#10.8 Rape Is Not The Worst Thing. Green Beret To Prison Greens. Shades Of Monster In Between. Scored By Billie Eilsh. Lyrics By Schopenhauer.

Setting the mood. Lighting the scented candle that goes best with rape. The one that burns quiet. It’s rude to interrupt such a dreamscape. 

The worst part of prison isn’t rape. Rape, usually in the form of Snickers and Silent Secret Santas, cum and go like the holidays. It’s the year-round lack of music to my inner melophile that notes a composed Koyaanisqatsi blur to my eye. (Right.) 

I get an hour of music a week. 

I have to make an appointment at the library and I get a single CD. Billie Eilish is my greatest, wait, not greatest; ‘guiltiest’ pleasure. The superlative of guilt spoken from innocence incarcerated demands a superlative of man definition. Superman? Yes. Otherworldly, anyway. 

Shall we fly like Superman-Brancusi to an abstract symbol of artistry that vibrates, but with a sinister sheen of hush that darkens the collective cloud forming above the human eye. (Right.) 

I-spy-sense the inner inhuman in Billie’s human eye. (Right.) 

It resonates with my brutish prison surroundings. 

Cold songs in the look of dead wife pierce my frozen heart with her condensate melody. 

A hissy, Zyklon-B gas of chamber music laden with the weight of a snowed-in atmosphere that feels dry-ice on the spiritual barometer. 

A flat tire pop that hisses visible hot air around a cold bubble gum patch. Gauging its own sfumato’d wheel in futility with broken clockwork Newton, knowing, even Da Vinci concealed in smoke and mirror, humanity’s deepest cuts of great truth. Sometimes these great truths are found next to the corn in Mona Lisa’s stool. 

The great truths that enter our weltanschauung/worldview from the ass end. A misunderstanding that demands elephant sticks and broken Rosetta stones to be hurled at the ‘smelly’ truth like violent projectile vomit, awaiting the upside-down view of the Hanged Man of the Tarot, spun in best hopes to mistranslate the shitty landscape, as all other cards, with eyes wide shut and right side up, mistake the Bukowski Chuck for Parmesan. The smells of shit and vomit go rose to those blinded by the “truth is beauty” faith. As prison Punks in the ‘know’ of vomitus-inducing truths that eviscerate Keats’ “Only truth is beauty and beauty is truth,” tie candor’s ugly, rotting corpse to a spit and roast it to perfection to be devoured by those with a refined palate of sincere ignorance, indifferent to the prejudices of distasteful truths, with umami receptors textured in verity’s true quest, usually after retching up all previously cherished beliefs. 

The Kopi Luwak mouthfeel of connoisseurs of a new shitty philosophy and the adventurous epicures that have the courage to replace elegant future fusion cooking of earth-centered-Ptolemaic dishes with newer Copernican suns seasoned too caliente for the times, at the feast of celestial inquiry. 

It took hundreds of years to read Copernicus, let alone believe him, to replace the earth with a sun centered solar system of spin. 

Spin points shifting paradigm lines always point to the same process of twirl. A spin-point-line dance. A violent spin that upends your view, so you point in ridicule until enough people get the line dance. 

Here is the same three step “Truth Cotillion” dance but in mudras form: ‘Great Truths’ always encounter closed fist violence, then open handed ridicule, before the mob grasps the truth, as the closed mind opens with an embrace that man could never live without. 

The steps in further detail from the still of striped sunlight: The truth incurs savage hostility projected from the ignorant mobs afraid of change, skewing the perceptions of truth wrong side up. Religion usually carries the torch and sets fire to any new house of rising sun truth, with a philosophy that matches tradition more than spirit, fleeced of meaning by inverting symbols, but not before appropriating the incunabula into the typeset of their secret archives.

A classification system that controls the dissemination of knowledge like L Ron Hubbard’s Scientology, hiding the same but different Zenu reptile gods with different paths and levels of concealment. 

