#10.39X Am I Being Abducted by Aliens? Ana Aesha Huna/I Live Here.

When I was going through the first half of the Special Forces “Qualification Course” I lived off post. 7767 Dragon Head Rd, Fayetteville, North Carolina. I can’t give you the exact dates, but this happened 6 times. This was the first time.  

I awoke, disoriented in a strange bed. 

Two police officers with guns drawn were framed in the unfamiliar bedroom doorway. 

A disturbing Orwellian tableau. 

I wondered how long Big Brother was watching me sleep. 

I looked down at my hands. I could not feel them, but I could see them. 

It was as though I was suffering from a reverse phantom limb effect, until I felt a stranger’s Duvet cover. 

1200 thread count. Egyptian Cotton, I guessed.  

While earning my Green Beret I lived off post with one of my best friends, Bryan Morgan. (Currently, the Vice President of Wackenhut. The single security contract for the DUMBS in the US.) 

I lived there from March till October of 1992. 

NSTARE gave me a pager. 

The beeper looked suspicious in 1992. 

I was the only one on Bragg, besides Delta assets, that wore one. 

Like the Minox spy lens found on Lee Harvey Oswald with 5 digits instead of 6 digits, not yet on the civilian market, after he was arrested for premiering his version of Nightmare on Elm Street. 

Bryan was the Delta Force Asset called the “Khartoum Character.” He spent most of his time in the Sudan protecting the royal family. 

I had his spare bedroom and the house to myself until Fayetteville’s finest paid a visit. 

As I looked down the barrels of both officers’ sidearms, my hearing came back to me gradually, like rising from the bottom of a deep well. 

My phantom limbs were seance’d fully back to life, as I wiped the dream out of my eyes. Still laying on the Egyptian fluff, my blur followed the blaring house alarm out of the well into the noon day sun, streaming through the windows at an Emily Dickinson slant. I realized the cops were shouting, but I couldn’t hear them. It was as if a studio sound engineer cut their vocal tracks, but amplified every ambient noise with a smell, in between the Brinks siren pulses. 

It was then I realized I was in Bryan Morgan’s room. 

I mumbled incoherently: “I live here.” 

Then, I squinted towards their blue menace and yelled “Ana Aesha Huna.” 

My eyes were having trouble focusing, but I noticed in fine detail, two right index fingers losing their straightness and curling, loopy and gay, around two triggers. 

The sounds were synesthesia-transitioning from smells that ranged from fresh cut grass to a molding compost that smelled of plant and animal decay in a wilderness recovering from forest fires. The recovery was short lived, as sparks dispersed into iridescences of visible resonance in the bedroom, as reality fractured into a jigsaw puzzle under Davinci’s sfumato brush. 

The sounds were putting the pieces slowly back together and adjusting focus. 

I had pieces of blue that could be either sky, ocean or police that simply wouldn’t fit, floating in my misted periphery. 

Then, I yelled again, Ana Aesha Huna! and I froze in shock as my mind quickly played out 3 scenarios. 

First scenario, I may have been drugged to the point that I was hallucinating and aphasic. I laid there, semi upright, reaching out for the guns, thinking I was hallucinating.

The second scenario, I may have experienced some divine intervention leaving me symptomatic with Glossolalia. 

A speaking in tongues. 

I slowly pulled my hands back in, palms up like I was worshiping palmistry, and checked my animated phantom limbs for ghostly residue in the form of stigmata, to no avail. 

But I did notice a very short ‘Lifeline,’ and an even shorter ‘Loveline’ mapping my hand’s reach into the future. 

The third scenario gave me a chill: I was abducted by aliens and they taught me their language and when they put me back they assumed I lived in the master bedroom. 

So, I felt my head for an implant and felt my anus for a probe, which really excited the officers, because they thought I was going for a weapon in my clearly disoriented state. 

I did not know what Ana Aesha Huna meant and neither did the boys in blue, so I yelled “I live here!” for a second time, as I awkwardly got out of bed. 

I saw the 3 words as spheres of electric blue, hurling towards the officers in single file, dissipating at the barrels of their guns. 

I felt disjointed like an Ichabod Crane rising from an unsteady sleepy hollow. 

I was in my Levi Jeans and a pink, button-down Polo shirt. 

I wasn’t drinking and I wasn’t on any drugs and yet I was clearly on something. 

If I was driving, and these police officers were administering a sobriety test, I would have stumbled right into jail. 

Walking, I felt like the first Homo Erectus crawling to a horizon to make his first stand, against his prior hunched nature.  

As I stumbled towards the blue fractaled fuzz, the broken jigsaw pieces in cerulean, backed up into the open spare bedroom, behind them. 

Their guns held a steady bead on my third eye as I took a left down the hallway into the living room to type in the code, 3307, with some embarrassing difficulty on the home security keypad. 

The silence slapped me in the face, fully awake, but still disoriented. 

The vibrating jigsaw-sound-glue hardened. 

Reality locked into place. 

I could no longer see the jigsaw piece edges. 

I turned around to the two cops holstering their firearms who said Brinks called 3 times and the alarm had been going off for over a half an hour. 

I thanked them for the wakeup call and walked them out using only the words I knew, while contemplating the ones I didn’t. 

I didn’t feel drunk, as I thought of Guy Pierce’s line in the movie “Memento.” 

So what the fuck happened? 

Then it happened again. 

This time no alarm, no cops. 

Egyptian cotton in silence, the noon day light coming in at a sinister slant, heavy like chamber dirge. The book of the dead decaying like abducted cattle without fly or maggot, hidden under the bed. Smells I can never Febreze away. 

I’m Cogito Ergo Sum, (I think therefore I am) but the Cogito is lacking something, lacking the Sum, and then some. 

On the 6th time, landing on soft cotton, I realized that some part of me is fluent in Arabic when I said: mahda bihaqi aljahim! What the Fuck!  

That’s when I knew there was no way I was being abducted by Arabic aliens. I slept in the “Khartoum Character’s” room every night after my 6th return. It felt like home until Bryan got back from Khartoum for my Q Course graduation. I miss his Duvet cover. It was like sleeping on a cloud above the minarets.  

 

Epilogue:  My NDE life review has somehow blocked this section out of my recall, so I cannot say for certain if this was more of Senator Pell’s SRI programming that started at UCLA with Dr Paul Satz/"Jones," 5 years prior, while I was stationed at Fort Ord/Presidio of Monterey/Presidio of San Francisco or the late 1991 Univ of Florida sessions in Gainesville with MK programmer Kenneth Heilman while living at 3230 SW Archer Road while skydiving every weekend in Palatka.  

Notable Highlights: While at Fort Bragg, I was interviewed by the Secret Service and the CIA (Military Intelligence Background/Special Forces Q Course Grad/Iraqi war vet/Cold War Vet. 22 Years Old). 

I was advised by Ken at NSTARE to tank both interviews, and as always, no Q course graduation ceremony for me. 

So when the SS asked me if I would take a bullet for a President, I said: “God no, those guys are drug running idiots/pedophiles.” 

The looks on the two secret service recruiters’ faces were priceless. Needless to say, I didn’t get the job. 

The CIA interview was even funnier. 

Two buzz cut stiffs that still managed to look like mop heads trying to look intimidating and serious, clueless to just how corrupt their organization was at its rotten apple core. 

This was more of an interrogation than an interview. 

Hostile, but I had no real dog in this fight, so I didn’t mind barking back. The opposite of the local LEO’s, who changed the signs on their interrogation rooms, to the softer, kinder “interview rooms.” 

I asked which of the two went to Yale and was part of the faggy club called Skull and Bones. (Bush, Kerry, et al. It’s easy to spot the rogue CIA, they all have the same Ivy league roots, small penises, misogynistic in stature, that bends to the red right hand wearing big shiny gold watches.) 

“Was the casket ritual at Yale, like the Knights Templar ritual called osculum infame, a butt kiss of shame or erotica?” I asked Agent Smith. 

“Are all of you at the CIA, closet homosexuals that traffic children with your crack?” I asked Agent Rodriguez thinking of Aquino’s MK contacts. 

“Not that there's anything wrong with that, I just like to know the sexual orientation of those I get into bed with,” I added.  

Needless to say, I didn’t get that job, either. 

Seven years later, when the movie Good Will Hunting came out in 1998, I could sincerely relate. 

I only wish I had a Ben Affleck friend that would have gone to the interviews for me and asked for a retainer! Ken was pleased. I felt really good about myself for doing my job well.

October 1992, I graduated from the Q course and went back to Brooksville’s Bravo Company, 20th Special Forces Group to start Operation 20th’s “TWENTY” for NSTARE.  

Interesting Side Note: Bryan asked me why we weren’t going to my Q course graduation. I smiled and said that I wasn’t really interested. But, it was the same reason I missed my High School graduation, my DLI graduations, my NSA Puzzle Palace graduation, My Electronic Warfare Operator Course graduation, my SFAS and Q course graduations, my subsequent FIU college of Honors graduation, where I graduated Magna Cum Laude, and every other school I graduated from in my military and civilian life. 

NSTARE advised me in Omaha, a few months before my High School graduation, to only have a basic training graduation picture. 

I threw away my Military “Dress Greens” after Basic Training and told the military at every school I attended, that my Dress Greens were lost in transit so I did not have to participate in any graduations. 

I, of course, waited till the day of graduation to inform my irate commanding officer of my loss. 

No pictures. 

I get it. 

Like a mob wedding. 

I was saddened to miss my FIU graduation. I was proud of that one. 

And that SFAS one. No, nothing suspicious there. 

It’s funny, the first graduation ceremony that I have attended since my 17 year old basic training graduation was for a simple prison computer course. 

I still felt odd being there. 

I remember dating the star of Blackwater, Amy Simon, for several years and I mentioned a weapon in conversation and she was surprised to learn I knew about weapons and was in shock when I told her I was once in the military. 

No one ever knew, after 20th SF Group, that I had a military background. 

It was nothing to be proud of, considering my alumni.  

(PSS) On January 14th of 2025 I had to come back to Tampa/Brooksville to see some honest 20th Group veterans to discuss my disclosure and to see the VA for some health related issues. The VA denied my claim before I brought them my updated DD-214. Now, they had me listed as deceased. An easier way to not help. Our VA is a sad state of affairs. I feel sorry for our veterans. God Bless them because our country thanks them for their service, but makes it very difficult to ask for help. 

Allyson Parks, the manager of the Bradenton clinic worked for 2 hours to resurrect me from the dead by using the “Death Date Modification” key after being embarrassed by calling me out in the waiting room as homeless. It took a few months for her “Death Date Modification” key to find the right lock as I was homeless living outside the VA hospital. Not really caring, but I told her the people in the back didn’t hear her. She was sheepish and helpful after that. She gave me a cane and that’ll help. I can’t go back. So I went back for a review and some young black punk smarted off to me after I asked him if there was anything that he could do for me as I apologetically was late and the first thing he said was: “Yeah, I can call security and throw your ass out.” Rudeness is really weakness imitating strength but damn that rubbed me fucking wrong. So I asked to speak to his manager and he lied and said he was his manager. An immoral response. A weak and immoral man. What Langston Hughes defines as nigger. So I was happy to call him that. 

#10.4  Removed. As per Best Friend’s Edit

Dr. Benito Que. MILF-Jedi. Removal Date: Nov. 12, 2001. 

Dr.  Don C. Wiley. MILF-Jedi. Removal Date: Nov. 16, 2001.

Dr. Artie Pasechnik. MILF-Jedi. Removal Date: Nov. 21, 2001.

