The mind of the human race is very mysterious in the way that absolute interests fold in upon one another as if vying to cancel each other out.  It is as if our souls harbor combative teachers contradicting one another.  A good example of this is the maxim:  History is written by the victors.  Faced with a case for global extinction, illustrated by suicide bombers, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, proliferation, insecure storage of bombs in Turkish NATO facilities, secret developments in Israel, India and North Korea, Chernobyl, Fukushima, Three Mile Island and growing awareness that asteroid collision is suspected in dinosaur extinction, the prospect exists that despite our priceless labors and ideosyncracies, amounting to vanity, we may end up having to admit that it was all for nothing; meanwhile we look to preserve our reputations.  In childhood, Ian Wattenmaker asked everyone what they would they do if they learned the earth was going to die in 24 hours?  Some kids said pray.  Most of them said run amok.  Lastly, there is some question as to whether history is written by the victors.  Hitler's defeat made sure the dead Jews had voice.  They were not the winners.  The degree to which their writing history can be valued depends entirely upon how you stomach that sort of ruin.  The deeper questions splinter on issues of sacrifice and honor.

      It's disturbing to me that I am not asked questions about what happened, and about how I know people like Bowie.  Persons advised of this sort of thing assume me incredible while allowing me to be tortured and robbed.  So I have to bore you.  I have to explain who Mick Ronson is before tendering how he kissed me romantically when I was a child.  The lead guitarist of the Spiders From Mars worked with Bowie inventing glitter rock.  Their season of adventure coincided with my being taken prisoner by Warhol decadents in Pittsburgh.   The album Diamond Dogs was imprinted on a time identically with the appearance of the DD/Martin Luther King Murder letters.  This was not lost on me as a child, but my faith was like yours.

         I ask that you profit from my sagacity and experience long enough to take in that I assure you ladies and gentleman of the lynch proceedings that (while I mean well) the turbulent netherworld we are about to cross will lead you to question my narrative authority enough that you may jump ship before we reach our destination.  Hold fast to your position.  There's no escaping until the end.  The rapid waters we are crossing will ask us to out-dance David Bowie as we tumble down the rapids of truly dangerous and psychotic crazymaking originating in the lair of a fat old decadent Western world dragon called Hollywood.  My purpose is to un-tell you a story you have been mis-told if told at all.

       Those of us educated in public schools are given classes in Social Studies where we are told often to turn our minds and attentions to the problems of the permanent underclass.  What doesn't get discussed as attentively or insistently is the presence of a permanent ultra-class.  Take another moment to remedy this with me as we get underway in our journey into the abyss.  Privilege is a superwave of intense influence over the individual.  Recognition for some people can heal all wounds.  Powerful opportunities no matter how ridiculously arbitrary, like Trump paying the mortgage of someone who changed his tire, are said to be comically merit-based and earned rather than Faustian bargains.  Ethical review is laughed at and poisoned with hatred.  This is part of an ongoing war.

        Bowie's authority was a pact with Reagan brokered by the Federal Emergency Management Agency at the University of Pittsburgh who authored the FEMA texts.  It reads that he was being subconsciously framed by a Manchurian Candidate called sarcastically by the tag of Jimmy Creary.  In Lennon's name Reagan unleashed the bandwagon of Mark David Chapman's extremism to command the victory of the AIDS attackers.  There is a reason why Bowie was put in charge of steering public discourse about the disappearance of John Lennon.  Bowie was a celebrity heir apparent. More, it is because a storyline was grafted onto Lennon's scheduled role, a narrative from a Texas Schoolbook transferring blame from the value code of Mark David Chapman to that of Lennon.  To do this King Crimson, a British foreign policy guild, needed a dummy, a hapless, to conk out, send the letters and transfer blame by, to use unscrupulously as an object lesson.  Jimmy Crary became the issue instead of Mark David Chapman and Gail Carolyn Burstyn, the true penhand of the text.  Bowie agitated for the idea that the slipknot of celebrity privilege allows Lennon to sidestep responsibility for promoting the value code that was used as a referendum on what they put me up to as though their brutal coercion was a non-issue friendly to Lennon even though invoked to justify his doom, as defence of his killers, in his name.  They did this by pulp philosophy they fueled a quiet little game of pretending to find the story and offered it up by sympathetic market forces, loyal to Caspar Weinberger.  The situation has evolved into a disturbed forum so pecuniary in its notion of justice that the Supreme Court itself is under suspicion of running a Mafia targeting children related to a dissenter.

