One of the prettiest songs I have in my head was a lovely performance virtually no one else knows of.  New York City’s Anne Mitchell singing, “Pictures of You,” with accompaniment by Mark Garvin. My life isn’t going to amount to much.  Pittsburgh took care of my potentialities but the song I wrote shows I could have held my own as a lesser rival of Reba McIntyre.  

      The celebrity superstate is a hard part of the anthropocene to solve.  Bob Geldof was a one-hit wonder and got noise out using social justice chicanery long enough to answer his own question how did such a cut from the cloth, dyed in the wool, prefabricated has been made good on his share of Warhol’s 15 minutes in the media of vainglory?  He pronounced that he hadn’t threatened anybody, despite his hooligan associations.

      It’s easy for a celebrity to trivialize someone else’s life.  I don’t credit the butcher bill that Trump put on my tab, but I do credit the maliciousness of the people doing it.

      Anne Mitchell said that my sincerity was my strong point in music.  When I said she must have liked the song she sang so beautifully, she scoffed at me and made clear it was just a performance, she sang it the way I asked her to.   Rosa’s follow up performance helped straighten me out as to just how far the celebrity class will go, as Jacqueline Onassis did fulfilling the role of Mildred Pierce’s daughter in the Kennedy Limousine.  

         The message is that we don’t have a civics society that someone like Jay Inslee, even if he weren’t in Trump’s pocket for confederacy in the attack, can draw upon to try and rescue the clearly dying planet, sick of us.  Capt. Kangaroo’s like the Kennedys, Roberto and Donnie Chin should not be dead but guttersnipes like Trump have purposefully stirred up a Donald J. melee of martyrball sociopathy. Everybody has to settle a score for tee shirt sales.

        I didn’t betray Rosa.  I would still be in love with her and happily married if the same people who set on me had actually intended any sort of rescue.  Shawn Brooks and Jay Inslee locked me out of church as a child. No one in this power structure was going to allow the object lesson to understand what was going on or have a happy ending.   Pukey little Ringo Starr can steal his own book, but he can’t rub out the facts of his victim’s letter.

        While I did find it present duty in 1984 as a junior scholar working at the University of Pittsburgh to put the 60’s in the context of the 80’s, I also picked up eventually on that fact that Seattle was stalking me to use me to tell the same story wildly differently.   Seattle don’t like me and I don’t like them. They certainly aren’t going to face up to being turned into Sabine women by Trump.   

        When Anne decided she’d gotten what she wanted from me she called me a stretcher.  Her friend from Greenville, refering to her as Mitch the bitch, introduced me to Mi Yung Joo and papi died after an encounter at school with the music Syrinx.   If you do think of me as an art statement for all the bloodshed of Warhol you might liken me to I, Claudius put to Munch’s painting, “The Scream.” For once I do know hue thinks that ways:  Tony Levin. I donohue else.

          For a while Anne loved me and called me her soul mate, but she also took a moment to manifest the Greek Androgyne aspect of Tami Simon, which was strange because when I was neighbor of Sharon Samuels, who called me for James Child to nuke an embryo, living with Anne’s Greenville friend, he used a dog indexed to Wattenmaker’s Tito, named Yuri to tear my father’s cashmere coat to shreds.  I was also a neighbor of a Russian Jewess named Alla Chertok in those days. Andro-pov, hmm.

        PoulsboRV indexes to Paul’s LSBO Reagan victory much as the trauma of Kurdistan, which will be easier to find when renamed Donaldsville, indexes to Le/to, whose mockery when Dia said Lennon died shows the timing of the plan to Let O (bama) score for Ono.  Anne was more sincere in her magical imagination discussing her favorite Michael Jackson.

        In the Congressional fable sold by Trump and his lovelies in the Democratic race, I was stupid for sharing my dreams of marriage with a sadistic village.   These smarties are like Hagerman who told me through the Fripp grapevine, “It is widely believed in the Pentagon that the earth just isn’t going to make it, but who cares, I’ve lived a good life.”  They’ll explain it all to children too young to understand, myuh.