Dr. Stephen H. Adler. AKA Prison Spook. MILF-Padowan. Burn Noticed Removal Date: Nov. 7, 2001. 

3 out of 4 MILFS (not Burn Noticed) die under mysterious circumstances, 2 months after 9/11 exposed the NSTARE Non-Operational Cover/MILF list to US intelligence. Wait, wasn’t that a Mission Impossible movie? Impossible? A coincidence, nothing to see here. As T.H.E. Spook waits for PIE to be served after this disclosure. 
P.I.E. is a CIA/JTRIG/JSOC ACTIVITY 3-piece fitting: Propaganda. Intimidation. Elimination.

#15AB. Too Late. Nothing Worse. My 20th Group’s Curse: “Operation Head Ni**er.”  (Wait, I didn’t name the op! But I added a verse to the same Adam’s Apple shot, as the hand that fingered the trigger, to snipe a full throat stop, to sever a tie in two.)

Too late! I have decided to use the Illuminati playbook in all future prison fights. 

I have decided to give others a fighting chance against my training, which I believe, is almost as invincible as the telecast from outer space, Ralph Macchio “Karate Kid” Crane Kick. The people in the same telecasted stratosphere of power within the intelligence community must always announce their plans in world domination and body bags, before committing the acts that allow their world domination and need for body bags to happen. This shadowy world is vastly different from ours, and yet paradoxically dictated, word for word, exactly the same. We simply overlook the message or read it wrong and say it deceives, even when it shines like Kubrick’s (not King’s) “Shining.” Like a telecasted crane kick stance that we cannot see because it is too unbelievable to be anything but fiction. 

Usually the intel-Hollywood-set kicks off the subliminal programming with TV and Film. “No way! That can’t be true, cuz I saw it in a movie.”  I smile at the black monolith of Kubrick’s 2001, A Space Odyssey which is a movie screen viewed vertical, placed plumb. A perfect black envelope with hidden messages for those that are curious. A black “I,” of shadow intelligence, hidden in plain sight with a slight spin upright. 

Kubrick, well versed in Intel speak, as his Shepperton Studios was a lot like our Liberty Studios (the very same studio in NYC, who happened to option my screenplay: “Pinot Film Noir,” for 150k (USD) so I could wire surveillance on Bill O’Reilly’s corner Fox newsroom office). Liberty was created by intel asset Frank Capra, who also made the film, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” He wasn’t all shadow. 

Shepperton, in Surrey England, is the second largest film studio in the world, which made Kubrick’s studio and intel films that were mouthpieces of propaganda for intelligence communities on both sides of the pond. Classified black ops. A shit black necessary for scene changes in the film noir world of intel. A flip, like a used Duchampian Readymade toilet, concealing Dada, nonsense and prophecy in dark tabula rasa art. An ekphrasis in human excrement and parable. The parable conceals the enigmatic Secret. The secret is the protocols to manifest a vision, cementing the fecal particulate of dream into this shitstorm of a reality. From Dada to totalitarian-twinkle-tiptoe dances, themed fascist. Steps timed for your protection, of course. 

To attune with these out-of-synch, Koyaanisqatsi-rhythms, the errant desires must first be written out and divulged to the world, especially when the world is forced to acquiesce to such aberrant programming. The world is usually too busy making other plans to notice, or too poor to pay attention, so they read the oldspeak Cliff Notes in the form of newspeak: a quick scroll feed, or tv show or movie provided by the people in power. Those same people that are in on the planet-Jack. 

It’s a big club and you’re not in it, George Carlin noticed presciently. This same club uses linguistic fascism disguised as political correctness to habituate its citizens to self censor. I think of intel/corporate people like Regina Dugan and Mitch McConnell. OPI asset Mitch, do your shipping lines still carry Escobar powder? Mitch was NSTARE agent #3’s TPS target so my intel is hearsay, twice removed. But he’s definitely dirty and in on the breakaway civilization using Pegasus Op profits to build classified DUMBS. Those awakened to the global hijack realize that there has to be resonance seeded in the subconscious before our reality can bend to their will in the conscious mind. It’s like bad gravity manifesting a dirty secret that is too ridiculous for the conscious mind to comprehend. 

A singular example of how this works was detailed in my TPS report on the Murrah building after it blew with the help of C4 and an entire CIA SOG, with a Cuban dissident thrown in for fun. The Oklahoma governor’s brother Martin Keating wrote a book a year before the McVeigh assisted bombing that was about, wait, I’ll bet you can guess. Yes, the bombing of the Murrah building. He called it predictive analysis in his “Final Jihad.” It’s more of an “in the know” thing. 

Like Eric Weiss/Orwell and his French teacher at the royal Eton Academy, Aldous Huxley foreshadowing a “Brave New World” post “1984.” 

This is manifesting. 

The Secret in action around secret societies that have hijacked the Hegelian dialectic on a small statehood level. On a larger global playing field you need a larger machine working different parts hiding bigger otherworldly secrets. These “New World Order” dirty secrets are very well detailed in the USAID playbook called Power Transition Model Mechanics funded by the World Bank and incorporated into protocol by the IMF with CIA economic hitmen like my former TPS Target at American Financial, (Aventura, Florida) David H. Siegel. They hide in plain sight while enslaving an economy in debt using the same Power Transition Model Mechanics outlined in their books that no one would believe. 

I’m gonna do the same before every prison fight. I’m going to tell my opponent exactly what I’m going to do and then see if he can stop me. This is exactly how the fight went today even before getting up off my cellhouse bunk. The cost of admission for hard pipe hitting Punks curious about the Thunderdome rumors. 

Ok, interchangeable prison Punk, this is what I’m gonna do to you: I’m going to initially hit you with a throat shot right in the Adam’s Apple. Don’t worry it won’t have the Newtons in force necessary to be fatal. 

You’re welcome. 

Speaking of Newtons, Isaac Newton had a prominent Adam’s Apple. Everyone saw it, yet he was the only one that asked how it drops. (Newton was a pre-op tranny born in the wrong century.) 

What other questions have we not asked, awaiting our reincarnations of Newton. 

My punchy sweet science was scored by curious windpipe music. 

My new fight song. 

It really chokes people up. It’s a bit wheezy for mainstream or even too teary for back up vocals, but as an alternative for screamo-near death metal blue, it is ironclad with no welding defects. 

So, interchangeable prison Punk, while you are turning blue man group, bent over your bushel of throat trying not to lose your apples, hmmm, how do you like them apples? 

No time to talk? 

I’ll give you a moment to catch your breath, and within that split second, I am going to pull your right forearm from your throat and break your right ulna and radius bones by using an arm lock taught to me by my instructor, 35th degree Shaolin Master, Dr Kam Yuen. 

He learned the move from Archimedes in that ‘give me a lever and a place to stand and I can move the world’ kind of instruction. You can break bones with the same philosophy. But you need not worry, I’ve only studied with Kam for 14 years. I’m still an all white belt after losing my black one of discipline to shades of prison Punk and spook. Forgive me Dr Yuen. RIP. You, who also taught me how to heal others. 

I seem to no longer need that more honorable skill set. Prison gave me vitiligo. It has peculiar symptoms in my case. When I first met Kam, he was a TPS target. He said that I had an interesting programming to me. He brought me up in front of 200 students with his assistant Marnie, and didn’t touch me, but changed me as he asked how I was framed with trauma based mind alterations that honeycombed my mind into altars. He would cry if he knew my current frame. 

By the way, interchangeable prison Punk, the throat shot is a favor to you. I am a sniper from the 20th Special Forces Group! The same throat shot alumni as the hitter in the Memphis job. Filed under NSC-40/Op.40/FELIX. 

Cue The Jacksons: Don’t blame it on the sunshine, don’t blame it on the moonlight, don’t blame it on the good times…blame it on the Boogie-Man-Ray job. Not to be confused with the artist of shadowgraph’s ghost. I’d hate to be haunted by the ghost of Man Ray or the enemy of Sponge Bob Square Pants.

During a particular operation while I was running surveillance in Brooksville, Florida, on 20th Special Forces Group personnel for Senator Inouye to document their CIA sheep dipped drug running operations, (wow, I’ve never written that sentence outside of the classified TPS report) my team leader said that his family took out the “Head Nigger.” 

I put my M-16 down against a tree, thinking I missed the forest and misheard an empty tree fall. So I listened intently. 

20th Special Forces Group Green Berets are an exclusive club and definitely generational. Also a Gateway to the rogue CIA. They are like farmers. If Pops was one, usually the son becomes one to prove his manhood. Women need not apply. Something about pussy. (This has changed, I’ve heard.) I dunno, but so goes the generational programming of these moronic Myrmidons of violence. But they make great shots from a 1000 yards out. Few people can do that. This makes us very well-trained, lethal morons. Now, I have a half black daughter, so when I heard the ‘head nigger’ remark I was sure not to show my hand and said casually, what does “Operation Head Nigger” mean? That’s also the exact moment I realized there were no black people in our Florida Redneck Special Forces Group. Then, I thought back a year earlier when I used to skydive and train with Delta Force personnel in 1992, at Wally World outside of Fort Bragg. They only had one black man in all of Delta Force. They used to call him ‘Token.’ My roommate, then and there, Bryan Morgan told me that. Bryan is now the Vice President for Wackenhut, the private security contractor that controls the security in all 168+ DUMB’s across the US. (Deep Underground Military Base where Top Secret Rhyolite and higher clearances are needed for access to off planet/reverse engineered tech.) 

At the DUMB, 13 miles east of Telluride, there is a BSL-4 with a synthesized Talafinn serum that cures cancer. As soon as it was discovered as an anti-viral in an Ovine Visna study in Fort Detrick, MD, it was classified and the study shredded. My job for an entire year was to un-shred that study. 

As I ran surveillance on these clowns in warpaint, noticing ironically, all crack and coke runners on our level of distribution were white, my team leader said his dad was with HQ, 20th SF group out of Birmingham in 1968. And, he was also a sheep dipped sniper for a “Cuban outfit” who happened to be 10 yards behind James Earl Ray with a better trained eye, from the CIA field station in Huntsville, Alabama. Scoped for a throat (20th signature calling card) shot, exactly like the hitter, 63 days later on the RFK job. The throat shots are obscured from mainstream media, but I assure you, they are there. 

Cuba is as important as the throat shot, just in case we are caught, there is always one Cuban dissident we can blame the whole operation on, which may help persuade public sentiment to take out Fidel Castro in the future if our patsy is somehow believed, or worse, survives the frame. 

This was a requirement for most false (black) flag operations, in the 60’s through the 80’s, in America. Win-win, bartender, make me a Cuba Libre, cuz Fidel is one shitty bartender! It creates tension in the hemisphere, tension allocates more funds into the shadows. Even Oswald had Cuban ties. The interesting intelligence spook in charge of the botched Bay of Pigs invasion was George H.W. Bush. The operation was named Zapata, after his first oil company. The two ships used for the invasion were called “The Barbara” and “The Houston.” George Bush’s wife’s name was Barbara and Houston was where Zapata was incorporated. 

The unknown aspect of intelligence is they always control both sides. 

George HW Bush had a secret deal with Fidel Castro to botch the invasion to foment both Pro-Castro and anti-Castro sentiment directed at removing our president that was seeking to dismantle Bush’s rogue CIA. We lease Guantanamo Bay (in Cuba) from Fidel for 2,000 dollars (US) a year. A base that is 45 square miles. Any successful military campaign could be planned and executed from this base to take down a meager island nation. 

