Prison Invisible Ink. Day blurred in mud. Black Icarus thinks of her nightly Prison-Pillow-Fight-Club.

I think this one will hurt. A Black Icarus flight in the dirty night. In the days I was Curt and short in first-class.
The OK City bombing: to a calming remote view, I must pass…through all high level brass scheduled to a golf tournament, who spent the day, far away, from OK City. A play to keep them from the ditty of the Murrah dust and nitty gritty. Bom Bom Bom.

The “Con” song can’t have the Blue Choir near the operational throng. Honest men in Blue being witness, or being hurt, or God forbid, in the hot rubble, chilling in their last shirt. So ask, cuz, whoever scheduled the tourney, knew about the blast. Cliffhanger! Take notes, class!
Charles Hanger the Masonic cop with the luckiest grab ever, in Perry, that pulled the NO TAG! yellow Mercury with the building-gang-banger over. Coincidence?
Nigga please!

Only to those who can’t understand, the golden synchronicities of the well planned.

Yellow heavy metal, a symbol, like Kubrick’s yellow bug, brown bagging a Mcveigh-thug.

CIR (CIA/Rogue) switched from “Catcher in the Rye,” and hitched McVeigh to “The Turner Diaries.” No worries, Timmy’s shooting star was sure to rise.

I worked with Tim McVeigh.

He was the star of the mind wipe program of the MK’s, like Clockwork Orange days juiced in wet work and agent oranges, from the same “Man,” that hitched Vietnam’s Air America to Coke in Cuba, to produce a few big Dealey assassins, then the Afghani drug plan. Timmy’s domestic Intelligence mission was switched to target cults and white supremacy-dolts. Wire the nuts and bolts of our screwy organic militia, recruiting for the rogue elements of the CIA. 
Here’s a play by play:

ACT ONE:

Show up at WACO, make sure you are “seen” with anti-Castro, WAIT! Oh! (whispers of “So yesterday!” in his handler’s ears, better shift gears, not much hate left for Cuba, outside the city-state of Miami’s JM/WAVE (CIA) in Calle Ocho).
So, the grave Dr Jolyn West was called into the show. The best ol’ mind swipe doc at the CIA, (after Cameron, Gottlieb, Satz and Heilman.)

West’s first manufactured tragedy was a hit called the “Charlie Manson Show” in LA. He was Charlie’s “PO” in San Francisco. JDubs!, (We are  Rosebuds, he won’t mind the Rosebud Thief playing Black Icarus, over the Black Maria and her succubus NAOMI-ULTRA.)

Dr West advised Charlie to play in LA and McVeigh in OK. He even had a hand in the Koresh of Waco, to program the mind to wacko, exactly like the CIA’s Jim Jones in Jonestown/Guyana. For those tracking slow, the Branch Davidians and Jonestown Kool-aid oblivions were led by MK-ULTRA. Intel always controls both sides, with moles in play on both rides, otherwise there is no intel circus. J. West has the coolest skill sets! He can swipe or add a memory with a frequency at 7.68-7.89 Hertz.

Hurts free will shifting gears from anti-Castro to white militia cheers! Go TEAM!

Allow JW to stage the scene in the mind’s dream: Timmy, Timmy, Timmy! Be “seen” with militia pamphlets is the only play. Extra work. Extra pay.

Hand out the leaflets and play the part with your best black-slaver heart, and maybe, just maybe, next exact day, we will cast you in a speaking role with a “Kling” that “D. Bridges” to future gun control, framed in Patsy love. Sing like Django, (D is silent like the Pillow-Fight-Club we never speak of!) that goes boom boom, with a shock and awe ring, and ties your room together in perfect seams of covert silent D’s for big boobs in covert “Delta-Detachments,” with Top Secret please and thank yous, bowing to dreams of the overachieving Big Lebowski memes.

Cue: The sunrise on the Waco anniversary!

Who doesn’t love a party!

April, 19, 1995.

Boom.

Brissance.