The same classification system the intelligence community uses to compartmentalize truths in the darkness, oftentimes in plain sight under full moonbeam, just tilted to squinted eyes slatted in disbelief. The truth shines indifferent to the blinds that filter the light and dark within man. In this chiaroscuro, new truths are perceived as haunted by shadow and channeled from the mediocrity within, where the soul knows the truth, but the mind resists the change, rattling fearful chains of emotional derision that sync with the haunted houses filled with the cynical majority and their cognitive dissonances. 

Grim scythes cut with the precision of tyranny, the monument to new truth at the knees. The majority sets down their reapers to point at the stumps with ridicule, while the great truth begins the Shelly’s Ozymandias crumble, to be lost in the shuffle of time. Great truths hidden under the shifting sands of deception that signify the erosion of truth as spoils and Damnatio Memoriae of the victor. The victor is not always right or truthful. Hitler remarked that the victor will never be asked if he told the truth. Especially when that victor becomes the majority. I am indeed a majority. I am an innocent man in prison. A prison Punk like everyone else here. 

Having deep thoughts with Jack Handey. 

In the shadows, I see the minority. The real seekers of truth that find in time, the truth is less like Ozymandias and is more like the Ozzy Osbourne archetype, still standing, all in disbelief, (Including Ozzy) as the pitchforks and torches morph to raised hands and lighters that honor the miracle in song and reverie like it was the greatest of truths, all along. 

Great Truths entering our world is always a shameful process. Prison Punk truths will be no different. A crazy train chugging from rejection to acceptance, especially when the truth looks like a drugged out rocker Keith Richards could look up to. 

The shameful, ugly truth of Billie Eilish’s fame is to teach young women to mask their authenticity with the inauthentic. Babs (Barb Streisand) did the same for my generation’s A-listers. Just gotta look for the ‘BS’ in their initials or in homonyms. The bullshit in the ‘Billie Eilish’ character is the exact opposite of her genuine nature. She is a walking Freudian compensatory facade that feels dishonest. It is the reverse mirroring effects that reflect a lack of courage that obviates one from speaking their own truths. A distancing mechanism of shy emojis of sound and ennui-laden responses gilded in the faux shine of artistry that covers, more than exposes one’s own truth. Usually, with the mundane word “fine,” tortured poetic and synched to rhyme and song. 

Just look at her, she’ll say she’s “happier than ever” but mirror the opposite, in straight jacketed form, on her album cover. That’s not empowerment. That’s deception masked in sarcasm, creating an imposter syndrome in the well of the subconscious, where children take her cues, and sink by rote to retreat even deeper within the dark melodic insanity. A spelunking into their own abyss. Ashamed of telling parents/therapists of such deep antipodes to their own light. 

That inner choir of darkle, shining off key, beacons the self destructive moths of the mind to clear the heart like a flame to moth’s flight, as butterflies migrate from the stomach to the now empty heart and become courage misdiagnosed as anxiety attack. 

An assault on a child’s psyche that cannot be handled without big pharma intervention. Leading, of course, to a future addiction demanding another kind of intervention. 

Billie sings of happiness using D minor keys that open the doors to misery. She is the alcohol of music. A depressant, but more ‘well’ than top shelf. 

Bottled for the mob that can’t afford to pay attention. 

Absolut and Absolutes in dream. Alcohol and Eilish replacing the Marxist dogma-opiate, made palatable to the dwindling religio-masses. 

A different kind of alcohol intoxicating my incarcerated sobriety. 

But, since I am human and resonate with the Buddha’s suffering and understand the Tao in the physics of frequency entrainment, I think her music rocks! Billie will go far in the music world!

Great Haole music. Haole is the Hawaiian word for nigger. But it literally means “those without breath.” Those whose words have no solidity. Word becomes airs of untruth that lose substance, as their lost breath turns to sibilant whisper to mask their devious intentions. 

Whispers like the music of Haole Billie Eilish. 

Catchy tunes, despite its teleology reminiscent of a playbook of PSYOPS, disorienting the cultural hegemony of the enemy forcing them to hide the truths from themselves. 

