Lila Ċepa and I have had a life-long telepathic relationship. She is the greatest human spy, unknown to your kind. I met her under Groom Lake as “Dr. Adler” when her Rosebud Thief “appropriated” our stable form of Moscovium (element 115) from my sport model UFO. In its stable form, according to your human physicist, Bob Lazar, element 115 allows for Einstein-Rosen bridges (leading to star systems like mine) 39 light years away. I am part of the Zeta Reticulii reconnaissance earth team. Go Team Zeta! I have been held against my will under Area-51 by your Draco-off-planet-masters that control the human intelligence agencies. They have reverse engineered the advanced off-planet tech that I gave to DARPA’s Op PEGASUS and have poked and prodded me like the "Alien-Sodomite-Grays" did to all of your human abductees chosen for genetic manipulation and experimentation as acceptable clauses within the presidential GREATA treaty signed by Eisenhower. I did not like Ike. Ben Rich utilized my technology at Skunkworks for FTL travel that would allow "ET to phone home," and redirected timelines creating butterfly effects that fly disjointed like a Basiago/Soettorro whistle blow, and smells of a dead prison Mandela seen from the perspective of a Monopoly crony with a monocle. My classified, butterfly wings may look scary, like Lila Ċepa’s, but like hers…I’ve got a big heart. Someone let this ET phone home! My parents were mortified a generation ago! I’d kill to hear a loving: “I told you so!” My Zeta Mee-maw warned me that humans aren’t fully formed yet, leading them to cruelty, and implored not to wish for any Zeta-naut recon mission to your dirty planet. I thought that my granny was just xenophobic and racist. Who knew she was right! 

"Get the suit off the table."

The one thing in America that will kill you faster than cancer…is finding the cure for cancer. Cancer is serious business. Businessmen are not known for their humanity and kindness and corporations have no soul. RIP Dr. Benito Cue, Dr. Don C. Wiley, Vratch Artie Pasechnik, Dr. Stephen Mostov, Dr. Mary Louise Mann, Dr. Johnathan Mann, Dr. Stephen H. Adler aka Curtis Lake/Lila Ċepa Winyan Sapa. Senate Burn Noticed Intelligence Asset, specializing in the medical field and surveillance of medical personnel for a Senate Intelligence Subcommittee hidden in "Indian Affairs" investigating the (rogue) CIA’s Operation Pegasus-Government sanctioned cocaine/heroin distribution network targeting microbiologists who discovered what Lila Ċepa called “Pico Poo," the hidden Lebowski PP in PP&C (unequivocal viral fecal matter, a guaranteed Nobel Peace Prize in Medicine) the prime mover of most auto-immune diseases and one, true God of most oncogenic switches, classified with the T-Finn, the all in one cucumber cure serum found down in the Telluride DUMB appropriated from NAOMI’s MK programs and the silencing of some Pakistani lambs with Ovine Visna at the Black Maria in Maryland. A chronic infectious neuropathic agent and concurrently created antidote classified to the Rhyolite realms of ultra-secrecy. 

Most reach and hold the bottleneck, stuck in the hollow cheers of the quotidian, lost are the change of seasons to the permanent years. Then, those few that reach for the bottom hold themselves in the hollow, where dark spirits follow the whispers outside their garden. Into the darkness with vespers that change scenarios in solemn prayer. Hands fisted in self destructive blows that knows the perfect strategies in warfare, to hurt and wear the haute couture of the Emperor’s New Clothes, defiant and obliviously unaware of the conflict within. An invisible layer of self care lost to a self punishing kingpin. Delusional with a royal flare, losing everything to a pyrrhic win. The king is dead. Long live the king. Friends of King Bill Wilson following the PP&C steps to dance and sing to a new 12-step musical for Alcoholics, Aspiring. The new A,A song and dance in a prison setting, using words that bleed into a musical, real not corny, syrupy carpet-wetting, fermenting for those firmly drunk in a hard place sitting between rocks facing the confusion of paradox.