ANFO does not pulverize concrete. Street cred oenamonopoeia!

I am the Black Maria. An NBC NCO with a Top Secret Security Clearance at the age of seventeen. 
End Scene.

ACT TWO:

Origin story, so gory, shining like Kubrick dipped in Tarantino.

The CIA, like the FBI’s, Hoover-trannie playbook, loves grooming a man into a Mannie-Patsy/Spook, so the world has a place to grieve, in a garden, with a look of well manicured and better received. Rest assured, America, you will believe your Patsy like Dustin in Tootsie, and he’ll be a programmed star, with Oscar-winning programmed lines, in his own program/movie!

GIVEN LINE?

Who doesn’t love a Master Class in Villainy!

On time!

A year past the wacky Waco show: C-4 more than ANFO. Proven. On the day after, by yours truly, as I sent the debris to be tested, and it Greiss’d Pink! Think cyclotrimethelenetrinitramine. C-4 Bomb Material, easily proven with thymol crystals added to sulfuric acid with a touch of white lightning makes it a lovely rose’ dream! And we have RDX-C-4/nitroamine!

The Murrah-McVeigh motive is immaterial when you are stuck at the altar of the material world in a swirled state of consciousness.

Timmy was an MK mind hack, like the Rosebud Thief in Iraq. Mcveigh’s programmed mission of attack, weighs heavy on his soul. His OK City Bombing, a strawberry handkerchief wronging the mind of John Q. Othello, like a dark thief that only steals your peace of mind, in the stuffy hours of prison-pillow-fight-club-time.

Keep the starlight, the source of my Black Icarus in flight...The CIA’s Human Resources Exploitation Manual is the playbook that shadows history, like all history, according to Marx, as tragedy, first, then, worse, as farce.

Cue: The Tragedy.

Background!

And Action!

Lee Harvey Oswald had to pierce the Iron Curtain to spot welding defects and play villain, to wear the well groomed effects of a Pro-Russian stance during a Cold War dance. Leaflets printed and distributed in Pro Castro chants, with the CIA’s Chauncey Holt in New Orleans to sell Oswald his role in carcinogenic Intel dreams. An SV-40 character to cultivate and surveil the pro-Castro/Hate for American Democracy, for the CIA and Cointel-Pro. Create the decoupage of a cut out boat in a cut out sea. Oswald’s cut-out, an unanswered (John Hurt) phone call away, after the big “Dealey’s” “Nightmare on Elm Street,” original screenplay.

Forgetting Oswald’s INCA group, his handler was Maurice Bishop, aka. David Atlee Phillips. Yup, you guessed it. CIA. Bush Sr’s Red Right Hand, with Phillip Twombley, who passed the shadow baton to the Man in the CIA, President Clinton, coke Whore! Yes way! The source behind the golf tourney force, that kept the real brass in blue away from the boom boom room in OK.

Cue: Puppets on strings, when the White House rings. Stay! Boys in blue. Stay! In the shade of my Black Icarus wings. Ok, now come and play, after the explosive end of act Two, when the fat opera lady sings. Domestic terror is the new operatic zeitgeist. Pins in dolls of blue, more like voodoo, than nailed like Christ. Practicing maritime law, with this old saw: loose lips sink ships. Cue the apocalypse. Now:

ACT THREE:

Starts with the trouble of sifting through all the rubble, as witches and warlocks bubble their intelligence brews in scripted talks that pledge a storyline written by an old screenwriter friend of mine. Hello TPS target Oliver Stone! My notice burned in time, cover blown, but not before I tagged you at home and at Chris Breed’s Essex in San Francisco, having sex with the Asian hostess. Ho ho ho! The best remote views on the mind, director’s cut to porn dress up in the coat room in cloak and dagger time. I recognized your CIA tailoring on the seams in Mcveigh’s mind. Line: “You Can’t Handle The Truth!” (Not that line! Stolen from Sorkin’s actor’s booth.) That’s the set up, to a Stone cold slap-scripted punchline, I recognized as Ollie’s throw up/word vomit:

“Because the truth is, I blew up the Murrah Building, and isn’t it kind of scary, that one man could wreak this kind of hell?”