Every Green Beret (like this current prison Punk) is trained in Psychological Operations. PSYOPS 101: Once you can teach the enemy to avert their own eyes away from their own truths, you can easily program the enemy to doubt. Sun Tzu says you have already won the war if you have plagued the enemy with doubt before a single sword is unsheathed. Sun Tzu was the Descartes of Spy and Warcraft. Descartes plagued all of western philosophy with his doubting condensate of a bloodied cogito ergo sum (I think, therefore I am). Sun Tzu’s sword did that on the battlefield. A sword that was sharper than Occam’s and mightier than the Cartesian pen, when graphed in the violence of 3D. 

So my Sun Tzu question: Why is our youth being targeted by such programming of doubt-inspiring reverse mirroring? That mirror is usually reserved for the more extreme MK Ultra Funhouse protocols. 

In covert I-Spy reflections, the MK circus fractures a personality into unrecognizable shards of Xmas tinsel that shape a wintery reality in disturbingly surreal puzzles, with the holiday jigsaw cutting a swath through the fabric to create frays and ritualize the fray at the edges, triggering a tighter hem. A more self-censored haw in the uniformed hemming and hawing. 

It’s puzzling to think this designer of music is clothing our children in transparent uniforms of OPSEC war-speak that feel like the Emperor’s New Clothes. Why is my daughter an unwitting enemy combatant of weaponized cymatics in the form of catchy jingoisms that fashion the soul in doubt? Or are these reflections of a paranoid prison Punk, staring dreamy, into the same river as Narcissus, with nothing but time in a zen koan, searching for my original black face? Am I looking at or into the underwater mannequin? I hold my shallow breath in the prison library and listen to Billie’s first album. Billie dresses her lyrical mannequins with dustings of inertia ashed over in withering potentia and allergy. The dreamy remains of bonfire-memories of flight, extinguished in a sneeze. 

Grounded in the hatchoo, every soul's unique uprising. 

A “woe is me” fingered beneath the apocalyptic ash, written in embers sullen glow. 

The collective ear is mesmerized by song that whispers in hypnotic lyric, in the look of hymns hushed with reverence, sung in a new religion that binds. The secular serenade of such spiritual binding used to sound of “Don’t Get Above Your Raisin’” now it comes in Phineas and Belial homages to an all seeing Eye, (Right). 

An ubiquitous symbol glittered in Bowie and accented in orange clockworks, that represent the Sons of Belial. An off-planet Annunaki hierarchy from Nibiru, (the planet that orbits our sun every 3500 years) that controlled the realm of Atlantis, before ‘sinking into the sea.’ A euphemistic parable for going underground awaiting their planet’s return, their second coming; our religio-deliverance. The ‘Georgia-depicted-in-film-kind,’ with odd ends stolen for our holy writs, awaiting signals from motherships to resurrect the walking crocs from their underground, as in the 1500 Deep Underground Military Bases, “DUMBS” that control politics’ original face from below Washington DC. Or so I’d imagine in a second zen koan as her second track starts. I close my eyes to the violence around me in the prison library and channel Eilish’s lyrics from my ears into the filters of my synesthesia creeping into madness: Billie’s eyelashes, derivative to Belial’s, bat coquettish, strobing the human robot to the antiquated tech of a discotheque strobe light, half on and half off with amygdala harmonics that jam heart-mind frequencies with aberrant codes that vibrate like Ludovico images for the ears, designed for fight or flight responses into despair. Eyelids closed and frescoed clockwork orange like decaying cunt sunning in fields of Georgia O’Keefe desert. A vacant soul gaze, skewered by a Faustian sword fall. 

A wet vibrato of viscera dries to lyrical synesthete jerky, but not before gumming up the tympani with toxic belladonna honey. The new siren song of mumbled incoherence. A mermaid’s siren that whispers unsung, forcing the listener to lean into the sticky waters of shipwreck. 