The Bay of Pigs, George promised Fidel would fail. And so it did. Allowing George to plan the hit on JFK, on Nov. 9 (Euro 9/11). JFK got wind of this assassination attempt in Miami and cancelled his trip. George’s SOG, filled with the Mob and CIA assassins, filled Dealey Plaza, 13 days later. 

Roscoe White, the Police Badge Man, and Op-40 assassin had the honor of the JFK throat shot. A first responder admitted he used the throat shot as a tracheotomy hole as he tried to revive the President in futility. This throat shot was kept from the public. Ex military/op Mongoose assassin James Files had the head shot that misted JFK’s noggin in pink ink. 

Memphis is home of the Lorraine motel. I’ll wait, a long pause, till you all outside of prison, google who got his necktie severed in two by a sniper bullet there in 1968. (Is Google still a thing?) 

The long pause is because I read Undersecretary of Education for President Reagan’s book, entitled: “The Deliberate Dumbing Down of America,” by Charlotte Iserbyt. It is why you are so dumb, America. Fear not, if our knowledge is finite our ignorance must be infinite says some dead dude according to that one idiocracy-thinking class, where the movie, “Idiocracy,” with Luke Wilson (hey, my old coke dealer Ritchie in Miami, was his old coke dealer Ritchie in Miami. What a small idiotic world) is more of a documentary in prophecy form. Let us chip away at the American ignorance and wallow in an infinite that is an antipode to the omnipotent God. 

Cue Hanson: MMMbop to Memphis for those that failed History, (don’t worry, you’ll be doomed to repeat it, first as tragedy then as farce according to communists) is also the home of the death of my Harvard Instructor on classified cellular morphologies for NSTARE, Dr Don C. Wiley. 

When my A Team leader bragged about our group taking out one of my personal heroes, I felt compelled to knock him the fuck out. But not after an homage to the throat shot. I compromised my entire 20th Group NSTARE mission with the violence. 

Before I went all crazy 20th group hitter, he first explained how Green Berets are a family thing and his family was proud to have sniped the “Head Punk.” 

The CIA-Sheep-Dipped-Green-Berets are all killers hiding in rooms, a long sight away. Cowards of the truest form without a conscience, with blind obedience to a political power we were taught never to question. True Myrmidons that know only how to shoot and salute. We are sheep with scopes who have lost the ability to think for ourselves. Kissinger called us expendable pawns in a global chess game. He was not wrong. 

Our thoughts are controlled and manipulated to bloodlust. Our Shepherds are wolves in sheep's clothing. The symbol for Eton, the royal school mapping our future in A Brave New World. Any community of sheep always attracts the governance of wolves. Do the howls of America sound familiar? 

Oh great America, fallen under the tyranny of the uneducated majority. You should have read de Tocqueville. He warned us quite presciently how we would end in the foreshadows of his “Democracy in America.” 

The throat hit to the “head nigger” killer family member (my superior/A-Team leader) was reminiscent and in honor of the throat hit that his father opened up MLK Jr, with. 

You’re welcome posterity for the beautiful symmetry in my violence. 

The hit did not go over very well with my handler at the time, a man named Bob Gabriel. It was kept internal, but NSTARE was not a very happy shade of blue. 

Like the not very happy shade of blue you are about to turn, interchangeable prison Punk. 

My team leader got the exact same throat shot you are about to get. You see, the brain has a gating mechanism for pain. You will not feel the initial breaks in the arm, because you will have difficulty catching your breath. But when you do catch your breath, the pain will leave you breathless and you’ll have to explain to the prison medical staff how you fell off your bottom bunk and have bones like a murder of crows. You will then wear a cast for 6 weeks so you’ll learn to eat with your left, non dominant hand. 

So really, this is a master class on becoming ambidextrous. 

Again, you’re welcome.

I’m sorry, is this too much information, too far out into your future? Allow me to remove the look of disbelief on your face with blue, interchangeable prison Punk. 

This worked exactly the way I said it would. 

This fight, as a lover of irony, I dedicate to the non violence of Martin Luther King. I’m sorry that my unit killed you. I’m disgusted by my own alumni. They killed my other hero, John Lennon, too. I cannot disclose their names, it is a De Oppresso Liber code. I will pay for this story with my life one day. 

Totally worth it. 

Isn’t it funny the more peaceful some become, the more violence follows them around. 

Karma smiles. Stripper slut spinning on my mental pole offering no release. My brain, like flat champagne, losing its effervescence to causality. Thought bubbles in my VIP room sinking instead of rising. I’m feeling Memphis blue around all this apple red. Thinking of old group black ops whited out by our Goebbels; a man named Frank Wisner. 

An interesting sidenote: on the desk of Frank Wisner was the following Adolph Hitler “Big Lie” quote in purple letters: “The great masses of the people…will more easily fall victim to a big lie than to a small one.” 

I was part of that “Big Lie” my entire life. I swear, I heard God laugh, on Sept. 21, 2002, when I took my life swearing off black flag ops of every kind trying to erase the memory of my 229+. In the Emergency Room in a third world country, when they squiggled me back from a flatline, when I vowed to script a non-violent Satyagraha life from then on…that’s when God’s laughter was deafening. 

I don’t hear God laugh anymore, cuz God, the ultimate prison Punk-spook, was evicted from my haunted, gated community. I no longer dream in black flag around patriotic flag waving wolves. In my dreams, I pray to the holy spider and when I’m awake, I outline my every action with an impeccable word, because I know the Illuminati Playbook works. 

There are worse things in the world than overlooking our dark history, but this frightens me most, as I know most of the world only has time for two jobs and no ‘apocalypse' in the revealing sense, until revealed too late. 

The real apocalypse. 

There is nothing worse than too late. 

RIP. Rest in Peace up Chuck. Bukowski, MLK and I walk into a bar and vomit spoiled apple martinis that don’t fall far from the Edenic tree. Name the prison Punk prophet, the one with nothing but time and empty packets of parmesan to fill. If hope is lost, looking back on that last word, close your eyes. Go with another sense.  

(PS) Humans have animal hearts. Interchangeable parts with pigs, our pearls in slop and time, connected to a bloodied mind, in our dirty human worlds, to understand the youth of our swine, washing the muddied from our soul shine.

#111.11 John Lennon. Unfinished. The Ekphrasis of the Painted Strawberry and The Creation of the Rotten Strawberry Artist.

The ekphrasis that is a post impressionist’s non-finito. So dead. So…Dead still life with fruit in lead. 

Painter Cezanne had a prescient wish. His Apple would astonish Paris. Lennon married Yoko and honeymooned in Paris. Taking a bite out of Cezanne’s apple cementing the non-finito process. A process of the unfinished to the eye filled in by the mind’s eye. A structural collaboration between the artist’s post impression and the future-fruity-front-man in strawberry fields. The Big Apple astonished by a rotten strawberry in still life after the Apple corps. How to rock a still life by rolling dead fruit on the floor. As the bitten tech-Apple premieres in four. Apples compared to a disappearing apple’s core. 

John Lennon’s Home Phone Number in New York was tapped by the FBI’s Cointel-pro. Our government saw him as a terrorist. His number was 212.586.6444. I call it sometimes when I have the courage to ‘Imagine,’ or when I feel like crying. A man answers and I ask for John. He says, “wrong number.” I reply: “No, wrong time.” I think of another wrong time when the wrong number was up. 

The “Big Apple” Magic Fruit Trinity of December 8,1980: 

The Pledge: Snowflakes Fall on Rotten Strawberry Fields. 

The Turn: Each Snowflake falls in its Appropriate Place. 

The Prestige: The Disappearing Rotten Strawberry Artist.  

John Lennon. “If you tell the truth, you won’t have a lot of friends. But, you’ll have the right ones. Ku Ku Kachoo, I am the Walrus.” CV: Singer/Songwriter/Peace Activist/Odobenus Rosmarus.  

Last Note Taken (Notable Life’s Irony): “Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans.” Proving also, death is what happens to you, while you are writing about life happening to you, while making other plans. 

(The author is searching for a Deus ex Machina moment. The moment has passed.)

Personal Philosophy: Strawberry Pancake Lover. A fruit-note: John Lennon renamed Rock and Roll a fruit when he commented that the only other name for rock and roll would be a pant-suited-berry with soul. A Chuck Berry with a cherry guitar of pulp and a Wah-Wah pedal, sculpting new sounds using strings of metal.

 

Jerome David Salinger. "I hate phonies…I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect…Don’t tell anybody anything.” CV:  Manchurian Magician/Gateway Process Depatterning and Psychic Driving Illusionist/OSS Operative/Pederast Child Groomer. Creator of the MK Ultra “Catcher in the Rye” caught in the act/Patsy Program.

Personal Philosophy:  A Machiavellian double phony: “It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.”  

CIA’s “CIR” Catcher in the Rye also denotes Central Intelligence Rogue operations/CIR deceiving the CIA.  

 

Mark David Chapman. “Can I get your autograph?” Using his outside voice. (Inner Voice chanted: “The Phony Must DIE! Says The Catcher In The Rye. John Lennon is a phony. John Lennon must DIE!” Sourced from a MA41500 Haan High Frequency Gun Diode.) CV: The CIA MK-Ultra ‘Turn’/Catcher-in-the-Rye Patsy Program.

Personal Philosophy: Holden Caulfield programming, replacing Travis Bickle’s altar, while a security guard in Hawaii. Bush family friend. 

Last Thoughts on Set: You will have to find another Bush family friend to do the Reagan job four months later, because I will be sitting here reading my favorite book, Catcher in the Rye, chanting the last line: “Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.” (Author’s Note: Yeah, that’s normal behavior. Nothing to see here…)

 

Jose “No Way” Perdomo. “Nothing to see here, except that guy, sitting there, reading Catcher in the Rye’s last line, (over and over again) just shot John Lennon!”   

“No Way,” a sleight of hand expert, moonlighting as a doorman at the Dakota, on December 8th, 1980. CV: CIA Bay of Pigs blunder survivor/Assassin/Lover of Magic’s Holy Trinity: The Pledge, the Turn, then the Prestige. 

Most notable Turns: Lead assassin on the cancelled Nov 9, 1963 Miami hit on JFK. Big Apple’s Rotten Strawberry Artist Assistant.  

 

Name Deleted. As per Best Friend’s Edit. 20th SF alumni code. "Al diablo con to paz!” Fuck your peace! whispered before he shot the strawberry twice from the front, (first with a 20th SF Group throat shot) and with the bullet lodged in his neck, John Lennon turned and ran under the shadowed archway. He shot him three more times in the back.  CV: Magician/OP-40/20th SF Group trained-CIA Assassin/Competent Handyman/Dusty from the 4 day old prestige of a Plane Disappearing Act.  

Personal Philosophy: Smarmy in the shadows, be a sunny place for shady people. 

The Magician’s greatest Illusion: A disappearing act of the rotten strawberry artist.  

Notable Life’s Irony: His two children are Beatles Fans.  

NOTE to Wardrobe on Operation Rotten Strawberry Fields: Magician’s outfit must include a tool belt. IMPORTANT. In Tool Belt: Charter Arms Undercover .38 Special Revolver. Leave the gun at the shoot location. Take the cannoli. NYC has the best cannoli. 

NOTE to Location Manager on the Operation Rotten Strawberry Fields Shoot: Dakota, NYC, December 8th, 1980. Shoot Time: TBD. (The Beatle Dead). Scored by Strange Fruit. 

