From a librarian worker’s point of view, Ayn Rand and Karl Marx have a lot in common.  First, they are buzzwords, when you say them, immediately many people either turn on or automatically turn off; they are canvassed as persona non grata or as idols, and many people who take them very seriously use them to promote ideas that are different from or unrelated to the work of those doing the inspiring.   Reading We, the Living by Ayn Rand, one recalls the image of forbidden texts of great inspiration, and reading Karl Marx is a little bit like that, after years of defamation by those who despise him.   It is also like those who with shame and a little bit stunned, discover investigating the so-called Military Industrial Complex, that two friends of Hitler sat on the Warren Commission, or that one of them worked at United Fruit with the driver of the limousine and the man who owned the garage where the Oswald rifle was reported stored, and yet, despite the shouts of pain that arise, no matter how strident you are, the perpetrators are waiting for you, strongarm men like John Wayne, to rub it in your faces and say fuck you so what?  Working your life away for nothing and falling through the cracks is what they told you idealism was, an exercise in futility against the nature of reality. Only the enemy obsesses over you enough to pant about your stupid poems, but writing can be like breathing, and when the issue is the criminally insane, it can be the only life preserver.

        Such are the vignettes by which totally hopeless fools try with tears of pain from fear and overwork try to persuade someone that it isn’t delusion, it’s a terrible tragedy.   With a laugh, the terrible tormentors gurgle, live up to your status as a martyr guinea pig, queerball. When someone in authority looks over their shoulders to ask what the hell they think they are doing, they jump to their podium and start shouting, “We’re shocked! Shocked! To find that pornography is going on!”   Ducking and running, police tip their hats and the experimenters return to their laboratory of earmarks, vivisection, ripper murder, ledger rape, and the infinity of the rabid mind.

         Ringo Starr imagines himself the God of human sympathies.  What he says goes. He is a superpower sociologist, doctor of the human heart, practitioner of the therapeutically inhuman, a man blessed to be able to license murder and torture from the Office of Amnesty International by yammering that it is a relative truth.   This letter will explain why all roads lead to Trump. It is about the occupation by Trump of all Appellate courts, both real and symbolic. As for what the British are doing to me, if you are helping them I want it to stop. It all boils down to whether you support the AIDS attack or whether you do not.  Many people do in their silence and keep it secret, if you do not I humbly suggest you stop being fooled by the Beatles. That they are allowing that they have begun to see what they actually put there as though it is being shown to them for the first time is evidence for true authorship by the fact that they denied the obvious for decades, and this stalling function, as I will show, was indexed and scripted.

       In City of Pittsburgh and Seattle, a war commission sat down at the Universities in consultation and explored, long before AIDS happened, what they were going to do.  One of the principle and now somewhat legendary combat details was they were going to use me as an object the value of which to hatred greatly outweighed the value that my stolen potential as a musician, for example, would be.   They had enough white musicians. The primary obstacle was failure to warn when they knew. Even though all the evidence shows the British called the tragedy a golden opportunity, even though before the AIDS boom in 1984 (when they knew) they said, SO what?   Even though their political lobby stated, “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” on official stationary from the Palace of London, even though they admitted through postal, military and newspaper authorities, in writing, signed by Martha Gellhorn, they were “unconcerned and unaffected by AIDS,” they kept up the ruse to be doctors of the heart, even while showing by every argument that contempt for sexuality of the other was the standard of discourse.

          Once they got over the hurdle of failure to warn, failure to empower the people with the right to know, they could upload their darling, their plan, the Veterans Administration, CIA-authorized, black guerilla, Marxist, Green Party upload of victim on victim contest, called, “me, too” or dubya double you right from the beginning, not gangsters, but Teamsters, not laughing at you, but with you.   A million dollar crime was easily put together by those with only a penny to gamble with: conversion by slander of the white hate object as such, dehumanized in the manner typical of Ringo Starr, by the spitball of a Richard’s rouge O, by the scorn held in the Church of England against humanism. The Lords worked a miracle by simple call girl and Chinese curses. Their minstrels went from being anarchists of the self made man variety into biological weapons wielding mercenaries announcing their godhead.  Robert Fripp, once a mild mannered mechanic of proper posture in guitar playing, was even made an idol by public acknowledgement by a member of Aum Shinrikyo subway attack cultists, and he was in no position to complain, since the abolition of outrage towards such actions is his very definition.