It’s easier to control an enemy when they can’t find peace within their own mind. When their balance has a slight lean to an unknown edge. Anything that helps them lose that edge, even a little ditty or piece of propaganda film can help tilt a war. Psychological Operations consists of fighting the enemy’s peace of mind, first, before going in with the heavy artillery. 

In my surveillance state, (November 1987) the Head of Army Psyops, Colonel Michael Aquino, was one of the most powerful men in the military and an expert in trauma based mind control splintering a child’s personality into altars through ritual, music and twisted stickers of Hieros Gamos, where rape was always a stun-gun-cum away. Smells of future JonBenet, does it not? I guarantee that Anus-Tart in Boulder had a stun gun in her beauty queen programming. Always with the stun gun. Very bizarre. To be clear, the stickers were STDs. The Sexual Transmitted Diseases contracted by the infants come with medical records. EVERYONE contracted gonorrhea, including the infants. There were no background actors for the CIA Kiddie Groomers with the Catcher in the Rye playbook, in the Temple of Set basement or at the church in Long Beach on 6th street. The other west coast programming temple. An entire psychological syndrome was fabricated to bury the #metoo of the 72 children that were stickered. It is called “False Memory Syndrome.” A label created by the Ewan Cameron-led MK filter (also head of the Canadian counterpart to the American Psychiatric Society) to further victimize whistleblowers of this kind of trauma-based mind control that honeycombs the mind into “Manchurian Kandidaten” altars, completely autonomous and unknown to the other altars of consciousness. False Memory Syndrome strengthens the honeycomb firewalls, using doubt to distance memories that bleed through, relabeling them as faux imaginings. The victims of this horrific sex abuse retreat further within, forcing themselves to doubt their own truths. That kind of doubt is debilitating and often fatal. Suicide is seen as a healthy alternative. Psychologists in the “know,” know this ‘Syndrome’ is absolute BS. Rebecca Shaeffer’s dad knew the same BS. A psychologist with Bush Family connections. (See my book report on the Catcher in the Rye.)

Programming multiple personality disorder and schizophrenia has been mastered by the MK programs. The programming previously consisting of trauma/drugs has evolved (thanks to Black Maria/Groom Lake/Montauk-Camp Hero/Oak Ridge technology) into frequency mapping of the entire brain. A neural net that will eventually be distributed as reverse engineered technology to select captains of industry. Elon Musk is the buffoon in line for this. You’ll find this culminating in 2050 with a reverse engineered stable element 115 (Moscovium). The former Skinwalker Ranch owner, Bigelow’s future consortium gets that piece of tech. It’ll seem prophetic when it happens, but it’s a BS or RS dad “in the know” kind of thing. These shifts from reverse engineering to the civilian sector always come with some buffoon du jour, like William Shockley’s transistor or Kwolek’s Dupont/Kevlar willing to take credit for such ingenuity by selling their soul to the causes of the breakaway civilization that are misanthropic and satanic. These shifts happen in the Intelligence field, first, before declassifying into our Dupont and Syngenta backed “exact sciences.” The classifications are the Higgs Boson of the shadow universe. The US Intelligence shadow consists of dark matter concealed by a manufactured consent that has parted with truth at the time of the Big Bang, when secrecy split this world into a Spook-Punk-verse, wholly controlled by the darkest facets of a global intelligence ring. And I was that Spook-Punk with a dark view and darker verse, in the darkest of intelligence fields, where ritual manifests sacral powers of transference from young children sodomized. The empty vessel is filled with semen. The mind is emptied through terror and the empty ‘sunyata’ of Buddhism is filled with killer software that creates future assassins and spies that have the superhero ability of compartmentalizing even from themselves. 

Would you like the 72 names on the daycare list? 

You’ll recognize several of their names. The world of intelligence is the world of the 1%ers. It is very small and there are links everywhere that no one can see because our Higgs can’t publish. My NDA’s and secrecy oaths don’t allow conferences.

