current, said clasp hands and no one touch the table.  I was afraid so I backed off. When someone touched the table they all shuddered as though anointed by the power of God Almighty and the real tragedy didn’t learn that day of the great might unleashed when you do wrong.  Suffice it to say I was unwelcome and when I recovered from a raging earache even though we lived right across the street I had to walk a mile to Fulton School on Hampton where my real problems awaited. Sometimes I would say I got kicked out for being a peace child, but just as she cancelled my speech on Flagstaff Hill (that I was so looking forward to) when I was ten (my sister demonstrated her three faces by delivering a great one) mother cancelled that testimony, too, and said no.  I had been disobedient.

        I don’t talk about Dilworth much, because Fulton is where promotion of the talented tenth by the Ku Klux Klan awaited and I was taken hostage to child mutilationists.  Needed: a place to report horror crime. Buckingham Palace and the Government in Olympia, Wa (loyal to Olli Burstone) have led amalgamated denial and reprisal for squawking.  What Penis Gabriel achieved by establishing imaginary jurisdiction by a blackout takes its cue from Princeton sociology who bray do not tamper with what you don’t understand. Child trafficking, for example, they spit held in a precious equilibrium, you will only make it worse by attempting to rescue the hive, and so on.  Further, Gasbriel did a number to me from a powerhouse as evil and crazy as Cecil B. DeMille announcing my fallguy status, with Richard Starkey whose real name came over like a leaked state secret when I was in my teens, did a number to my name more vicious than what Robert Penn Warren did to Huey Long. It will seem a grand perverse higherness he filthily leered.

       The FBI at Pitt made it look like I was some sort of stereotype for Michael Reagan and his fan Robert Fripp used this as a Mutual Fish story lens to sell their horrible crime mocking me publicly as a red witch in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette after someone possibly killed my father (we don kno hue).  Fripp had a sixth thfense they could get away with it by calling the amusement an exorcism frying the kin while snickering to the deluded in smoke signals, smoke and mirror signals, “we’re not laughing at you we’re laughing with you,” all at the quah-thing. The barrier of social credulity they called the hmm test, tending to their every racial fixation and personal fascination.

     It is a collegiate norm not to be jjealous.  But it is also a collegiate norm not to be ganged up on, lied to, contracted upon sexually, not to be deaf or have an experimental neuroplasm impacted for behavioral mod.  Gabriel took malicious glee ranting with hate spasms in leading a majority stomping under the fog of necessary illusions settled on in teamster derision by Chomsky and Reagan, such that I would have to escape their acceptance, at this terribly late date, of my right to exist, even now nearly dead from cruelty, and already there is no place to run.   Gabriel took control of my life’s work by issuing illegal homework and then establishing imaginary jurisdiction by studio controls on the street section, hotwired up through the facelying masquerade of so-called peers.

      Up on that hill of Romero is where the British boy lived who said he was going to start getting nasty, by Edward Eisen’s house of King Crimson peisen door, not far from Klein’s and Nicholas Dibarno of Eastminster Church domain.  He bought the distinguished service my house just to knock it down with the Billy Club (Beck, Rodd and the fastest of all Flynn) it was also Flynn Construction where the talented tenth led by Obama put child in the mouth of Wen’s dragon at Kelly School to cheer Reagan’s Ali-ance from Pentagon Morgan and Disney showcasing for Spike ole Lee what Wattenmaker’s neuroplasm and a brainwave yammer could extrude by doublespeak terror that he just lives to condemn, leaving me alone in dark traffic knowing what is real as Greg Karl, Romero’s neighbor, writes openly of their “construction of a persona,” in the DeNiro slaughterhouse of a liberal enigma.

     I am not, of course, the one who bragged of being unconcerned and unaffected as they lied through the teeth, nor the one with studio power to manufacture a diversion by secret control of plastic history protected by the barrier of social credulity, Olli Burstone and his minions are.  They came prancing, jeering and smiting that Midori Goto likes a big one like Ostro, trusts Tive, humiliating a victim of bloodcurdling Manson crime cinema while putting him in debt to imaginary issues and the tune of N’dour’s yammer.

      Fulton Mini was the XXX house but it was Fulton “Skool” as Burstyn put it, where Gellomini punched me in the stomach and said:  if you pull the fire alarm you will glow from a secret substance it sprays.

[\{afterword: I'm going to leave the tampering error by cyberstalkers stand but I am going to explain it to you. The text reads, "put child in the mouth of Wen's dragon," to evoke the big friend, a drawing by Sulamith Wulfling used of Penis Sinfield in promotion of himself and Wen lying about Mt. Desert Island in N'dorsement of the AIDS attack. Reality check, I typed: put children in the mouth of Wen's dragon, meaning they hired a vicious stunt driver to put dozens of black schoolchildren in risk of their lives so they could try to claim I was the driver. Very interesting conversion from reality and danger to severely at risk individuals, into the lala land of make anyone believe anything where anything goes. Further proof that the foreign rapist pig is criminally insane.