Murder has become so common.   It’s like a sport and the millenialist generation of the 2010’s are enthralled by the playstation mentality, written against the rulebook, that was codified and handed down by Pitt and Carnegie Mellon during the Match-Wits-With-Eno era of Operation:  Medicine Man delusion war games clocked to the AIDS attack in the 1980’s, coached by a staged and phony intercept of the Burstyn scroll.   On the subconscious level, Britain is very powerful in the United States.  We allowed the the AIDS attack never to make our history books.  We may see another Black President, but we’ll never be able to turn back the clock on this one.  Media was the war machine.  Don’t ask, don’t tell about the genocide.  How Obama made it look with Clinton’s Big Brother machine, which issued me both the script as a child and the Social Security number beginning 1984, then plastered me for the gravy train, doesn’t explain it.

       The Beatles always hated dissertation.  Elvis had beaten them to the scene of being a grouchy Brando mafia kid wowing the hometown girl by storming out of the middle-aged chat group parlor topicing jazz over cocktails well beyond the demarcation line of 30 years old, so they groused over Aeolian cadences (which Strawberry Fields wasn’t) and told Pink Floyd to smash up the classrooms.  Tricky, Lennon.

       It was soon, maybe seven years old, that I noticed the stink of such abysmal Beatles’ hypocrisy.  First, can’t buy me love, then keep all your money in a big, brown bag.  At first listen I readied myself for a treat.  Baby you’re a rich man even if you’re poor, but as the song went on, I thought, how hollow.  An epicurean could collect all their deceits and contradictions in a piggy bank of disappointment.

      The politics of the mind is very lonely.   People get killed to silence their pen and it works.  That’s why we all stuck up for Penis Lennon anyway as he abused our trust.  His allure scared us but made things emotionally better sometimes for those trapped in the streets.  He didn’t, at first, seem to be selling the idea that victims had only themselves to blame, but that was too subtle to detect at first, and was in the works.  Hollywood sophistication had good use for the renegade on his own working as a secret team player in a super-duper role as Mr. Misleader.

       When Ize a kid, messed up, checking, as Rick Apple called it, meaning looking frantically over my shoulder as I tiptoe jogged from dark-to-dark under trees going home late from up street down Bartlett, I was in a high school that met me up with Barney Harpst, the klukker from Lincoln Place who was first cousin of Tony Cervi, the t-acid dude who administered a nerve agent to queerbait in a Penn Hills pit called Curtis up by Capone’s barbershop, Tove’s Tavern, and Flannigan’s behind Hebron Cemetery.  He told me the name of a song he was playing in a Star Wars tee shirt before the movie came out.  I thought he said, “Prelude to the Future,” and thought that was keen, but he repeated slower, “Prelude to Confusion,” and said it was from “Visions of Surrealia,” as he Korged it on the synthesizers and Leslie amps in front of a “Set Yourself Free,” poster, ironic for a secret warden of a drug slave factory, a fact I felt disturbingly at the time.  On Bartlett where I checked, the Jewish houses that later produced Rosa’s African friend, who I would ride home to the carriage house of the Rabbis living there, had a girl with a band called, “Silurian.”   The slur pairing is curious but as Sue Saniel Elkind, the landlady of that row, who lived there as well, said in her poetry book about being a post-holocaust Jew in America, “No Longer Afraid,” said ironically and coincidentally as the crow flies, “How can one hear in a fog?”  Taint neven n’apposed to think of that when reminded of little Jimmy Creary being gassed in Kings Estate when it comes to the Pit (quarrybull) Men and don’t even say like Anne Frank.

      Due to the system of preference it don’t mean if dey is wrong dey is write and if love is ze answer, see love will tear yinz apart and that taint never no holy hypocrisy now dogeyes.  The death of John Lennon a scene at least in the big AIDS movie sealed a pact in Hollywood between true believers in Reagan and Ringo, team ups in the war on drugs.  John Stockwell followed me to Allentown as a rogue element of the CIA, endorsed by Todd Kaufmann of CMU and the Society for Human Ecology, friend of Peg Simons in Hypatia Feminist Philosophy, making secret tapes for neighbors of Sharon Samuels living in Greenville, Tom Hodge, who introduced me to Mi Yung Joo shortly before pap was killed and then tore apart his cashmir coat with a dog named Yuri (like Wattenmaker’s dog Tito), around the corner from ole Alla Chertok, don’t share talk, myuh.

     The Department of Callingness Away in Secret was on the make in the lead up to Mt. Desert Island.