A lifetime ago, before I broke bad and went prison Punk, Colonel Aquino was my first TPS (Top Priority Surveillance) target who also founded the Satanic Temple of Set. Gold Star American. 

He was the Commandant at the Defense Language Institute of Presidio of San Francisco when I wired his basement, while blotto-drunk on a weekend bender throwing back Absinthe Martinis with Mistletoe optimism and sexual innuendo, bringing sexy back with Private Tracy Utterback, while listening to Bono serenade a Joshua Tree. Groovy. 

Most actors, like Intel actors, (and most prisoners) are all drunks. Or recovering alcoholics trying to give up the Billie Eilish. It’s the only way to repress the imposter complex that takes root in a splintered mind that rejects soul integration for those who are forced to try on new characters like others do shoes. 

The altered mind is not tailor made for the fitting rooms of mind-body-spirit homeostasis. The stress of the surveillance asset/Rosebud Thief being a fashion whore of intelligence design, sky high on the runways and off-the-radar-low drop zones got to me more than Whitman and his multitudes. It led to a life-long deep depression that averted the eyes to the Tao of balance between the highs and lows. The musical spaces I recognize in the “Eilish.” So I drank. 

I started at 11 on the Pine Ridge Rez, until the Christmas day I entered prison and said no XX-mas. 

In prison, in painfully sober reflections, my Aquino wire job and the budding of the young intelligence asset known as the Rosebud Thief mirrors the classified operation called ‘Copperhead’ of the “R” Force of British Security Coordinators (XX Unit) that worked with Director Stanley Kubrick at Shepperton Studios making pieces of propaganda to win the war against the Nazis and targeted campaigns to entice the isolationists in America to join the war. 

‘Op Copperhead’ hired an actor named Meyrick James who looked like General Montgomery, leader of the British Forces. 

David Niven polished Meyrick with a few acting lessons and sent him to Gibraltar to fool a known Nazi spy named Molina Perez that (Full not Faux) Marshal Monty was going to invade in the south of France and not Normandy on D-Day. Molina blitzkriegs that juicy piece of intel-traffic/gossip directly to Herr Führer in Berlin. But, not before the intel stress got to Meyrick James. It is indeed, life or death. Meyrick got blotto-drunk flying down to Gibraltar and almost compromised the entire mission. The free drinks in the airways of intel’s first class helps. I could resonate. I felt like Meyrick after I got on a flight drunk from San Fran to Fort Lauderdale sitting next to Joe DiMaggio, after pulling a wire job on CIA asset/TPS target Oliver Stone. The bottle of Absinthe I had to throw back for liquid courage to do my first wire job on Aquino became a work tradition with every wire job after Colonel Aquino. Until drink was all I knew. A wet ocean under a drunk and dry eye. Just like Meyrick.

Meyrick was so wasted, the pilot had to circle the landing zone in Gibraltar for several hours while they fed him Pervitin and coffee. 

Pervitin is the methamphetamine Hitler gave to his soldiers. It’s effective in shutting down empathic mirror neurons, by smudging the reflections into a future black hole. According to Mengele, (called the Doctor of Death at Auschwitz) hidden in the Black Maria Files, collated under NSC-40/MK NAOMI and ‘reviewed’ by the NSTARE Remote Viewing Program: Neurons have a phase state transition property to, and I quote Dr Mengele aka Dr Green in post-war America/pre-Argentine hacienda: “An unknown, but verifiable and manipulatable energy source…that can be manipulated to manifest in extreme cases of violence.” Like (in this case) when setting one baby twin on fire and watching the other baby twin react connected to sensitive monitors. Witnessing the CIA Asset Cleve Backster’s ‘plant sub quantum entangled effect’ in human form. A kirlian light cue left in the wake of energetic ‘neuronal phase state transitioning.’ My Lakota Heyoka side calls this force Wakan Tanka. The force that animates and connects all things, which is reflected in our Mitakuye Oyasin daily greeting that means “We are all related.”