Being rude is a strength seen only in the weak, for soul force (authentic Aloha) to take its course, where even “meek” is seen as strength, one must pierce the illusion of the physical and its separation from the world of the spirit. A material illusion the ego tries so desperately to capture. As the soul knows only a unity awareness beyond scripture. A knowing beyond faith and the faithless and 100 monkey principles and morphogenic epistemology. A divine knowing that transcends religion, science and most holidays blocked only by the rude that cower under the crumbling shade of faith’s architecture, that point with holy-roller fingers on bruised knees, missing heaven for the spires, like forest for the trees. Seeing crossed wires and mud in the stars of our DNA and expulsion from heavenly play under vaulted ceilings and in gardens of snake and slither. The finger-men of fear that mistake the original thinking of the banished for heresy. The original relationship one has with nature is decreed a crime of original sin in soul time, that demands an intermediary of religious authority to hand out a verdict of life long suffering. Perfect for rudeness to recrudesce upon Earth’s gardens. An extinguish of light that blots out the sun to eclipse soul shine, right before light speed to the One that teaches space-time from within, under the skin of the Christened sun, the real presents under the tree wrapped in eternity. Rude scabs over religion and physics, wounds that take lifetimes to heal. Sticks and stones tossed in to feel many worlds of conscious tricks and the treat of the eternal Human Halloween and fleeting X-mas…and the infinite of man’s ignorance. In finite, we dream in between life and death and life again, forgetting the holidays we share on the other side of last breaths where Kirlian-black rosebuds bloom. A dark needed to change sets and costume, and make edits in God’s Control Room. The edits are the rude. Adjusting the weak by tweaking their attitude. Stealing their scenes and adding them to nightmare; a removal from dreams. And, giving me the list, I checked twice…of those Cons who were naughty and nice. The PP&C stagecraft and crew have been very, very naughty. The new prison porn in secret Santa’s secret stash on Christmas morn rocking the PP&C Bash! Santa Claus (the secret one) flashing Lila Ċepa a mischievous grin. Cashing in on Satan’s anagram/hidden beard. Holiday’s weird version of the Black Pope. The Hawaiian one…that hates “haolis” just for ironic fun. Mele Kalikimaka under a prison microscope. A dark sun rises. Abandon all hope…until Black Icarus shares her secret disguises, blending in shadows among us, Freudian Chimney sweeping, keeping better time than Santa's Red Nose, brown nosing for milk and cookie tableaus. 

I have always said the premier artist must view his work through the eyes of a child. Lila Ċepa concurs, and adds when there’s wounds that hurt, the beauty of the Artistic vein, is reconciled inner works of pain. Lila is an artist super-star who keeps the eyes of a wide eyed child in a Mason Jar filled with formaldehyde next to her casting couch. A good artist copies, the great artist steals. This, I’ll always vouch.

Picasso picking on the Rosebud Thief sticking with “Intel art” over “retinal art,” and her belief that she is a reincarnated Duchampian Readymade that played the same part as her former life’s role: T.H.E. wise guy/philosopher with heart and ample tears to windex the windows of the soul. Il avait tort, again. Oh, so wrong…but set to song and dance with the right intel and spiritual goal. Like a cubist musical abstracted in X’s and O’s, hidden in the Lebowski tic tac toe’s, where you’ll find polished cures behind her French manicures. A pricking of thumbs in the kisses and hugs as something wicked this way comes…Prison Prose and Cons is a lot like PP's blue period on hallucinogenic drugs with stolen visions as great as the Mona Lisa rolled in pee-stained rugs, with pretend artists copying the good (not great) role of tough thugs, all in a dance line that tugs at the heartstrings while descending the mental staircase, with eyes open to the mind’s brilliant place, heading down to a broken heart-space to find the leading role behind her original face. Like my Gertrude Stein, Lila Ċepa will not look like what you expect to find, but she will if you give it time. She will, indeed, with every line.