       Strap yourselves into position using all available safety devices, because while I too fear my powers of lucidity in limning the sardonic mind of the deceased, someone Bowie, born Davey Jones, there is no available substitute to account.   Seeking permission to explain these proceedings was severely punished, and though I seek publication of my views, I am by no means satisfied that my audience is mature enough or the industry of letters courageous enough to allow what they have punished for having even thought.   Bowie, like the local Frick estate who co-sponsored some of his criminal activities, lived surrounded by riches more valuable than most of our lives.  The Emergency helicopters of British Royalty can zoom out to rescue individuals at will, but there are literally millions of suffering candidates from whom to choose.  Much is done to keep it that way so that the elect powers of privilege overpoweringly trump the elect privilege of civil rights which in turn overpoweringly trump the human rights desired by the wretched of the earth.

     Bowie cultivated greedy and spoiled Black contemporaries, egging them on to feel that reckless abandon was to their credit and testified to their enlightenment.  His sidekick, Robert Fripp, worked with Reagan's minion Colin Powell, who we know (from Christopher Hitchens' research) had frantically sought to cover for the My Lai Massacre, in developing a traitor model of dissent for the war in Vietnam to punish James Crary for being aware of Lennon's nasal assurances while in a trance of semi-coma, gasping for the clean air of Pittsburgh's legal social contract.  Foreign accents attended the fumes used in chloroform genre pedophile abduction of little Jimmy.  Accents and fumes, it should be added, from those who accused the dummy to promote Chapman's revolution.  It is on the promise of this point that Chapman no doubt agreed to kill a lookalike of Lennon and take the blame for a Fake News assassination.  The fixture of Bowie's switcheroo is a dialectic crafted by Lennon estate attorney Amanda Harcourt with Shawn Brooks, an active defender of the assailants, in partnership with Gail Burstyn and her team, an evil and deranged argument created to gag and further hold hostage the Crary name.  These Black contemporaries worked with Bowie to promote the conceptual art of war designed by the white madman Frank Herbert that Neely Fuller poached to create (by his very own noodle) the doctrine of Bowian satisfy or what Fuller snivels is "compensatory coding."  Taken from a SWAPO white's book of trash, compensatory coding vows that the white liberal deaf suck can be subjectioned to mutilation as a zombiefied stand in for whatever idea of white oppression shrinks the black man's head.  The idea known as Katsuk, from Herbert's novel Soul Catcher releases black experience of oppression through the soft words told to a little boy murdered for being white by his friend, Katsuk, liberating him from his guilty white legacy as spiritual perpetrator of historic grievance.

        Operation:  Satisfy was by no means restricted to this human sacrificialism as an act of White House will-of-the-wisp, the legendary museum artifacts of Jimmy C.  No, there was a bit more.  The absolute hatred and sadism towards the idea of non-violence was a brutal explosion of chest banging from Martial Law advocates, turned into women by their grapevine practices of rumor mongering and backbite.  Shannon Harps was killed for no apparent reason but to demand that I threaten someone to stop it for god sakes and thus retroactively allow the Bowie Taliban to bluster that they proved I was not spiritually pure enough to shadow the estate of Dexter King.  Pacifism, leered James W. Child, is immoral.  

        Writing is a prison that can bring nothing back.  The sepulcher of neuro-toxin has worked terrible cruelty on my soul.  It is an enabler in that by verifying medical mystery I can beseech you to follow me into the doom of the symptom world where I am encaged.  Ultrahigh brainwave sonar causes audible and understandable nuclear resonance broadcast lucid voices on the soul.  I wake up to Microsoft brainwave saying, "The FBI knows you are going to prison for three years."   This doesn't even begin to convey the mayhem of seizures under such sonar or the lost life of a wonderchild forced to describe an acid rocker's purported revenge ordeal through the prism of semi-coma trauma after the rape of his victim's loved one.  The only thing that makes what Bowie and his SONY troll Midori did okay is that it cannot be expressed. 

       AIDS, they groan, illuminated rather than solved the grim parameters of our foe, presumed to be the poverty stricken, organized by god knows who into theme of communism and Islamofascism.  Whether intelligently designed or not, they pout, our planet works badly, necessitating a weapons pump to orphan societies trapped in the sibling entanglements of fratricide, while subjecting a deaf poet to horrific suffering, gloated at by peers, promoting an allegiance doctrine loyal to the assassins.  Instead of being warned we end up dead; while soothsayers bide their time as claimants to Hollywood style historic fiction.  Oliver Stone, the most ruthless, snorting with ennui, gurgled mirthlessly, yeah, yeah, save their souls with music, I get it, I get it.

        Okay, you can get out now, it's safe.   Welcome to Hell.