My Hawaiian Kahuna side calls this connecting with my B4 mitochondrial haplogroup until the 100 monkey principle disperses a unity awareness connecting to an Aloha of cosmic consciousness. The prison Punk in me harbors the delusion that this force is only connected to “Riches and Bitches.” 

Dr Mengele called this force: “Das Unerklärliche." 

Intelligence Actors playing their part to forward the sciences classified not to the Paperclip, but to the more secretive ‘Wastebin.’ You would recognize the ‘MK’ hidden in plain sight, in the ‘Operation Wastebin’ as Mülleimer (Classified: Wastebin) Klassifiziert. The MK in MK-ULTRA and MK-NAOMI. The mind control program of the CIA and the CIA Nuclear, Biological and Chemical weapons program that moved under the auspices of the NIH, under Nixon/Kissinger. And later under the National Cancer Institutes. 

A cornucopia of drugs were used to alter states of consciousness for both MK’s. Creating actors within actors within actors like me. The programming creates a consciousness hack or a wake inception where dreams are classified into living nightmares and systems of remote control. Using verbal triggers, coupled with blocks in memory the MK victim loses time. Alcohol helped in the hack, to detach from the emotional body. Spirits are the perfect drug totem used for an actor to get out of his own head, or a killer to kill without a conscience. To compartmentalize in the black out. Alcohol conjures black outs with violence without peer. A smudging of the angels of our better nature into a consuming event horizon. 

‘Op Copperhead,’ albeit delayed a few drunken hours, was a successful operation that saved a lot of American lives at the D-day dance when Hitler was caught with his lederhosen (pants) at his ankles instead of Omaha beach. 

My personal David Niven was a man named FX Vitolo, producer at Frank Capra’s Liberty Studios. Acting coach for the Labyrinth Group, who trained Deniro and Streep. I’ve been “off book” from the Aquino Screenplay since 1987, and I will never forget its lines. 

I would later recognize that same script as a prequel, to the derivative MK Ultra scripts of Ewan Cameron, Sidney Gottlieb, Paul Satz and Ken Heilman and a lot of other shrinks from New York City. 

Which means new versions of Barney the Purple Dino and cooler Rock and Roll come after the psyops-Eilish siblings of sibilant sound, programming the masses with a new form of cymatics that has been weaponized by the military and bubble-gum-pop brigade, alike. 

In the silence between Billie’s tracks, I open my eyes to the quiet books and incarcerated cacophony and lift my feet as two black armored personnel carriers are towing an unruly car out of the prison library. (Car is prison speak for gang.)

Her next track breaks the silence and violence. I close my eyes to both. 

The Billie Eilish/Finneas Baird O’Connell origin story is as bearded fishy as my current wrongful incarceration. 

My articulate paranoia smells reptile as the olfactory bulb flicks to high beam: A simple Faustian deal, cryogenic in my headlights. I put my feet down as the smells of copper abate. I see what the Eilish siblings got: fame, fortune and an Oscar. 

I wonder what they had to give up? 

I know people like my former TPS target James Caan that gave up their soul just for the Oscars. Tell me, Billie and bro, Finneas Baird, did you give up the same ol’ same ol’ little bit of nothing within? 

I think of the King of Thrace, Phinneus, the seer/prophet that shared his gifts with humans. The gods tortured Phinneus by starving him and harpies would defecate on the scraps of food that were left behind. Tell me homonym Finneas, does the Baird in your middle name honor the beard of this seer? What is the smell behind the scraps of melody you have shared with humans? To the spiritual synesthete and this prison Punk-spook, it smells of CUNTS. C U Next Time-Souls.

Contract Under Negotiation. Transaction: Soul. 

Cunts be tripping a new wire fantastic, tho! 

Groove dissonances that distort human emotion with resounding efficiency, by slaying the emotional body, with whisper sharp swordplay that cuts like decoupage through virgin ears, the archetypes of both Athena and Aphrodite, and skewers their flensed flesh like Apollo’s Marsyas, flayed to his tree, after he lost to the God of Healing at the Greek Battle of the Bands. Irony. 