That kind of sick writing comes from the CIA screenwriter’s cell. Ollie Stone with a writer's tell, (who I called Tarantino when I wired him personally for HUMINT Intel.) Black Icarus says your writing was just a spell. As I fangirl with a faux cough, it was the delivery that was off in Timmy’s Holden Caulfield world. He was “Kling-ing to a Tuttle, lost under Bridges, when he later discovered the aliases given, cost him the lives of children.

Even Timmy flinched.

Cue South Park: TIMMY!

A glitch in the heart of his programmed matrix. A bug in the system he didn’t know.

A club of kiddie killers.

Oats I sowed only in wars, with hopes in vain, that this prison musical would even the scores of my karmic pain and debt. I’m all in on the bet of my musical score’s success.

Dedicated to the mother of Antonio Cooper Jr. An exasperated turn from the Murrah to the prestige of “Love Field,” for the American Mom, from the pledges of a Patsy named McVeigh, from classifications above the Oswald of our day.

There is no innocence left behind when fingerprints of intelligence find, after dusted in shadow’s time, black sheep and scapegoats, marking with a Sharpie on the mind of Black Icarus.

My Faust-like farce I play for ATF Agent Val Rowden. A survivor of that day, and one in every way. And the lives lost to our rogue CIA. In his day, President Eisenhower warned us of their hidden power in the Military Industrial Complex. JFK tried to expose their play of Herpes-simplex, and loosed a pox like Syphilis on their Globe and Rose. Hidden theaters of ops, MONGOOSE going porn in an STD push, because George Bush is seen when “Op Zapata” is disrobed. His hidden deal with Castro, de pants and exposed.

Ta-Da!

Castro bent over Gitmo, with two from the Bush. CIA’s Op MONGOOSE got the Mob to play God dressed in grassy-knoll-ops and black coats and found the Prezzy-antidote, with cops shining in blings of Roscoe White and Jack Ruby rings. (White took the throat shot. (My Op-40 Group’s Calling Card!)

James Files, the driver’s bard, hits the head, freeing JFK’s thought in a misty pink dead. (The same color as my prison ink!) Think: Intel always has both sides covered, otherwise, there is no play. The Fat Lady in the Opera sings, from the Oz rides of Love Field to the programming of McVeigh. Sirhan. Chapman. Noriega. James Earl Ray. To the cigar yields of Fidel and to the failed booms of cigar-booms on his cancer sticks of the people. A trick of owning both sides, kept in play. The program is Ultra cool. Dubbed in MK-ULTRA school. Like prison-pillow-fight-club. A mind fu*k from the inside out, caged in neurons stuck in silent songs we sing, but never talk about.

Cubre Libre.

De Opresso Liber.

Black Icarus down because the Sun came out.

Duh.

My wings are wax, a waning Patsy-melt that sings out past the stellar nursery of Orion’s Belt like my jailbird of innocence flying in the Shawshank rain. Arms to sky, heard in the cry of an empty forest, the best of my inner Andy Dufresne.
Restive conduit stilled.

Today’s answers to tomorrow’s questions fulfilled.

The greatest remote viewer that has ever lived, has plucked a nightly rosebud, from the gardens of my prison-pillow-fight-club. 

A puff piece.

Obviously, stuff I’m working on, like the common rosy scents of humility. And peace. Instead of wars and peace. Tragedy and farce incarcerated with my hallucinations. My treatise on “Love” in fields of bliss, above Top Secret, in the game show light of “Pat Price is Right!” where “History” never yields to a lie agreed upon, when hidden hands are recasting horrors to slapstick rom-coms.

Step right up, intrepid explorers and get your tickets to my hidden freak show. Allow me to blow a unique whistle and let’s give the “Her-story” of Lila Ċepa Winyan Sapa a go!