Notable Life’s Fruity Irony: December 12, 1980. 4 days later, Steve Jobs’ Apple debuted on the public markets in the bloodied Big Apple. If you had the right crop reports and a 1000 dollar investment in this fruit company, then your investment would be worth 1.5 million dollars today, after the margin call from strawberry fields gone rotten.  

A quick history lesson. 1968. Lila Cepa’s Birth Year. 

John Lennon was 27 years old and very happy to delay the rock curse by 12 years. 1968 was the cinematic year of 2001, A Space Odyssey. Also, the greatest Rock and Roll year. Undisputed. Jackson 5 signed to Motown. Johnny Cash cashed in at Folsom prison on January 13, 1968. He did a prison bash at San Quentin, 11 years before on Jan 1, 1957, with Merle Haggard doing a twenty piece in the audience of convicts. Inspired to future emulation with me taking cues. 1957 was the year Cash released Folsom Prison Blues, which was banned after the RFK assassination in 1968. The “just shot a man in Reno to watch him die” line was, in the palmistry of the day, too close to the LA ‘end of the lifeline’ of RFK, and way too soon for the heart line contemplating the future shelf life of the Kennedy DNA. Handy, was the censorship of great music, when politics got too close to palmistry, hiding something Ultra sinister up their sleeve.
A misplaced anachronism: In 2004, I was working with Diane Lane and John Cusack in the movie “Must Love Dogs” (part of Embedded Operation: The Long James Caan) at the Ambassador Hotel where RFK was killed in June of 1968. In between takes, Christian Billings and I went to the exact spot that RFK was shot (20th calling card/throat shot first) and laid there and seanced his essence, unsuccessfully, but eerie enough to be notable.  

April 2, 1968, the Beatles formed their new label, “Apple Corps” to replace their former company: Beatles Ltd. It was an Apple, not Yoko, that took out the Beatles. A cursed apple. Two days later, MLK had his necktie shredded by a 20th sniper’s shredder in Op “Head Nigger.” In a strange fruit way, the Big Apple took out Lennon in the end. Apple Corps HQ (London) was at 94 Baker Street and 127 down from 221 Baker Street. Home of Sherlock Holmes. Elementary. 94 backwards is 49 foreshadowing Lennon’s future numerology and part of the sacred Alani Kai PP&C code. 

Apple records was a chief division of Apple Corps. The Beatle, Paul McCartney was inspired by Rene Magritte’s painting “Le Deu Je Mourre,” (The Game of Dying) which was an apple painted with the words “Au Revoir” (goodbye). Paul McCartney would have never seen that painting had it not been for the great artist Marcel Duchamp. Marcel was famous for introducing the world to the first ReadyMade. A toilet, spun upside down, signed R. Mutt. A crapper turned into art. Duchamp was a friend and fan of the work of Magritte and helped introduce his “intellectual, but surreal” art to the world before passing away on Oct 2, 1968. John Lennon (Yoko’s idea) would later make his “Imagine” single record cover with a Magritte cloud overlay. American Broadcasting Corp stole Magritte’s eye. Wink. 

Magritte’s mom was a Mad Hatter. Mercury leached into her brain while using the felting process to make bowler hats pushing her healthy neurons to apoptosis by slowing the median nerve conduction velocity as per the author’s Medical Medium Remote View. She did a ‘Virginia Woolf’ into the River Sambre and took her life. A 14 year old Rene Magritte found her in the water with her dress up over her dead face. Her final countenance concealed in his mind for posterity. Mama muff blackened the wet white bloomers. Knowing this, you see his heart, concealed in his art, in a different and more profound way. An ekphrasis of mommy issues we all can relate to, the only way we know how, in the most surreal way imaginable. The apple or the bowler hat covered the face of his pain and the face of her death. Like the cursed apple of religion’s Eden, Magritte’s cursed apple was gifted to the Beatles. Two days after the Beatles formed Apple Corps, a shot rang out in the Memphis Sky. Snow falls on a Lorraine strawberry. Made rotten by my very own 20th Alumni.  

Cue U2: Pride. In the name of love. 

Feel free to sing along: Early morning, April 4. A shot rings out in a Memphis sky, free at last. “Operation King/Ray Head Nigger,” from my dark alum cast. As shadows in the intel closet cast by skeletons of Op 40 grow, the door unhinged like my mind, where the darkest truths show. A deal in 20th group lead from a hidden hand in the Bush. An executive plan in the Push, dealing CIA cards, two Strawberries dead in 68. Late regards, to crop reports and peace of all sorts. 

At least we got a new shade of red, strawberry red. A pretty shade of dead, where pink comes too late, hidden up sleeves. Hands whitewashed by the fate of Frank Wisner’s 3000 man embed. 

Great year for rock though. In fact, let’s talk about that, instead.
Side note: Apple Corps, not to be confused with Apple computers who went public in the big Apple in 1980, 4 days after it was the setting for the creation of the Apple Corps’ Rotten Strawberry; the blood-red, dead John Lennon.

(PS) Backside Note: The death of the Beatles corporation foreshadows the demise of the American one. Apple Corps without the apple. “Corps” the seeds for corporations that bear no soul fruit, but find roots deep in the fertile soils of government fields and spoils. 666 imprint of scripture’s fuzzy ink. Almighty profits are worshiped. All else are afterthoughts in the ether. Footnotes to hands held in pious prayer. All thoughts, before and after, relegated to the love of cash. Americans were so busy defending our own ass against the evils of religious encroachment on the state we did not see a great/greater/greatest devil. A more insidious evil. The heart of man in the thrall of an economy of manufactured scarcity. 

As economy has permeated government with its elected affinity, profit, all else is afterthought to what can be bought, including human prophets and the soul and its teleology. Kept hidden under the bottom lines and ledgers of the pseudosciences of numerology and economy. 

The American way of life, writ corps large, not the holy writ of the individual, large. A writ that took a bite from the Edenic apple, swallowed a wormy slither and filed it in Paul Maclean’s part of the brain, where emotions wither in ritual and the soul is stamped out by a strong intellect, enhanced by the Matrix red pill. Our inner Morpheus, asleep under ego’s will. This brainy triune model, then stole the garden for bauble, trinket and smallpox but is willing to sell it back to us for a steal. 

Who can really own land, flower and rocks? 

Oh, you can. For real? 

How odd. White man. How odd. 

We natives may have killed for petty tribal differences, but never have we shed blood for a field of mud and daisies or let slip the ghost god of crazies and mythic folklore through the vanishing point of perception’s door past Ucello’s horizon to the dogs of war. White man’s real best friend, who skinned our white buffalo-woman and pinned an apple to her sacred feminine. 

A centerpiece on their table of peaceful Christian brotherhood. 

What would Jesus do should always include genocide for rock, daisy and land. 

Graffiti’d on the reservation side of every fence: Fuck the white man and his fruity beliefs. 

Thieves that stole our soul and sold it back to us in concentration camp griefs and in chaos where only corruption grows and the poisoned fruit shows our leaves of grass in the oven. 

Oral traditions used for kindling, baking a dirty dozen of cursed apples for pie. 

Something alien in the third eye swells, with the worst smells of Denmark-rotten, in our native kitchen. 

Our Danish is filled with strange fruit. 

Fried bread lost with our stolen roots. 

Found in the vomit of posterity’s spirit. 

A sparkling bottom-note, seanced in a puff of parmesan, in a note from the backside of history to this side of con, where history is indeed, a lie agreed upon.

Back to the history lesson: Jimi Hendrix dropped Electric Ladyland on Oct. 16, 1968 and the Beatles painted their White Album on November 22. A Hard Day’s Night for JFK’s 5th Death Day anniversary of 11/22/63. 

Let us get sidetracked on Secret Society 33 numerology. 11+22=33. 

The 33rd degree freemason recognizes this holy Gematria and loves to conceal it in date. 

Kevlar was patented the day the White Album dropped. In the 1950’s-60’s, Aramides, or aromatic polyamides, a type of polymer that can be made into stiff fire resistant fibers were created. DuPont may have ‘invented’ Kevlar through Stephanie Kwolek, but the liquid crystal polymers provided by DuPont’s Paul W Morgan, came directly from the Groom Lake UFO program. Here let’s put p-benzamide and poly-p-phenylene terephthalamide next to a Polish chemist prodigy and see what happens…history is a lie agreed upon. The real significance was through Kwolek’s discovery on 11/22/68, an entirely new field of polymer chemistry had been “discovered.” To be weaponized by Intelligence assets like me. 

December 6, 1968, the Rolling Stones served presciently, “Sympathy for the Devil” in their Beggars’ Banquet. I was born the next day, on Pearl Harbor day, December 7th, 1968, on Pearl Harbor. 

My parents called me the second bombing of Hawaii. 

A 27 year echo from the original (1941) bombing, like Pennywise, another sacred Heyoka clown gone dark as deadlights, floating around the Pacific. 

Janice Joplin had the number one rock and roll hit that week with Big Brother and the Holding company called Piece of my Heart, as my mom held me like cashmere, serenading me with her words. 

My Nuclear weapon dropped a few days before Elvis did a X-mas special in a black leather onesie, honoring my birth (Says me Mom!). A birth exactly 66 days after Marcel Duchamp turned his soul into my ReadyMade. (So I dreamed.)

Led Zeppelin found their way into a studio on November 9, 1968. They played in America for the first time on Dec. 27, 1968, in Denver, opening for Vanilla Fudge. 1968 was a big year for Rock and Roll and a bigger year for CIA MK Ultra Assassinations: MLK/RFK went the exact same way. Allow me an RV play by play. DCI’s Helm’s “Tuesday Lunch” with President Johnson where the idea was first hatched to take out the “Head Nigger.” A Texas Congressman from the powerful House Ways and Means committee lurked in the intelligence shadows, wearing a diagonal red and blue striped tie, prominent at this “Tuesday Lunch,” even as a Junior, five years after he played location manager for JFK’s Nightmare on Elm Street. A ‘Nobody’ in the intelligence community, really, until they named the CIA building after him. George H. W. Bush, a fellow Texas oil man (like President Johnson) had a life-long agenda in the shadow government. This consummate Rogue/(CIR) professional was overtly, incredibly lazy, but covertly, very efficient. He wanted to work for the real government as little as possible, as he toiled indefatigably, in the shadows, for the shadow government. 

He was CIA director for less than a year. Too bored to finish out the year. 

President for only one term. He couldn’t bother to campaign with any muster for the second. Overtly, Incredibly lazy. 

Covertly, the indefatigable Illuminati. 

Bush is a lot like me in this prison bakery. He’s got friends in low places, like…”No Way” Jose “Sam Jenis” Perdomo trained by CIA snipers and was tasked to organize the rotten strawberry job after missing out on a Miami “grassy knoll” on the 9th of November, 1963 when JFK got wind of their assassination plans and canceled his Florida trip. And three years before that, an unsuccessful Bay of Pigs operation, caused by the villain in his Nightmare on Elm Street. JFK, overtly. Covertly it was all George. How sweet was “No Way’s” success! Finally, an operation that worked out for him! And because of “Operation Mongoose” ties to the mob and the cross dressing J Edgar Hoover. The FBI's Director can ensure that conspiracies do not get thoroughly investigated. Can anyone guess the Catcher in the Rye Patsy Program Participant in the 1963 historical tragedy/farce? We now see Earl Ray/Sirhan as Catch-68 Phonies and Oswald as a Catch-63 Phony? Chapman as a Catch-80 Phony? Ahh, a double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.  Twelve years later, the Helm acolyte, DCI Turner, used the same sleight of hand job magician for Operation Rotten Strawberry Fields who knew the perfect Illusionist. One should never argue with success. It’s like shampoo. Rinse and repeat.  