The exposed wounds of Marsyas spinning fatal under the spit of the sun, like a stylus etching waxy wings of recorded Icarus. Mouth watering grooves roasting in the spin like pig sweat at a luau. Mouthing last words to water the martyr’s flame, through apples of onomatopoeia of a spiritual ow, ow, owie. And the Pow. One-two, of Billy and her bewitchy Belial brew. And her brother’s sirens that bubble and boil in tempests of turmoil, luring one to the hard rocks deceptively stamped with Nerf. 

It’s always good to source the guilty, in guilty pleasure. 

It takes the fun out of it, leaving you with just the guilt. Feels crazy like religion. I pull off my headset as the epiphany crackles around me to silence the crazy of a prison max library. 

Damn it. There goes my bitchy Billie guilty pleasure! 

My once a week CD. 

I wonder what this Brittney Spears girl is about? 

Probably the same ‘BS’ but I’m searching for a less bull-shitty-guilty pleasure. 

Maybe the Beatles? 

Aww dammit BS! 

Is that why John broke free? 

John Lennon’s “watching the wheels” spin, “just sitting here doing time” plays in my mind. This Shawshank is a music ghetto awaiting an Andy Dufresne guilty pleasure that locks the warden’s office with Mozart. Before the heart to heart dance with the ‘club’ at the antiquated discotheque called the HOLE. Where music strobes in the mind, down an inkwell so deep, the silence between every crucified note is resurrected in the calligraphy of Christ figure or in the hexy sons of Chladni and bitchy witches of the Belial gods. I’m good either way. 

My instrument knows the song that stills all in the fire. The original word of my soul that returns everything set to ash; consumed by fire. 

The word used to be intelligence. Now, it's “prisonnigger.” 

Two G’s, two N’s in the libretto. 

Two ‘U’s’ in between. 

Prison should take a cue from the shadow government who alters behavior through music like two G’s, two U’s and two N’s to the two temples. 

Even Socrates warned that dissonance in music can bring down the walls of the state. We have learned to weaponize this dissonance. A weapon that kills free will. The antipode of Guthrie’s slogan on his guitar: This machine kills fascism. 

We see this warning in the crumble of Panama, as music brought down their walls. More great truth awaiting your violent opposition as the prison Punk yields the floor to the Green Beret within:

One of my best friends and life long skydive partner was in Delta Force and was grooming me to join when I was in Special Forces. Our friend confirmed President Noriega was chilling in the Vatican’s compound in Panama City on Xmas day when he saw General Noriega open the top floor window. He yelled up at ‘The Pineapple,’ “Feliz Navidad, Motherfucker.” Then the CIA (rogue) bombarded the compound with Heavy Metal and the theme song to Barney The Purple Dinosaur, on a loop (completely normal, nothing to see here) ‘Spinal Tapped’ to 11 as CIA MK handler/Spook Shrink Jolyn West (Charlie Manson’s ‘parole officer’ and Tim McVeigh’s prison therapist) was called in. Nothing to see there, but coincidence. Sure, synchronicity hooded by eyes wide shut, then slapped silly by intel’s hidden hand that beat Adam Smith’s hidden hand in a game of phantom limb patty cakes, shadow boxing for the real wealth of nations on my cellhouse wall. 

Let us pray. 

CIA Rogue uses the term in GOD we trust. God, for this group of ghosts that exist in the shadows is an acronym for Guns, Oil and Drugs. The gods of exponential profit, that are worshiped under the black sun of covert operations that bypass GAO accountability. CIA Rogue is unconcerned because nobody believes in ghosts and prison Punks.  

A utopia of transparency can never exist in countries that have lost their soul, to hidden systems of control and covert, as well as, overt corporate interests. A dark matter that makes up our spook universe that Vera Rubin has yet to discover. A world that could be aptly scored by Billie Eilish. 