A higher Red road, a sober vein to the Lakota astral plane, mapped out well past the ideograms of Major Ed Dames and his silly head games.

I tapped into the dead of Yuwipi stillness, beyond the male ego, where menstrual blood mixes with ether, near the mud of the taint.

The Wakan Tanka/source of my Heyoka/clown paint, making a dirty mess of my daily, Sunday best.

A Rohrshach shade of Black Icarus, sky diving on prison cots made of thriving strawberry fields and crusty socks, where God is the paradox, in each and every one of us. Who knew I’d cliche and find the Yahweh to God every day, in my prison remote view?

Fin. Fade to Black Icarus.

Wearing the shitty paint-slinging, to remind us to remain unseen, by the apex predator, behind every locked door of the mind, lurking behind every curtain of dream, or body workshopping the con, with Ozzy musical gears on, with all this heavy metal song and dance.

See the wizard pulling your leg in con, as a chance to pull down his pants. If you get a “second coming” chance at a peek…does your god wear boxer or briefs? Is godspeak in crescent beliefs, the language of the full moon in disbeliefs, waxing or waning? Set dressing fluffed in divine porn and stardust. The same sexy dress worn by every unjust emperor and crew.

An Invisible Cue. I’m too sexy for my last shirt. My human hurt locker is a skinwalker, that isn’t through shedding skin. Glasnost into a nightly shape shift into the soul, bedding the graveyard shift, giving up my best Black Icarus role, above the sheets.

Cue Ghostbusters. Bill Murray: “She sleeps above the sheets. 4 feet above the sheets!” Waterfalls of drool, there is no Black Icarus DNA, only ZUUL!

Lila Ċepa co-directs with the white man, the lovely Ivan Reitman. So Coffee Shop Cool!

END SCENE.

Awaken! Back to work for the sadistic prison “Man.”

Eye drool.

Emotional Windex to clean the windows unseen. Lila, cue up another one of them Ghostbuster scenes:

“If someone asks if you are a God in your dreams, say YES! God Bless!”

A Rosebud for you to glean yourself off of patriotism for your government, lost to a coup on 11/22, and follow your patriotism to a country that needs you.

Now Hiring: Green Beret Remote Viewing School. I am the Hanged Fool of the Tarot. Rosebud Intelligence Program. Remote Viewer #001. Tickets to my Gun Show fun.

I’m partial to the truth and JFK. They gave me my Special Forces Green Beret, where I stared at a few goats, in hopes of fucking them some day.
Hey, it’s a lonely life for truths, in the hidden tableau of spooks, where deception is the unseen, like universal health care, like the Emperor’s underwear (unclean). A banana hammock holding Baby Ruth’s and pee, like a Caddyshack pool, free from other fruits. So cool.

John Lennon said speak truths and you won’t have a lot of friends. Except the right ones.

Amen. John, amen.

Cue Pearl Jam: Come Back.

Come back John Lennon. My GOAT.

Staring at GOATS and Scapegoats in my prison purview. Heaven and Hell’s remote view. Avert your eyes, I see the opposite of Starling in my cinematic skies. I heard the scream of goats and sheep after I, the GOAT Shepherd in sleep, prison hard in my lust-filled dream, took my Mark.

Cue the Carnie’s with the “Step Right Up” bark!

To the carnies in shadow’s theme, the world is filled with McVeighs and Marks. The barkers look like extras, disguised as background players, until a shift of lighting and airs, by the Best Boy/Man, and voila, the lifting of veils, wedded to the answered prayers of true superstars, perfectly scripted, rewritten in silver cords, attached to my prison bars.

Golden awards delivered to my inner silver screens, with other delusions of grandeur, Klimt’d to my Oscar’d scenes. “JSOC D-Activities” seance’d in the Kiss of the “Zwischen.” A kill list missed in the shadows of the In-Betweens. Out of the blackened mist of extremes, BEHOLD the Black Icarus, the Black Horse more than sheep, sleep-flying in the darkest of dreams. 

Awaken.