A Toe of a BigFootnote. A Book Report on “Catcher in the Rye.”
The OSS manual on exploitation of angst within the young male psyche to create a Manchurian Candidate was assimilated by the Bronx’s own master of mind fuck S. Gottlieb, and was furthered by Brooklyn’s own Ken Heilman at the MK Ultra hub at the University of Florida. It is easy to find the candidates. 

After Mark Chapman ‘shot’ John Lennon he sat down and started reading the last line of “Catcher in the Rye.” (PSS. Apple has a documentary on the Lennon killing. There is a black man named Richard Peterson, (great name for a Dick) who is playing a cab driver and says he saw the incident to further corroborate the Chapman phony one. There are 4 ways you can tell that this black man is lying his ass off. I assure you he is, can you discern them? If so I’ll send you a Sherlock Holmes’ Badge!)

Four months later Hinckley had a copy in his hotel room the day he had beef with the Gipper and was programmed to be obsessed with the actress Jodie Foster. At Hinckley’s trial he allowed his defense to be the book: “Catcher in the Rye,” according to the trial transcripts. 

According to the OR surgeon that removed the bullet from the Gipper's lung, when Reagan regained consciousness, his first words were: “Anybody know what that guy’s beef was?” 

His VP, George Bush produced the very first covert Wendy’s “Where’s The Beef?” commercial. He had the beef. You’ll find a connection between the parents of the Hinckley’s, Chapman’s and Bush’s through a CIA front called Vanderbilt Energy. A Dallas Oil and Gas company. John Hinckley’s Father was the President of Vanderbilt Energy. Connections like George Bush’s Son, George Jr’s first Oil and Gas Company called “Arbusto” incorporated with the Bin Laden family. 

The MK trained asset RJ Bardo who shot Rebecca Shaeffer in the heart and then threw his copy of the “Catcher in the Rye” on her roof had the same mind stamp pedigree. His first target was a failure. Her name was Samantha Smith. A little ‘tween who wrote and visited Yuri Andropov during the manufactured “Cold War” where Bardo compromised the mission, (alcohol was involved) so his handler pulled him off of her. The same Dr. Smoke from CIA’s PSOG (Pegasus Special Operations Group) would later take Samantha’s plane out. This little girl blew the smoke and mirror away from the funhouse of demonizing the enemy. Those that make money off of the cold war tension could not allow this girl to live. On Aug 25, 1985 Samantha Smith’s plane went down. She was 13 years old. 4 years later, Bardo's "Catcher programming” was used on actress Rebecca Schaeffer. 

It’s a helluva book, but it’s not that great. 

If you’d like to understand the CIA’s fascination with this book as a grooming for Manchurian candidates and child-sex programming, look for pedophilia. If you scratch even the most cowardly of surfaces, you will find that JD Salinger was a raging Pederast. 

Every strawberry leaf that grows will tell you; what you sow will bear fruit. Plant love, the fruit of the soul, and watch the infinite spring eternal. Plant hate, a seed that drops from the clouded sky of thought, like acid rain, and falls onto fertile fields, alien to the golden heart, like Martian ray guns unearthed in Kansas archaeology. An odd treasure the belief-buried-mind has difficulty uncovering, but, nevertheless, a find needed for understanding the dot above your ‘i.’ The eye looking up at an acid raindrop, colored in the iris, like the congenitally blind, trying to describe the color ‘agent orange,’ or the congenitally unethical, explaining the disappearing rotten strawberry artist.

Great minds have similar interests. The force that flows through them, binds them to humanity’s high road. A strawberry field few are willing to acknowledge, let alone take. The air is fruity thin. A breathtakingly, skinny love, unpalatable to the average American soul and their rich, high-fat diets. Mediocre minds know how to point to the high road, and define its shine by its rest stops that shimmer in shadow, like finding the power of surf, only in the lace of the foam. Small minds can’t see that layer of stratosphere. Their perpetually waxing egos eclipse any high road, so they do not speak of it. The silence comes not from peace, but frustration sourced despair. It is frustrating to have no one to blame but oneself. So they speak of everything else, especially, about all the other people who walk the gutters, looking down, never looking up, then, finding their faith to blame, as their faith blames their lack, locking them in a dance of confusing twirls. A sinking feeling in the stomach rises to drown the heart in a sea, far from the shores of serenity and agency, while overlooking with great intensity, the sands in their feet. The absurdities that small minds will put up with to avoid facing their own souls, or in prison, worse, facing their own actions, is a curse, Hitleresque in scope. 
A tip, the mind is poison, skip thought and feel, no need for hope, on this peaceful trip, past everything unreal, using the heart as a telescope to find the infinite in love’s surreal, and share this infinite, with anyone authentic and real, and see the mind and its reason, find peace in intuition and friendships on fire, burning with purpose, a singular impetus, for everyone in it, to have a greater awareness of spirit, while our bodies calculate by adventure and meticulously name, how well we sit through the human flame, with our teary eyes fixed on distant shores with no name. Rumi comes into view, focused in cosmic frame: “The body is a device to calculate the astronomy of the spirit. Look through that astrolabe and become oceanic.” let that ocean put out your fires, with cummins' small and humble, angelic word, lettered in the super string wires: trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backwards. Astrolabe me! 

I am made, perfectly, to understand celestial retrograde, looking up, is incarcerated me. little in capitals, only. What is the capital of venus? a little ‘v’ like the little vino not in me. But owning the veritas that comes from great loss, understanding great minds in fields of strawberry. Small letters masking big concepts from greater minds than mine. A sea of red, an ocean of time, the morning star fixed ahead. My high road, past the chaos of small minds at large with violent mediocrity. The state metering time in my gated community, where friends in low places ask what I’m looking up to see.

I see agents in the mist; gorilla shadows emerge from my cognitive abyss to grunt and fright. Subtle as an earthquake. What the fuck can I do with a vanilla milkshake that doesn’t light, and a cinnamon fireball I can’t put down or put out of my sight. 

In my house made of dawn break and broken night, cemented gardens mistake flowers and Eden for weedy human plight. Can there be roses if it’s dark outside or light? A dewy day or a misty night?

A rosy dream, concrete, beyond the shine of the bright, when we let eros in, rainbow heart and sweet, in spite of everything, we see in black and white, we grunt in sin, as trick or treat, as wrong or right. Like the ethics of a gorilla in the darkest night. Or a Spanish flotilla, on seas fueled by missionary might. A return wake, deepened gold. A give and take, with slaves, in the ship’s cargo hold. Foggy landscapes under a cold, vanilla sky, with warm seas clouding my eye, to forget the multi dimensional emissaries; fire spirits, Seraphim dancing on my paranoid high, as I peer past horizons martyred by the human role and human’s greedy cry, the barbaric yawp of control in the jungle rooftops of our mental sky. The sun shines on both form and soul, as we don’t ask why, like the gorilla, agent and other guy. Sly and shady in the sun’s gold, glittering like a catcher in the rye, disappearing with the snow’s cold. Before I can sign off on such insanity, hold and cough, Holden Caulfield, to look the other way, to not see, if there are inguinal hernia signs from catching all those human falls, as a hand binds your balls. Salinger would’ve been proud, how easy it is to catch a crowd in the Rye, agents with balls in their hands held in a juggler’s deny, hidden up sleeves, is the sleight of hands, to distract the eye. 

Well done, is the NY Strip magic cooked up by a super spy.

Con-verse. Op 40/20th SF Sniper philosophy: We deal in lead to anoint your peace activist, dead. To saint him holy. We play rotten, the game of dying, while eating mama’s Cuban Ravioli. Some call it cheating, we call it repeating the illusion of Magic’s trinity. Pledge: peace activist. To be or not to be (Successful). Turn: Patsy, (Unsuccessful). Prestige: Sniper-Shadow shimmers, lost to an Illuminati illusion that glimmers bright, as the grieving public has a hard target for their dark night: The Catcher in the Rye programming. A step away from the limelight. A turn right into the spotlight, as the CIA leading man walks on by, hidden in plain sight. A Perdomo finger on a ‘hand of sleight.’ 

Cuban Cigar smoke masking gun smoke at Lennon’s height. The prestige of the blood strawberry artist disappearing, forever, out of sight.

When I found out I was part of an alumni that killed not one, not two, but three of my personal heroes (that I know of) I struck out, by successfully, drinking myself to death. Prison was a sign. A sign of me coming back, slowly. Emerging from the shadows. Fruity forms dancing on the wall of my prison cave. A pledge to emerge and eat more fruit. A turn away from Rye bread and other carbohydrates in action. The prestige: a rotten bloody strawberry? WTF? Ok, I’m a terrible Magician. Breaking the cardinal rule. Revealing all of our secrets. Like: Rene Magritte, surrealist painter of the Apple in “The Game of Dying” that inspired McCartney to call the Beatles company Apple Corps also painted the Human Condition. The painting of the tree was a bi-sensory location trigger. A remote viewing protocol to lock in an external RV target. Now, for my sweet and fruity life, it is a visualization technique to astral project beyond fields of wrongdoing and righteousness. Meet me there in the shade of that tree, to contemplate the Human Condition with Rumi and the Game of Dying with snipers like me. Bring the fruit! Especially the strange and the rotten ones. Give a hoot! Don’t pollute. Wash the blood off first or the number 2 runs…worst. For those keeping stats for almanacs and Gematria crop reports, our reports number in chapter and verse, more strange fruit consumed in this chapter, than the entire pacman universe. 

PRISON SPOOK Afterthoughts: The CIA/CIR prestige, in all its glorious humility, always shuns the limelight. So, allow me to spotlight in further detail, its shady sleight of hand. 

In 1980, VP Bush’s pledge to remove the ‘too effective at campaigning for peace’ (a common saw/Samantha Smith et. al) former Beatle went to Stansfield Turner, activating the MK’s assassin program, using the Helm’s created Perdomo and 20th Best Friend. The “Turn” was a “Chap,” the man we all know and hate. As a December dusting of snow falls, deceptively, on the Big Apple’s Strawberry Fields, each flake falls in its appropriate place. The Perdomo (Non-20th Group) prestige shimmers in the shadows of the intelligence field, a promotion before retirement for the walrus killer’s assistant, unnoticed in plain sight, like dew on a dusky meadow. 

Like Cuban cigar smoke on a cigarette break. 

Like the Blade runner’s prey, specifically, his tears in the rain. Like human blood on a strawberry.

The prestige glimmers to shame, for those magicians that turn to ‘Chaps’ to blend in, to take the magic out of life. No way Jose and friend. I knew a baker’s dozen of you, and my Lennon, to tell his truth, was just as revolutionary as your John.  

 

#112. Strange Fruit Crop Reports.

Lennon/Lenin, Anfang Code: Look out before the outer-space-black-mambo-dirt-path, where it snakes brown-bull because of higher traffic. Where the heavier oppressed curves to Bujumbura are ensouled to a fine white powder. The gritty chiaroscuro of hard times that darken to fine white, like chipped fine china at the edges of the unfine. 

Kintsugi, ‘the golden journey,’ accents the cracks with a mortar of gold, if our stories are properly told. Japanese restoration puts lipstick on it, like tattoos over scars when forgiveness permits. 

I mixed my gold with ‘Mabel’ syrup mortar, and warmed my prison scars with her hotcakes. 

It soothed my soul finer than frozen peas on my daily shiner, after violent outtakes with slutty morning food fights in the prison diner. 

Breaks on my knees praying to a divine designer, in vomitus. 