Noriega was programmed by my very first TPS target: Lt. Col Mike Aquino to be a drug courier for the Bush family at the School of Americas in Panama and Columbus, Georgia. I went to Airborne School and a ‘breaking and entering‘ portion of the Rosebud Intelligence Program (RIP) in Columbus, in February of 1991, cultivating the mastery of the Rosebud Thief/Intel Asset/Violent Convicted Felon. Spook Punk. 

Barry Seal and Chip Tatum picked up the drug running habit before and after the Pineapple was plucked, skinned and tied to a cell house tree in Miami. Noriega was also the unwitting source of funding for my TPS Targets: CIA Economic Hitman David H. Siegel and CIA asset/DOJ-Panama/Judge Ed Chism. Ed was the CEO of American Financial. 

When President Bush Sr. removed Noriega as President in Operation ‘Just (be) Cause,’ he put these assets in place to fleece Noriega’s government pension plan and abscond to Mexico City with the funds under the fiscal umbrella of American Wealth Management. 70 million dollars (US) of the poorest government workers’ pensions. 

Chism and Siegel eventually settled in Aventura, Florida when American Wealth morphed into American Financial, or amfin.com. 

It took me 7 long and painful years to infiltrate this Aventura office. Embedded in finance, in the “love of money sleaze” of Florida, where psychopaths fall like love and snow, in the shady places of the perpetual Sunshine State. I smile at my current prison state. Fitting in, I feel the same dark sleaze.

I am comforted by Nietzsche…life without music would be a mistake. The one too sexy for his last shirt, says Fred. 

Amen, I say an hour a week, as my church with the Eilish siblings concludes. As memories of music wash the intelligence dirt out from under my Cold War fingernails of regret, my clean hands reach for the mudras of Lady Macbeth, not Shaken but Fuseli. 

A candle flickers to usher shadows into the light with the silence between the sound. The reverse process of moving light to shadow with the sounds of ‘BS.’ A spiritual chiaroscuro even Rembrandt couldn’t paint. But behind the helix and structures of fury and sound, sits his philosopher in meditation. Deep in shadow, eclipsing the darkness by contemplating structures that shimmer in the penumbra of semiotics. The signs that power conceals by inversion and silence. For the prison Punk to find his musical Rosebud, the only way to understand what kind of music gathers in that hush is to center yourself in the hush. If you hear madness, you’ve gone too far into the abyss. The space between the notes went from outer to inner, and music was lost in the translation. A haunted house where meaning is distorted from poetry to prose of the infected mind that whispers Billie’s word into their soft yielding pillows made of rabbit hole. 

Like saying your own name out loud until it loses all meaning to sound, then getting that sound satiation notarized by a record label. 

Its underlying structure crumbles in the reptilian brain of humans. Meaning lost to ritual. A Cherenkov glow dims to a sickly blue in the mental medium. 

The radioactive colors of targeted frequencies that disconnect our sacred circuit of connection to the oneness that is found in the stillness between all notes. The between sounds of Mitakuye Oyasin and smells of Omm, even in the bowels of my Shawshank. Silent words for the synesthete felt in the roar, immolated in whisper, burn noticed to prison shadow and ink. 

Camus says take it too far. That is the only place we find the truth. 

Few come back from those kinds of ‘Namib,’ too far out open spaces. 

They tend to present with a spiritual agoraphobia. No one can withstand that kind of torture from within. 

The mind becomes like a house divided. It cannot stand so it falls in the mud, reversing the Ad Astra Per Aspera ambition of the evolving human. 

The stars are lost to a bio-clock gumming up sky-spin, as the second hand is lost in the present, leaving the minute hand to go find the sound of one hand clapping, while the hourly feels disenchanted, unable to face its own separation anxiety, spinning to vertigo, marking dizzy time. So dizzy I must be sober to stop the spin. 

Sobriety is turning me into the Hanged Man of the Tarot. Green Beret Spook spun on his head to prison Punk in greens. Sitting quietly in the library. The silence calls to me still, deeper. Perhaps I’ll give up my hour of music a week altogether. I think Nietzsche but feel Camus. Am I dreaming in BS?