        Black Power’s most significant achievement is Obama, because Obama created the idea that the American system can result in fair play when, in reality Obama’s Presidency was an illustration of the idea in Black Power that no fair play will be allowed until Blacks get even for past wrongs.   The legacy of Obama and Black Power is Donald Trump. That’s just history, not a theory, but it is also more logical than it seems once you realize that Black Power was in on the AIDS attack from its pre-meditation and this can be shown very clearly. They were also in on the witchcraft concept behind the idea that management of pain by a form of military satire, targeting innocents as therapy, was tribute to the  Elders. The specifics of the war game prove this beyond the shadow of a doubt, but the curtain isn’t lifted, and won’t be anytime soon. This fact being the case, no one, they announce, has the right to second the motion when a victim of compound mutilation torture wants out, because the role was written by Obama’s minions to be fulfilled. The little matter of Gail Burstyn being free to go is said by miracle to exonerate Obama.

        Prof. Cho at Tacoma Community College continues to manage mysteriously to be right on theme, giving us Stanford Prison experiment material to study alongside a piece about two Jims.   One of the incidents in the experiment involves forcing a prisoner to eat when he refused. Dr. Ralph Proctor at the Community College in Pittsburgh was quite a scholar of such matters, lecturing his students repeatedly and at length about the Orum Speculum, a device that forcefed slaves.   Despite this, features of language specifically targeting me with hate such as taking the IRE out of the neighborhood tag Squrl, and other derisions by a Jewish intellectual, when she illustrated by drawing the nerve agent I was given and dropped the poisonous comment, “just trying to decide nearly killed me,” was their way of making being forced into ingesting it, which she called salutationed “love, in jest,” into a decision.  John Stockwell followed me to Allentown on my birthday where I was being watched by Gurdjieff cultist Fripp managed to get me before. It was 1987. Burstyn used the word swallow. Stockwell, of the CIA, made a point to bring Fripp’s earmarked golem up to speed about spy parlance. Swallow is an attack prostitute, which they were using. So when Burstyn refers to the poison crime which they nearly killed me to force me to accept and now call my decision, she refers to it as a swallow.

          The two Jims goes beyond the James Bond of KC in the bondage war game of King  Edward between James K. and the KKK alliance of Black Panthers in the name of Midori Goto and the Green Party targeting the pale white liberal deaf suck for crossing Asian one night stand gang leaders just for one day.  Burstyn (a product of ma we will therefore designate Bur/ma in honor of Mitch Island, Maine ie. clue) talks of ESP signals and Karl, her partner, talks about “impinging on the persona’s experience.” We saw the self-cackling “Pitt Skinny Dips in Sun City,” when the klan was sneering, “if you try to help Black people they will only turn on you,” while being supported perfectly openly by the NAACP in Pittsburgh working with the  KKK on Mt. Desert Island (Mitch Island), possibly as an subliminally suggested cue. We also heard Hillary Clinton say, “It Takes a Village,” for her slogan, while Penis Gabriel jeered through his agent, “If you wash we will be offended,” putting out Security and tagging the theme as an invitation for automatic punishment if you try to evade poison crime rather than lick the stump of the warlords on cue. Meanwhile, behind it was rising Donald Trump.   While Penis Gabriel was using neurological tasers on an impacted head wound with the words “wear your inside out,” or else, his partner Trump was readying the No Trespassing signs, and the NAACP at school was making off with my fiance in bride theft to punish attempts to warn about Mt. Desert Island about which Penis Gabriel, friend of the Beatles and married into the Royal Entourage, wrote the alibi.

       I was always accused by Pitt Administration and fraternities of being a naive idealist, but I didn’t know, even as they got away with child mutilation  crime and a Manson Hollywood experiment series, that what they really meant was naivete about women. It was the ideal who administered the final betrayal.