Cue Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Lennon/Lenin, Code Schluss.  

 

MABEL’S  LENNON: I knew the most beautiful soul. 

A simple African fruit farmer with the kindest eyes that would crinkle with an audible smile and project a sparkle from behind every high beam glance. 

I could not pronounce his real name, and if you are reading this old, classified agricultural-field-report in English, you couldn’t either. 

I called him Lennon. He wore a Beatles shirt, stained berry red. “A Hard Day’s Night,” to show his love for the bespectacled walrus. 

All six degrees of separation that led me into his orbit were breathtaking and beautiful. I was the planet Jupiter and I had lost my moons. 

Lennon was the closest Sun in my solar system that pulled me out of my gravitational loop of violence and showed me a path, each degree, a trajectory like a happy Icarus, leading me straight to his peaceful luminosity that consumed like a cleansing fire. 

I passed celestial spheres along the way, in awe, to understand the important lessons behind the fall, that landed me in this prison bakery, making a baker's dozen of strawberry pancakes, (contraband strawberries, rarer than cigarettes) still feeling the warmth of Lennon’s sun, causing a photosynthesis in my soul. Creating spiritual oxygen. Helping me to breathe in this constricting jovian-like-alien-atmosphere. 

My memories of him terraforming the outer Shawshank for my inner Andy Dufresne. Lennon was the loving father of two children and a doting husband to a vivacious young wife, whose beauty was, and I quote Lennon: “Nyiramwiza!” That’s exactly as beautiful as it sounds. 

Lennon was a Burundi-Tutsi-Clan, who incarnated in this life knowing he would be a victim of the most horrific form of genocide…Just to taste a strawberry. 

His death was quiet. A serenity of silence. The bitter potion recommended for pain, by his inner prophet Kahlil Gibran, was also a cure for his life. 

Specifically, a knife perfectly placed between the 5th and 6th ribs, puncturing the lung at the perfect angle, to die without a Rumi sigh, without a Rumi cry. To drown in an ocean of understanding, where you are not a drop in the ocean, you are an ocean in a drop. (In this case, you drown in your own fluids, but this sounds more poetic.)  

This kind soul also lost his wife and 2 children to the killing strawberry fields of the Interahamwe, just so he could relive that fragaria x ananassa fragrance and taste.  

His 3 year old son, Rukundo, a lover of strawberry shortcake, was sodomized while his throat was slit. He was pulled under the armpits from behind, into a more upright position so his blood would drain down his torso and back, eventually reaching the violated area to be used as sex lube for the rapist. “Nyiramwiza!” howled the rapist. ‘Beauty’ comes in the eye of the beholder. 

When it later congealed, the friction helped make it easier for the future necrophiliacs to ejaculate in him. Such a thoughtful little boy, even after-life.

His 9 year old son, Bizimana, held a similar fate and strawberry affinity. His first rapist couldn’t finish quick enough because of the older age difference and lost his erection, so ‘Bizi’ was accidentally strangled to death, missing the climax to his own story. The pedo-rapist, hardened by passionate intensity and a dusting of necrophilia, cleared the kitchen table with him and summoned enough energy to finally finish with a sexual shudder that rippled deep in the boy's dead sea as he hung off the rapist cock like a dead weight resembling a maple glazed lollipop pork chop cooked blood rare on the white table/plate, stained berry red. 

The 9 year old Biziman wasn’t alive to witness the flair to the finish or to make his 4th grade graduation ceremony the following Thursday. There were going to be cupcakes and of course SHE would be there. No Bizi didn’t ‘like’ like her. She was gonna give him her cupcake, he would pull her hair! Yes, how rude, I know. Making your exit on the stage of life, prematurely, before you’re properly cued.  

Lennon’s wife, Aimabl, as close to being the word ‘amiable’ as you can get, could never be so rude. She was a student of Nietzschean Amor Fati. A concept of loving one’s fate, no matter the slings, arrows, et. al of outrageous fortune. She decided to test her life’s philosophy by auditioning for the leading role of Devil’s Advocate and shared a more prolonged human destiny upon this hell-stage of life. It was not because she filed the strawberry crop reports. It was because of her beauty which she once described as exhausting, while ever so delicately folding her children's clothes. Every clean piece stained berry red.
She now saw the clean laundry disheveled in the corner, through her tears. The pile of clothes looked like a red robin’s nest bearing witness to her dirty dealings. Her sexual Ku Ku Kachooing. She was tied to her bed. The same bed that she slept and made love to Lennon on every night. The same bed Aimabl gave birth on, to her two “sparkles of everything.”But now, all the smells were different. The scent of family love redolent on the breeze and strawberries growing under an invincible summer sun Kafka’d into rotten winter fruit heated in copper pots on a stove built in a cannibal's kitchen under a harshly indifferent fluorescence. An afro-trash deliverance of unseen shades of berry, in hues of violence that bubbled into a fragrance of nigger. A dark scarlet that was soured by bitter tears of terror stuck to congealing blood that smudged all scents with a lingering sense of horror that rotted fruit to black and stung the eyes with its darkness. In that darkness, Aimabl was tied to this sacred scented space for 112 days and kept as an Interahamwe whore, until she died of a brain aneurysm, during a more extreme session of knocking boots…to the head. Is that an appropriate euphemism here for accidental snuff sex?

Did I mention her beauty? Her face was a fairytale. A beauty of impossible existence masking a dreamworld where a fertile imagination fielded an “Anti-Catcher in the Rye” novel about a mother named Mabel, who read Gandhi, Rumi and MLK Jr. with her Son Ruku, and brought peace to the warring tribes in Rwanda and Burundi, between the Hutus and the Tutsis, by serving home-made strawberry pancakes to both sides, while letting their children play under the table. Hashish buttered strawberry pancakes. She was too shy to publish it. 

I can hear her now: “HA! Ni nde yosoma ico kijuju? (HA! Who would read this crap?)

I have the only copy of this unpublished manuscript entitled: “What Kind of Syrup is Served with Pancakes and Peace?”  

In those 112 days, she was raped by a baker’s dozen of the Interahamwe 456 times in total. Not one time more. Not one time less.

At the end of the 112 days, she was addicted to a heroin/cocaine blend, the kids were calling Kuku. Kids these days. Where was the Ritalin? Where were the Coco Puffs?

Of the 13 members of this killing squad that took a 4 month sexual sabbatical on Lennon’s farm, only 6 were over the age of 18. The oldest, as the fates would have it, was a man I knew well, nicknamed: Lenin. But, let’s get back to the junkie whore. She was infinitely more interesting, says this prison spook.
Her flawless tar black skin was no more except around her scabbing un-surgically removed nipples. Incisor imprints in the aureolas. Every inch of her naked skin was clothed with rotten fruit. Bruised-orange pin-pricks, rotten-strawberry-red with raspberry bed sores. Big prick abrasions and graffiti’d impressions of knife play left by those swordsmen whose cocksmanship had a sharpened thrust to their kink. Aimabl exhaled, contemplating karma, as dried flakes of sperm were kicked up over her plowed fields, clouding her recumbent, sunset streaked horizon, giving her broken christ figure, a form made of white dawn. A messianic aura, as sperm haloed her ether, like pollen loosening from the winds of Eden. She inhaled, numbed but difficult, remembering the pain of too much tenderness that the strawberry farmer had inflicted upon her and her heart smiled.

The clouds of cum, still floating around her perpetually dark sunset, fell back to her dry-bloodied bosom, like snow falling on rotten strawberries, each flake in its appropriate place as she “Rumi-nated” (her word) on being like melting snow, washing herself of herself. 

Her black scab boobs were whitened with a cascade of cum that mingled with sex-sweat waterfalls that looked like foam topping two pints of Guinness and smelled of dead dove. The kind that rots in war.

She stared at the nest of clothes in the bedroom corner and Rumi-nated past her bloodied vision: “A mother dove looks for her nest, asking where, ku?  Where?  Ku?”  

She prayed for her captors to turn her over during the rapings so she could bury her face in the pillow. She disliked crying but couldn’t help it. When they saw the lacrimal lube, they’d lick it with their inhumanly-rough tongues and beery breaths of acetic Amstel Bock. The lickings made her think of her cat, Amor Fati, skinned to death, in front of her. The smells of sodomy and pearl jam fresh on the dirty sheets, like diarrhea at the bridal white altar of “I Do’s.” She preferred the 3 sodomites that flipped her on her stomach like a Duchampian Readymade toilet. Doggy style, signed by R. MUTT. After the 49th day she stopped wiping the cum off of her and she stopped crying. She became enlightened by the stoic question: Why bother?
She also whispered in “Rumi-nation” (her word) into every rapist's ear, (those that came in her) the following: “There is a path from my heart to yours and my heart knows it well, because my heart is pure and clear like water, and when water is so, it becomes a mirror that can beholden the moon. What will your mirror hold for you? Will your moon be pure and clear?” The very same 49th day the Buddha found Nirvana through the “Oneness” in the shade of the Bodhi tree. The very same 49th day that the Pineal Gland is formed in fetal development; the Cartesian seat of the soul in the body of a dualist. The very same 49th day I lost my Prison-Fight-Club-Cherry to a “Grease the Clown Wheels” Musical. The very same 49th day that Matisse’s Le Bateau was righted after noticing it upside down, in the seas of the MOMA in New York, a few days prior. An example of ‘everything happens for a reason,’ for the trinity-loving-magicians in the world. 

An example that art can spin towards truth. 

A quick lesson in spin and optics: The lens of the human eye projects an upside down version of reality on the retina. The human brain spins the image, “Le-Bateau-like,” or “R Mutt-like” right-side-up with optic-nerve-sparked-electrical-impulses in 13 milliseconds. The mind sometimes takes up to 49 days to process a righted image. The very same 49th day that the Burundi Baker’s Dozen of the Interahamwe were not amused. Confusing enlightenment with mocking, they cursed and beat her loudly so they could not hear her Rumi-nations. This was the day, the beatings tied to the rapings were so severe, Aimabl almost lost compassion for her captors. Then, they tied her to the bed on her stomach. Flipping the twin Kilimanjaros, so her Kuku-infected thoughts and snow capped mountains of Guinness would be spilled upon her pillow, as they fucked her R-Mutt-doggy style. She was turned around on that 49th day, and from then on was righted as she smiled at the irony of caution when one becomes a victim of desire, by receiving what’s desired. No matter the pain in the Le Bateau. And, what a Le Bateau! Oh no! Not another dumb ass sidetrack…Umm, excuse me. That does not work. Le Bateau is French for boat, not butt. This is an example of lazy prison prose and that doesn’t go on the Con side! (Prose side definitely!) 

Simple fix: Le Bateau is French for Boat. German for Boat, if we remember the German film, Das Boot, (Le Bateau in French) is Boot. Boot in King’s English is Trunk. Junk in the Trunk, in American English, is a euphemism for a well sculpted, callipygous Le Bateau! You’re welcome, etymologists. Thanks for playing. Back to the callipygous-fine-ass-up, junkie whore. 

63 days of her waxing full moon flakes. A lunar standstill phenomenon worthy of an Armstrong footprint! A boot in the boot. An ass kicking on snow capped mounds of divine bootie architecture. A daily breakfast consisting of cornflakes of cum. Dung beetles of the Scarabaeidae variety in white sands rounded their shitty worlds with her two perfect butt spheres in their roller dreams. She saw cockroaches scurry under the bed. She was unconcerned. 