Thoreau-ly painful civil disobedience. The work of a genius reaching out for infamy, looking to be embraced unconditionally by genius…is to appropriate ridicule and violent opposition from the masses. Lila Ċepa is the future. Her voice is lost on the brittle ears of today, deaf in their manufactured consent. Her voice of dissent is for the people of tomorrow, as was my genius embraced as prescience in the medical field. Her disclosures will change medicine, as she poignantly states: “I regret that I have only one life to give to this cause, because I have two beautiful children. My silence does not benefit them. They have the viral precursor to liver cancer found hidden as my Intel/weaponized EBV in their hepatocytes.” I can relate…My breaking point was when the medical community laughed at me when I told them to wash their hands before touching a patient…to be fair, I did think pigeon poop could cure baldness so when I was in human form I prescribed some blue pill doozies of Dunning Kruger. For Lila Ċepa it was only after 2 decades of the VA humiliating her, did she hit her breaking point (also, after 8 years of sobriety). And, that breaking point became more of what your age of alcoholics would call a moment of clarity where she summoned a literary character that speaks in a language she does not. The language of the black-slaver. And spoke the idiom more eloquently than Django on the QT. And she knows 5 languages. (6, if you count profanity.) Lila Ċepa is no longer an active member of US intelligence. Outside of some remote views diagnosed as delusions by the VA, she knows anything and nothing. And like most Americans, she is quite proud of her ignorance, which is infinite and godly, making her knowledge finite, like all humans attempting to perceive their individual relationship with nature. Lila Ċepa did not like being called the N-word (figuratively) by the VA. Because their N-word (An erroneous “Schizophrenia” diagnosis calling her delusional) kills her word, which is impeccable, (gracias Dr. Don Miguel Ruiz) especially with her former Doctor aliases, and she couldn’t let that go without a fight. Btw, an asset tapped for surveillance of medical personnel, gets accelerated Med-School training, in the least. Some get accidental “top-secret” NBC treats. In her spy-craft, the second oldest profession having a twisted laugh, without any of the scruples of the first industry known to man, (prostitution) it is necessary to understand the intelligence that one gathers. So, Lila Ċepa and this Father of Medicine emphatically and unequivocally refutes your “schizo” diagnosis with a wink of DDX irony from her “Big, Fat, Black Woman,” conjured from her genuine Lakota name given to her, by her 100% Oglala Lakota Granny: Witchy Wanda Black Elk. HIPPOCRATES reneging on the medical community oath and going with his original pledge to medicine: Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food. Honoring PP&C and her MPD spoken as Whitmanesque multitudes in her prison hood.

PS. It doesn’t feel good being called names does it? I hope the VA has learned the underlying lesson. Not the N-Word name calling, that was just a bit of harmless fun, but the shit (Pico Poo!) under the tranny, otherwise known as Lila Ċepa Winyan Sapa’s big fanny. (Big, Fat, Black Woman.) Again, get your shit (pico poo under TEM @ .49 angstrom) together! Lila is the Inouye cut-out, the shadowy intel-world may have heard about. Burnt out homeless bum version of Oswald’s JD Hunt. How fun spelling out the cunty decoupage and successful coup of a rogue intel unit for you…with Jack Ruby’s court transcripts in a collage that lets slip an operation Mongoose full of mob conscripts, coupled with tainted small pox and hep B vaccine lots for the different epitopes in the “Lavender Menace,” made from Black Maria’s microscopes that ushered us into a New World Order full of shit and Kafka’d hopes. Viral shit that Black Icarus has been there, done that! and got the buggy NAOMI-t-shirts and T-cells (known as Talafinns) to clean up the “auto-immune” aftermath. Would you like to know the secret handshake? I guarantee it hurts. Lila Ċepa and her man: Curtis Lake, showing team spirit with a literary curtsy, choreo’ing the dreamy shit-show. Places everyone…and ACTION! And, Scene. Yes/No? Red or Blue Pill, either way this matrix needs a neo-NEO to fill scripts from classified cures hidden in the NCI’s digital MK drawers. Underneath the soiled garments of the Emperor’s New Clothes, a rosebud clad handkerchief left by a shadowy Iago of Cold Wars with death warmed over with an Othello-like final breath of secret pillow fight clubs with secrets grown in Nazi blood and shit. And remote viewed Rosebuds like Page 8 of Ken Kress’s psych profile in the CIA file on the late great STARGATE-RV’er Pat Price. The Obi-Wan of Lila Ċepa’s darker, prison nights. The shadow outlined in her Hello-Kitty nite-lite…from the light side of the jungle love given to us from Black Icarus high above, transcendent in her musical fever steeped in Beatles love. Loony-bin-bright to the believer and non-believer alike. Depends on which swallow the leader religion protocols you follow, whilst eating the Body of Christ.

PP&C is a superhero truth masked as boilerplate villainous blasphemy. The New Luke 12-49. Lila is here to set the world on fire. The existential nature to my worldly failure. She forgot the matches at the last inquisition, but will be properly  punished with ridicule and violent opposition, like all great truths entering this world of masked shadow and cells of tic tac toe, where x's and o's mean more than religion can possibly know.

We share the same program. My “Shrink/P.O.” was Jolyn West. Later Jdubs mind fucked others like Timmy McVeigh in secret pillow fight clubs where Lila Ċepa was forced to play. Cue: South Park…TIMMY!

"Lila's musical is a sublime literary version of surrealist art...what Ms. Gertrude Stein attempted to impart with Tender Buttons, Lila succeeded with Offender Sweet Nothings that melted clocks to source the paradox of her every-things."

