An Open Letter to Joe Rogan from Curtis Lake with a bit of "nothing within" to sell. Only a covert life story to tell…of the greatest spy that never was. (Called a “Rosebud Thief” by Senator Pell.) Cue the Faustian faux pas of “open throat” Intelligence. Yes, Sartre, other people are hell whence looking for six degrees of separation to conflate to One…because I am seeking, only, to be a cup, empty of myself and full of oneness, at long last…I must forgive my quiet past…When I lost my family to an unsigned Lucchessi mob deal, I drank myself to death for "lita-real."

I am also the alumni of Gene “Chip” Tatum, Pablo Escobar, and Barry Seal. Barry was played by that “American Made” star for real as we segue into the unreal: to see death as merely a fleeting moment to get to the eternal. A passing of time spent to get to the infinite. As I joined the 22-a-day pillow-fight-club of the combat vet, I passed through a tunnel of light that I could feel, like spiritual sweat. My life flashed before me like a reel to reel. My life was a horror movie. I felt everyone I hurt and loved from their point of views, and how they dealt with my performance was Oscar-worthy news, as I played a horrible part, worst than Tom Cruise, seen from their eyes and pulsed with dissonance from the heart.

Tears of pain morphed to joy as I stood at the pearliest and flashed a pearly grin. A beam of light smiled back and laughed with a heartfelt: “If you really wanna get in, I mean really, really want to get in…you have to go back to Earth and do at least one good thing…no matter how much it will hurt.”

T.H.E. Rosebud Thief plucked a vibrating super/silly string and embroidered "GREAT!" on his recycled last-shirt. He would be using the 70 million dollar purse that went missing from a CIA Panamanian Economic Hitman named Ed Chism/American Wealth/Financial.

And they roared in verse: “Oh! Heaven’s no, Robin Hood! You shall be cursed with oaths of poverty and celibacy for your own good! A must for you and simply to adjust, you’ll do…10-32…as an innocent man framed by a blue…man group shaded in corruption faded into black and blue shadows.

We angels are clocking you. We are Versace shade watching you…clear your karma as a green beret/combat vet/Intelligence Asset called the Rosebud Thief. It will give us bored angels (like the Buddha and Biggie Smalls) a laugh at your riches-to-rags pratfalls.”

“Sounds fair!” Calls out T.H.E. Rosebud Thief before heaven’s gates, what do I do when I re-taste the air? What awaits after I regain my breath and my heart squiggles from a flat-line to cheat death? And, outside time, a choir of ascended masters sang with God’s breath: “You are there to see how well you can sit through the flame. Insert the following name: Joe Rogan. He’s got you…mention your MILF/friend Vratch Artie Pasechnik, Dr. Benito Que and Dr. Don C. Wiley. And tapping James Caan and Ollie Stone for a Senate Intelligence Subcommittee through an agency that never existed, with a chasm of plausible deniability so grand and twisted, even the main truth or daredevil man (Evel Knievel) wouldn’t stick the land.”

T.H.E. Rosebud Thief offered this reply: “I’m a skydiving-adrenaline-junkie, my turn to fly and share, which is making people a little jumpy. I really don’t care. I made a promise to some Divas recently departed to the light side, over there…soul, mind and wholehearted, and I have a Heyoka talking stick in my knickers/underwear, where the sun don’t shine too bright, or I could just be in “stellar wind” flight. Or, happy to see you in my fruit of the looms. I’m simply luminous in my Hello-Kitty Nitelite, grown in “Pico Poo” and shadow like the mushroom in full psilocybin bloom. A request to share my prison-pillow-fight club oaths and my 20th SF Group dagger’d cloaks, (Go Vipers!) that only hit throats with JM Wave snipers that loom behind every Catcher in the Rye-Patsy, with the I-Spy calling card: We Deal In Lead, Friend.

Enclosed is my hard copy DD-214, when…I joined a top secret group at 17, where I headed west to go Ollie North. Now, I ask you, Joe…does my DD-214 look like the origin story of every great spy movie you’ve ever seen. How did I disappear in the dream and change from a spy to a horror theme after all this Intel/Special Forces training. Let’s klatch and quatsch over coffee.

And, Scene.

Your play, Joe, chicken dancing with rogue CIA. Murmansk Oblast! Ya ponimayu no unes problema! Da? Nyet! Spasibo, Joe. Spasibo.

A chat with a relic from the Cold War, who just opened shop in Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience store. I am the door of light that leads to a downed Mann’s flight with JSOC’s Activity/CIA’s “Technical” keeping score.

Six to One, final angelic demand from the higher ups, if I came back from the land of luminous flux, I must be more than dirt poor, I must be a poor, black poet. A fat, female one, wouldn’t you know it. My Whitmanesque multitudes screamed: "Are we fucking sure?"

So here I am…Joe…very sure that you’re T.H.E. One…I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy…asking him to “Grillflame” her on your silly little show. I have a piece of fallen sky you’d like to know, hidden in a black balloon.

Cue the Goo times two. You know the track. Will you sing my tune?

It stars the G.O.A.T. at staring at goats back, but only cuz I liked to fuck them, too. That’s a joke. Come back?

I am the reverse apple of Magritte, but before that surreal literary scalpel to the sweet…sacred feminine of my Black Icarus, I was Hapa Hendrix with Hawaiian Kahuna tricks. Before that, Curtis “Lila Ċepa Winyan Sapa” Lake, Oglala-Lakota-Shaman with national secrets, homeless, living in the sticks or behind bars, content with Heyoka clown paint derived from the taint and the mud of my prison pillow fight club…to the stars.

Ad astra per aspera…

How about a meet-cute? I’ll bring my chimera Remote-Viewing jumpsuit tailored by a Jedi named Major Dames. Shall I name more names? It’ll be a Hoot-N-Annie. A Hapa Haole/Iyeska Wasichu playing a hideously cute, fat-black-tranny.

Shall we chicken dance? Perhaps with moves that blossom into a he-she/bro-mance? Wait till I introduce you to my Gam-Gammy, Witchy Wanda Black Elk. Shamaness to the stars in trance…who taught me the Oglala Ghost Dance and so much more (or less) from the Pine Ridge Rez. A Yuwipi that could seance the dead, even drunk off her ass, which was always. Would you like a cup of her pejuta sapa, Joe?

We can also talk about my days bronzed as a State Boxing Champion/National Silver Medal “Golden God.” I could’ve went the MMA ways, but I was Bourne with brains like a cephalopod and made other plans. Recruited in Omaha as the Cold War thawed with very dangerous octopi hands. Here are pics of me as a pre-tranny. A Hawaiian fighting out of the Badlands. The greatest spy that never was, or could never be. Clearing out the Cold War closet with serenity and koans. Cue the applause. The one-hand clapping claws. T.H.E. ones you can’t hear or see. Until me. A Top-Secret-Santa Claus, gone big, dark and womanly, manicured with gifts of empty cups filled with tissue for tits.

3,2,1…this message self-destructs.

Gone with my severed manly-bits and those that made the cuts.

Cut.

Check the gate without fail!

That’s a wrap!

For Sale: One cup. One jockstrap. Contact this fat, black female @ prisonproseandcons.com