On that fateful, 112th solar day, (63rd day lunar pillow time) the last thing that sparked in her human mind, before the fireworks of the after life started, looked exactly like the 2007 theatrical release poster of the Beatles movie: “Across the Universe.” A single painted strawberry, in delicate papier mache form, struggling to grow into a reality from an abstraction, looking for its fruity soul in the cosmos. Upside down. The 13 milliseconds of time it took to frame it rightside up in her mind’s eye, she took with her into eternity.  

And Lennon, the humble farmer/patriarch on this existential plane, was an angelic presence in the after life. He smiled at her final thought, thinking of the Ethyl Formate found at the center of our milky way, in a molecular cloud of gas and dust. The very same chemical responsible for the berry flavor. Unifying a field theory, with fruit, that Einstein couldn’t with the mind. The genius of a fish climbing a human tree, successfully, to become something stupidly original.  

CODA. This astrophysicist/strawberry farmer, Lennon, had been with Spirit for so long he had forgotten the flavor of the earthen strawberry. And he wasn’t alone in his ignorance. His whole soul family had embraced the fact that their knowledge was finite and their ignorance was infinite, but they couldn’t have the taste of this particular berry, to be part of that infinite. It was like a splinter on the back of their wings that they just couldn’t reach. A taste memory in the discriminating spiritual palate long forgotten, that for them, was simply too distasteful, to not remember. And so after a Cantor's proof of a smaller infinity and a time of larger eternity, from the heavenly palace came a piece of divine mail: The opening of 4 positions in a strawberry friendly universe. Perfect timing that comes with extreme hazardous duty pay. With a handwritten note perfumed with sage: “Are you sure it’s worth it? Because you are not allowed back through Heaven’s Gates with hate in your hearts and I’ve been losing a lot of good people there. I was even evicted.” (Ref: #10.28 God’s Eviction Notice.)

Lennon and Aimabl looked at their soul family and smiled, without a single worry. If you could come back to this beautiful, torture chamber for the soul, for the taste of a simple strawberry, would you? Even at greatest peril to the human body connecting with a soulful experience, to compliment the soul having the human experience? 

I probably would, but then I’d want a freebie-life, like a simple life in a garden with strawberries, fluent in the language of flowers. The smell of love redolent on the breeze. A vivacious young wife and happy, healthy children, at least two.  

Ahh, a dream in prose to a nightmare in the Hapa verse, let’s wake to the curse, in this life, as a Green Beret, sheep dipped (Pegasus) CIA, after joining the (now) 22 vets a day, suicide club. Not proud, but ashamed of our club’s crowd, we are. (Who knew there would be competent doctors in a Costa Rican ER…that could revive me, alive, successfully, after 112 seconds of eternity, on the other side of life’s ride.) Then, I heard the doctors yell “Clear!” and I thought of everything I was taught here, during this life review. I knew I’d have the soul of the Greek Cassandra, gifted with a glimpse of the whole, as a meditative mantra, but cursed with truth as verse, too unbelievable for even the worst in us. Reason lost to winter passion’s intense season, as convictions of the best of us are lost to the nothing, of Yeats “Second Coming.” Quit curse, prose follows, lost is the power of this verse. This ride is, of course, the ridiculous “Con-verse-Cons-side.” 

It is always difficult for those Holden Caulfield’s, blinded by fragments of separation, to see the whole. Egoic shards fracture the soul’s unifying vision, fractal’d within the illusion of density vibrations. A kaleidoscope effect which precludes most from seeing a unity consciousness. An awareness necessary for non-linear understanding of soul time. The prophetess, Cassandra, was blessed with this understanding of soul time, but cursed by the Gods. A simple curse, hoisted upon her, “Measure for Measure,” as the same inquiry from a figure of authority, to Shakespeare’s Isabelle: Who will believe thee? The Gods made sure no one did, as false prophets rose like Christ shadows, blinding the masses with faith, concealing the knowing of the rosie cross, especially from those with sincere vision.
Phineus, the King of Thrace, gifted with Rosicrucian prophecy, was blinded and starved to death. His scarce scraps of strawberries, strawberries being a member of the fragrant rose family, were defecated on, by Harpies. Every achene soiled, every morsel defiled, for defying the Gods, and sharing his gift of heightened awareness with humans. Such is the life’s fate of a seer. Especially, in the land of the blind. Am I Milton’s one eyed king? No, I shall keep my shitty scraps of vision to myself. They may be hallucinations in my “Paradise Lost,” anyway. Except for this one: You can meet a lot of people in 1 minute and 52 seconds on the light side. A mere heart-stop from this dark side. I got to meet a friend of mine I had previously met and trained with at the Special Forces Qualification Course, in Fort Bragg, NC (March-Oct. 1992). A Burundi-Hutu-Clan friend of mine. If you are reading this in English, you would not be able to pronounce his name so we called him Lenin. He was not named after John, the guy that sang: “All You Need is Love,” but the revolutionary adventurer that decreed: “We must encourage the energy and mass nature of terror.” Vladimir Lenin. Aww, like Lenin, he had, whatever the opposite of kind eyes are. The kind with the crispy crinkle, not smile induced, but because they’re always sighting humans with a scope, triggered by a calloused finger, dealing in lead, under the press of a red atmosphere. 

I taught him how to puncture a lung with a Bowie knife. (Specifically, a knife perfectly placed between the 5th and 6th ribs, puncturing the lung at the perfect angle, to die without a Rumi sigh, without a Rumi cry. To drown in an ocean of understanding, where you are not a drop in the ocean; you are an ocean in a drop. In this case, you drown in your own fluids, but this way of thinking sounds more poetic, with only the subtlest of differences.) 

Then, right after that femtosecond of eternity, within those minute and 52 seconds out of time, where I simply could not live with my violence and loss, in time, anymore…I met in strawberry fields…out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, Lennon, the simple strawberry farmer, smiling, in audible paradox, at the infinite nature of what is taught. The eternal power of influence that one man can have on another, and, of course, the consequences of that influence in worlds we simply misunderstand. He shared mudras of forgiveness as I decried the contemplations in karma that arise from the odd epistemologies of the reptilian brain. As subtle as a shot of cheap tequila. The extent of that single ritualized shot shifts us to dark paradigms when we realize we accidentally swallowed the wormy slither at the bottom. The thoughts that crawl into actions become intoxicated by the wisdom of human shampoo. Wash, rinse, repeat. The rituals of violence habituated. A cleansing cycle, ad infinitum. As my heart breaks in different ways, every time I imagine my Lennon/Lenin. They taught me a single certainty: Cogito ergo and then sum. We are more than our thinking. We are also the training we share with others and the world. 

On my 49th day in this prison bakery, my life was turned right side up, like Matisse’s Le Bateau, when I realized I could live with the irony that I am a consummate instrument of death, yet I cannot take my life again. Or another life. Ever again. Even to fit in here on the dark side. Our actions echo into eternity, like a chorus sung in harmonies and dissonances, from the fields and valleys of this universe, that reach into the unfathomable, we confuse with God. We are what we eat. An afterthought of the aftertaste. I hope to never forget the taste of a strawberry from this world, because the lengths people will go, measure for measure, to remember, is simply…never mind, to tell the Lennon truth, you’d never believe me. That’s why I have so little friends…but the right ones. 

With that comforting thought, I smile in my wintery cell, watching the karmic wheels spin, knowing fruity thoughts in the invincible strawberry fields of my mind, like…I’m even, Samsara speaking. 

Aimabl smiles in my mind’s eye as I ask myself if I was worthy of the pain that this life has blessed me with so abundantly. 

Cue John Lennon’s: Watching the Wheels.  

My parole hearing is coming up, when I get out I hope you will meet me in strawberry fields, where the snow falls, each flake in its appropriate place.  Absolutely chilling to the strawberry, but sweetness to the core; just like my imprisoned body, and the soul within it, roaming free in fields of mindful red.  

Dessert? When snow falls on the rotten strawberries, each flake, in the appropriate place, would you still lick it? Like the cum on the Mabel, with children playing dead under the table?  

Mabel Syrup Epilogue: Would it upset you to know that I couldn’t kill all 13 members of that Interahamwe group. Before I knew the right Mabel syrup to use…I could only find 6 of them to torture with killer poetry. Technically, they were alive when I left them. But they had no skin. Ask any doctor how long a human can live with no skin. Isn’t time a funny thing? You feel it more with no skin. Underneath the black was strawberry red. Who knew orange is the new black was wrong? Rotten strawberry red is the new black awaiting the snow. Bon Iver, I said, as an aerosolized drone spray consisting of an atrazine/vinegar/ethyl formate based salve helped the six transition into salvation. A misting of their final moments of agony with the exact technology (transmission vector) that the head of the Biopreparat, USSR’s biological weapons division (defected to Porton Down and NSTARE) Vratch (Dr) Artie Pasechnik created in the 1980’s for the black-plague-bacteria, Yersinia Pestis. I learned a lot from good ol’ Vratch Artie at the SCIF near Boscombe Down. Spasibo! 

Artie was “heart-attacked” with a “SAND” gun. (Sino-Atrial Node Disruptor.) Phineus tells me this is how the Ironman triathlete/Whistleblower-poet will go. 

Last Word Poetry in Biochemical weaponry. A bacillus anthracis, anthrax, the public knows. What the public doesn’t know (outside the poison rose garden of MK NAOMI) is the weaponized ‘bacillus northracis’ or ‘Northrax.’ An anthrax cousin, but kills within a minute, and smells like maple syrup. It’s funny how TV releases a little at a time to program you into compliance, to hide in plain sight. I literally heard this on the TV show 30 Rock. The Rosebud of every biological Northrax victim/test subject was maple syrup. Not the child longing part for a sled in Citizen Kane. No, the last word types of Rosebud. Like mustard gas (more of a mist) that smells like fresh cut leaves of grass before it kills you. Northrax works way too fast for my Bujumbura baddies but it was considered to go with the ethyl formate burn. For obvious scents and reasons, but unfortunately, had to be discarded.  

A quick lesson in chemistry and killer-killer poetry: Acids and bases are fun skin corrosives, equal parts cancel each other out, but tweak the right amount and pain becomes paramount. A sinister lesson courtesy of Vratch Pasechnik, my Bio-Chemical weapons instructor from the 90’s. Yes, while others were in the thrall of the Macarena in Fanny packs sporting a Rachel or frosted tips, my lips were defrosting from the Cold War, an expert on torture, doing my part, learning the CIA’s Human Resources Exploitation Manual by heart and working with NSTARE bio-chemical weapons instructor, Vratch Artie Pasechnik, from January 5th to July 3rd, 1998, while he was moonlighting as the Director of Porton Down. England's Bio-chemical Weapons Facility. 