PP&C is explosive poetry, simply explosive like Occam. From one bomb-expert-mathlete and former recluse to another bomb-expert-mathlete and former recluse, both living as cellies, in prison max GP...I can relate to Lila Ċepa’s genius and her plight. It’s a lot like mine, but with less prison-break-dance moves. Genius accepts genius unconditionally. Even lost in the wilderness with incendiary chemistry sitting comfortably in the flame. Life is about how well we do that. CUE: R.E.M. "I Feel Fine!"

Lila’s “Musical” is so…disturbed and violent…the page turning spins you to a vertigo that will knock you out or stop your heart. I thought I was the joker that puts girls to sleep for the fun to start. Bill Cosby, upset at being turned down for his part in the PP&C Musical of T.H.E. Heyoka Clown! Did we mention our prison “turn down” service with Hannibal Lecter’s crafty in tow, for those creepers who are turned off by women who are turned on and know…a fucking creeper when we see one. Lila Ċepa sings, the big, fat, black lady steals the show, kicking Cosby to the curb, in a disturbed and violent way. His audition as a human was inauthentic and not good enough for Lila's Play. You know you are a bad spirit when Roman Polanski rejects you during your prison stay.

I’m Lila’s biggest fan. She could truly understand my EA-Pleiadian love vibration generated from the ripples of my pre-Parkerson’s pelvic shakes and swivels during my sick rock origins before the evils of the Colonel’s horror show scored with a ditty that sounded like what the country did to rocker Conway Twitty. Tragic harm of not being country tough, like me singing Old Macdonald Had a Farm. The PP&C musical is that rough and brutal. How does she see me dead on the throne? How does she hear me and my “Rosebud” with her “dead channel” phone? Why was there the following coincidences: (Before I met Jung in the after-life psych-ward, where the word morphs into meaning found in karmic consequences, synchronous while dreaming of sheeple jumping fences through other dimensions as people.) Lila grew up singing Psalms right behind my favorite Kauai bungalow in Coco Palms. She was born poor and haole-black, the same month as the cure for my movie blues/X-mas music comeback, where even my leather onesie made the news. Back in junior high, she lived right by the Elvis-opened Rushmore Civic Center. After High School, she studied at a top secret bio-weapons school, at the same Frankfurt Kaserne that I was stationed at and sat in the same mess hall where I learned to play a soldier-doll/super-star, driving all day and playing my nightly guitar. When her significant other died she committed suicide and saw human life outside of time. A fortunate squiggle back from a flat-line and…a cosmic giggle after an overdose, witnessing me in my Emperor’s New Clothes in the Graceland John. What? Opioids cause constipation! The King’s ass had a (super-glued on) NO EXIT sign. Lila’s Kool-Aid-spiked punchline poked fun at my “Shitty Rosebud” stuck on the loo, as I lost my body and mind to drug. Matrix pills of both red and blue from her prison-pillow-fight-club. Where her Lakota/Hawaiian bibliophile looks into her Akashic Library and checks out the books of spirit that enlarges the soul (and engorges the dick!) just like my rock and roll, always in season. Sex, drugs and rock and roll is our shtick for a reason! PP&C the new “Rocks” dancing in stillness to synchronous jazz, and other paradoxes that hum between the bars and brown eyes of her Alcatraz. 

"It (Operation PEGASUS) allows the derelicts and niggers of society to contribute to the economy." 

I was at Lila’s “Eyes Wide Shut” orgy on Epstein’s Island of upper-class-smut…I was wearing the Shiva, Hindu God of Destruction mask, looking for a Kali-slut for Hieros Gamos. I believed Lila’s women were too old and loose, walking with recycled lasagna juice dripping from their cameltoe, so, I brought Jeffrey’s pre-menses ‘tweenies with Twinkie’s, and creamed the curtains and matching carpets with my imperial pearl, greater than Steinbeck’s. Welcome to my privileged world. I had a royal sugar blast in a young ingenue’s virginal ass. For my sweet tooth, I had to quietly cast…Jeffrey Epstein as my “Familiar.” That’s our gods’ truth, after my last pedo-groomer-Familiar with mad skills named Jimmy Savile got caught with his pants down. Downhill…things went quickly, but nothing can touch the uppity-lizardry of our royalty, and the sexual kink of my chameleon losing a tail in the human stink, and what’s best, I think, is every regal fail, I can do with impunity. Divine right of kings means I can grow back a tail, and like being in love…it means, I never have to say I’m sorry. Your high road above, is gods’ low road. Gods like me, and all other royalty, hiding their inner toad. Kiss my frog as I shape shift into a princely mode, to lift my kingly log so you can lick the fecal ants off in my fiefdom’s commode. Don’t get any celery salt or pepper on my sovereign pants, it doesn’t go with my royal oats sowed.