A Strange Fruit Crop Report Addendum:

Movie Trivia: The Strawberry Red pill in the Matrix Movie was sweetened with ethyl formate, says the top chemist of consciousness for Morpheus, Dr Buck Buzzeus. The Blueberry pill is poisoned by a toxic reality. No added ingredients, necessary. It would be like adding salt to the ocean, Dr Buzzeus added. Or sugar to the author. Lila Cepa is sweet enough. There must be provenance to all great art. Picasso says a good artist copies, a great artist steals, let the magician steal the show: Hydrofluoric acid works too quickly, plus, most importantly, I needed the taste of berry. An homage to Lennon and his strawberry fields. Ethyl Formate tastes of berry, but is ‘berry’ unstable around strong bases and creates carbon monoxide that will explode. With a strong acid, a reaction of hydrolysis, is a hydration feature that would not work at my new pop-up day spa. Ethyl Formate at 1500 ppm is very dangerous to humans. OSHA considers a time weighted average of 100 ppm (300 milligrams per cubic meter) over an 8 hour time period to be permissible exposure levels. The US National institute for occupational safety and health recommends the same 100ppm over an 8 hour period. I, like Mengele, at Auschwitz and the Black Maria can tell you about acidic esters at high concentrations, as I added a weak base of atrazine to the esters of ethyl formate to yield carboxylate salts and alcohol. Have you ever rubbed salt and alcohol on a cut or a raspberry on your knees? Now rethink the no skin scenario with the flavor of berry in the air. My favorite crop of rotten strawberries. The prestige of the appearance of the new rotten strawberry artist. A feathery thing perched upon the heart that shits fiery chemicals to enhance troponin, to give the heart a squeeze from the inside, on it. The heart pulled out of the second oldest of the baker’s dozen, 27, knocking boots, in a jar filled with formaldehyde and Swarovski crystal bedazzled baby boots and white feathers of a dead dove, that got caught up my sleeve from another illusion, from a stage show forever ago. 

The affliction of pain through chemistry can be an art…overdo it and you get kitsch…death of art. If you take a moment, you can find that sweet spot where agony and consciousness finds a harmony that transcends duality, and stays conscious. A necessary ingredient to feel pain. A singular pain, like a blunt object from a cognitive scalpel inserted into a Marfan’s Homunculus third eye. The strawberry bindi of the blind cyclops. 

8000 ppm was found to be lethal in cats in a 1931 Ethyl Formate study. 

How many Amor Fati filled hearts were slowly burned from the inside out. Then skinned and eaten. Yum. One small detail I forgot about. I added cats before I did depart, for the special few that just happened to be tied up for a long moment or two, a heartbeat or a few to skip, skin melting synched to a glucose drip. An homage to Aimabl’s Amor Fati and the philosophies of a Kathmandu strawberry. 

Micro-killer poetry in prose: A deep dive into the berry smell of flammable liquid: Formic acid is easy to extract from fire ant stings. Be wary of anyone with a fire ant farm. Ethanol you can buy at any liquor store, but I made my own. (This skill set makes me very popular in prison.) I bet the reader can figure out why I work in the prison bakery with no need for fluconazole. To manufacture a fire ant sting, Aspartame metabolizes at 70 degrees into formic acid. The body is 98.6. For an Ethanol berry smelling burn, I fermented alcohol from the modern strawberry and added it to my Atrazine-Mist drone. Microbes like yeast and bacteria, feed on the strawberry and make ethanol and carbon dioxide that I distilled to purity levels of Walter White and White Lightning Moonshine. Add formic acid to the strawberry made ethanol and you have ethyl formate. Break bad with an Add of Atrazine and you have a lovely exfoliant that will remove skin with the pleasant smell of strawberry. But this is not an all day spa. I didn’t have the time. My Auschwitz inspired Aromatherapy for the Hutu’s of that Interahamwe group only lasted a half day at my spa.

Producer Credits: Dr. Mengele through CIA Mülleimer Klassifiziert NAOMI Designer Dr.s Kurt Blome, Erich Traube, and  Walter Emil Schreiber to NSTARE-MILF Vlad Pasechnik to Dr. Stephen H. Adler aka NA 7 aka Lila Ċepa. Ethyl Formate inhalation of vapor can cause slight irritation to the eyes and nose. A lot of inhalation causes narcosis and death. I couldn’t have Frederic Leighton’s ‘Flaming June’ sleeping on the job. So, I found a balance: in liquid form, skin contact causes mild irritation if washed off immediately. I took a cue from David Sencer’s Tuskegee syphilis experiment and withheld treatment so I could monitor the decline in health of my spa guests. It was a pop up spa, apoptosis spa cells, unlicensed of course. The second most common pesticide used in America after glyphosate is atrazine. This Restricted Use Pesticide is easily found everywhere in my hometown of Kauai. An interesting side note: Atrazine is made by Syngenta and sprayed by the ton on a 33 mile wide island I call home. Syngenta is based in Switzerland. The Swiss, knowing the damage Atrazine does to people and the ecosystem, made it illegal to make or have any Atrazine in all of Switzerland, but made this neurotoxin perfect for foreign brown people. The cowardly Hawaiian kind. 

Micro Killer Micro Poetry:  Adding atrazine to my drone mist cocktail, which you can get free from Kauai crop runoff, was the coup de grace to my bio-chemical happy hour. Atrazine causes DNA damage on a cellular level, signaling cell death. The signals are painful for up to 6 hours. The same symptoms one would get after 15 minutes of exposure to high levels of Gamma radiation. You don’t hulk; you thin and wither in writhing pain. Also, atrazine has a suppressive effect on the proliferation of human fibroblasts, which slows the body’s healing process resulting from external or internal trauma. This was simply an added amenity for my spa guests. How lucky and warm they felt, like a slow haunting burn, like a Ghost Pepper in an infant’s formula, from Mom's perspective of horrors. Can you feel the burn? I feel the burn. This just in…for all you budding bio/chemical weapons designers according to the journal of molecular science, Atrazine also lowers feel-good dopamine and norepinephrine levels. This comes in handy at the right dose. I like people to feel pain. It hurts, and at the right volume, spinal tapped to 11, it hurts loudly. That’s when pain really instructs. The soul even listens to that kind of human pain without all that cuddly dopamine that dampens the untrained mind to overlook pain. I needed the pain to shine through, like Kubrick after King, Shining in nitrocellulose, feeling the burn, feeling the no pain, no ‘gain of function’ in the weaponizing world of “Killer Molecules” (Killer-cool-Cules). TMI. Or TMI? The Magicians’s Initiative or Too much info.

A Dua-Epilogue/Alternate Ending for the remaining Bujumbura Killing Squad of my Baker’s Dozen: I’ll be in Namibia soon when I get out of this prison bakery. I got a manuscript to publish, but it needs a Hollywood finish. A short hop back to Bujumbura from Windhoek to see how this plays out, to exercise my ‘Final Edit’ rights, to play God. 

Damn It! Not that kind of movie? I am no longer a biological and chemical weapons expert with a top secret clearance? I am a simple baker having a hallucination! 

Oh no, I’m in prison. What have I learned here in the prison bakery doing the breakfast shift? This is breakfast! I have to offer strawberry pancakes. “Crenom!” My word swirled the diaphanous, white flour, floating like cum over the Mabel, in the over-baked-stale-prison-air. An homage to Baudelaire’s aphasia after his stroke. ‘Crenom,’ became his only word. Crenom means: ‘Oh, shit.’ 

A thought bubble flowers in the lacy bakery powder above my head, near the oven: The high road sucks for humans, but I assure you, as certain as I am of Cogito Ergo and then Sum, the high road is the only way to God. 

You remaining seven are as lucky as your number, knowing that I’m irrefutably, without question, a reformed violent offender. Who knew I’d cliche and find God in prison? (That’s the story I’m telling the Parole Board, and I’m sticking to it!) More importantly, I’m a lover of Mabel syrup. The Goddess of Peace behind the ambrosia, I met in between life. Sip her berried nectar in between your many lives and masters. It’s unforgettable, like snowflake kisses on invincible summer strawberries. A chill pearling to cool jam that warms the soul. The perfect breakfast food. 

Mabel dreams; Ugali smells. Aimabl was nicknamed the strawberry shortcake-porn star in the MI-6 intelligence community, because of her 456 lovemaking sessions, which is close to the number of movies a porn star makes in any month before her period. The Interahamwe first looked upon Aimabl in the light of lascivious joy. Their low beam eyes adjusted to the dark inside them, like nightmares in rotting strawberry. Eyes flashed to high beams, like Howard Carter upon opening Tut’s tomb, the year Willa Cather defined the “world broke in two,” in the century defined by Gertrude Stein as “in pieces.” 

“Wonderful things,” was yelled from the master bedroom by a man undeserving of a name, when his eyes found Aimabl and her children. 

Cue Matchbox 20: HANG. 

When pain would bring Aimabl back fully into the body/outer soul, the soul/inner body was quiet in repose, mindful in perfect presence. The stillness behind her thought needed to transcend her pain. The Rumi mantras whispered lovingly in her young rapist’s ears, were a lesson of relativity. These chants were like fingernails molesting a black board to her poetry students, but to her fingernails kneading with love, her rapists’ buttocks, like 10 dung beetles fighting over two well defined balls of rump stopped on the dirty downside of a seesaw, every time divine seed spilled in her playground. Her dung beetles un-seesawed down to curl on wet sheets as each of them would unceremoniously hop off and yell “Next!” 

She added to their dismount, looking them in the eye with this Rumi scorecard: “The body is a device to calculate the astronomy of the spirit. Look through that astrolabe and become oceanic.” The perpetually landlocked students stuck every landing. A perfect score. Then, she closed her eyes and prepared for her next poetry class. 

She focused on the flavor of the strawberry. Her heart cracked open letting a glimmer of light through. The true poet takes the ordinary and makes it extraordinary. The mundane is elevated to museum quality. Prose eloquently transforms to verse with an elocution that is camera worthy. Shit smells of a rose is a rose is a rose. Did I mention the hidden cameras, running, running, running surveillance mode. Oscar worthy drama, worthy of all the young sex that happens a world away in starry Hollywood, in another surveillance state that I would later have to infiltrate.

Will you join me for a discussion on Gematria numbers, karmic contemplations and the comings and goings of great spirits, over some strawberry pancakes, smothered in sugar-cane-whipped-Mabel-syrup in the prison bakery? 

To all you fellow violent offenders: Check your shivs at the chow hall door. The prison astrophysics club is serving strawberry pancakes, attempting to prove with no other sticky point but syrup sans blood, if this is the right syrup to be served with universal peace? 

Strawberry Pie Brunch. Bad prose. Not Bad Pie: 

Grief is a berry under a burning bush. What is buried, can grow, like a wild strawberry from the ash. A weary prophecy of reincarnation, until we’re through sitting in the flame, meditating on our soul’s relationship to fire. The prophecy, a soul’s reach beyond our human grasp, in the only space understanding growth can be.

A strawberry pie cooling in the window sill, the world hungry and short sighted, with an acute sense of smell. The pinched crust, a cool paradox to the touch of the soul’s flame. The fire inside warms a memory of berries and the sweetness they can be; martyred in pie’s name. Despite the ashes on the fork, I am grateful for the renaissance of grief I deserted, for even the blind can taste the circles in pie, and feel upon the plate, the eternal recurrences of the same. Here's the same, but different kind of strawberry pie. 

 

#112.49 The Rothko Rotten-Strawberry-Artist Wristwork. Cut to Hang in the I-Spy Gallery.

The hanging is hard to say but the remote view is museum quality lit. 

A Self-portrait of a Rotten Strawberry Artist: Art for grief’s sake! Let’s use the same location manager as the Big Apple’s disappearing rotten strawberry artist for further questions in the berry shapes and color. 

Can you feel the Mark Rothko? I’d really like to touch the art. To aspire by emulation. I feel the Rothko. 

The Russian abstract artist that painted large canvases with squares of color. His #6: Violet, Green and Strawberry Red sold for 186 million (US) in 2014. 

He noticed that the larger the canvas, the more intimate he felt with the colors. When he got to strawberry red, his work consumed him like the world. Like my Thunderdome. In its bigness, lost between the world and his artistry, he found the ultimate, big/intimate paradox of a moment: suicide. I resonated with that paradox. Of course, a petty CIA Mockingbird Case Officer, was sure to remind Rothko, (phone call from CIA Asset...BUY THE BOOK FOR THE REST!