PP&C’s Musical Teleology. Take One. To be a Donkey/Ass. Places Everyone!

PP&C teaches man-made religions (like prisons) have very little kindness in spirit and more of its opposite: Judgment. A moribund philosophy, awaiting a shovel and a grave, alive, only for those that misbehave and know how to deflect. There is very little room for the ego (when we genuflect) or anyone else to invent an imagined man, when we directly explore the authentic spirit. Making any religious intermediary clan…obsolete. A sweet process, reality is currently self correcting, despite the opiates distracting humans to know the moon in the sky and not in the Lake’s reflective eye.

The goal of “Prison Prose and Cons” is to transcend the duality of the pro and the con. To reach past the judging mind of the ego, to a unity consciousness. To go behind “Prose with Cons” is to cliché and find God in T.H.E. Pen.

15 years ago, I ended my life as the greatest spy ever known to black-bag-play. A surveillance fact, not a belief. That reign ends today, as I disclose the Emperor’s New Clothes I chose as the intel asset known as the Rosebud Thief. The GOAT at staring at goats. I fucked them just for fun, while searching for antidotes (Remote Viewer #001 for Senator Pell’s Rosebud Intelligence Program.) to the sickly shadows that haunt my I-Spy trilogy of sorrows. Scripted in cathartic memoir and innocent prison ink, from a Red-Star family that let Custer think…he died for your colonial sins. Lila Ċepa spills milk for P.I.E. from her gallows’ stink. Top secret (Propaganda, Intimidation and Elimination protocols) smells from Frank Olson’s kitchen in the bottom of D.U.M.B. BSL’s and suicidal ropes, and the tops of puppet strings, with Bankster games making humans dance in free fall out of window frames, to a musical of skydive and scarcity, where no humans get out alive, from unhealthy tours of healthcare living, making it futile to survive our sick-care misgiving. Classifying cures to the divine right of intelligence kings. Off-planet shape-shifters masking devilish wings. Multi-dimensional drifters wreaking “hellish” on lower-dimensional “earthly-things.” Using the intel networks to compartmentalize their fireworks. As we are distracted by our own quirks and oooh’s and ahhh’s, acted out in the bedazzled dark, masking our own hurts with sheep-like boo’s and bahh’s until our last shirt’s grief is tailored in gratitude, by the more benevolent gods. A knowing attitude that transcends belief, as we clap and laugh at what we thought was the grief of our human flaws, when we realize there is no death upon our last breath. (One of our fundamental spiritual laws!)

Cue: applause for Prison Prose and Cons. A secular trilogy, rewriting the holy trinity into One tranny-ass, (like Palas) statued in mono-theistic bronze. A bi-reliquary hiding secrets of the Intel class, scripted in bombs, intrigue and international bombast.

Big Foot Note Tracks:

Dedicated to the 229 murdered and sent to heaven in an “altimeter” cued blast, just to kill two “Doctor-Manns” sitting in first class, on Swiss Air Flight 111 on 9/2/1998, with slated plans to teach the world the dated origins of AIDS. An intro to my girl: Black Maria where Blome’s NAOMI was made. Verbal grenades thrown into the darkest of “nuclear (cloning) transfer” that masquerades as classified sci-fi weaponry of the NBC trades.

Nuclear, Biologic and Chemical weapons design. Rhyolite to Cosmic where we find…the cures to all human pathologies, through the tours of our 63 (D.U.M.B./BSL-4) facilities. Let’s begin with the DUMB, 13 miles east of Telluride, Colorado. (Found two miles down.) Please bring shovels and dig with me and you will find…the miracle "TALAFINN" cure.

You dig? Are you in? Are you sure?

Cuz you will be blacklisted like Christ by the chosen elites of capitalism that priced the savior’s right hand out with Adam Smith’s invisible hand to steal the real “Wealth of Nations” in our heartland: Our health.

If you still dig, make a stand! PP&C deserves your ovations! Buy my trilogy. America make some demands to declassify MK-remedies hidden by secret oaths in the Upper-Masonic parties of “Man.” PP&C decodes the diabolical government agent-plan of CIA rogues shadowing the geo-political landscape. The greatest remote viewer attempting to cure cancer while escaping a “Medical Scapegoat” after disclosure, all from dancing behind bars, with a Chauvin knee, constantly, on her throat. The bars and the hoarse voice made this a choice musical to lead the cavalry in revolutionary songs that charge with awful wrongs from an intel community with an enlarged shadow, free to be behind the blackest of sheep and swans. T.H.E. Pen is mightier than Joan of Ark’s sword in “Prose and Cons.” It also comes with a 70 million dollar reward. A Rosebud stolen from 2 CIA-Cons, to solve a puzzle that involves muscle and musical memory, while keeping your cue towards a reality that will fucking destroy you.

Cue the Fear!

En Garde!

There are no small parts only small actors says Stanislavsky, the method acting coach leading me to a Small Footnote from two Small Economic Hitmen, who stole away to Mexico City with no gun and a Panamanian Pension Fund, Just Cuz! O' Rosebud of mine, from a past time when Lila was in a former pillow fight club, where every shrub was a burning Bush. Every feather was a broken pillow fight with a rogue agency that controls the weather and stalks the night with Op-40 snipers with sheep-dipped oaths. A tight-lipped troop that closes flight plans and opens throats. The Man: My alumni, from 20th Special Forces group, I-spy throat shots on JFK, RFK, MLK and John Lennon. Imagine? No need, friend. I am remote viewer #001, from Senator Pell’s Super Soldier Program: Rosebud. My first pillow-fight-club. Beyond belief, you will find the Rosebud Thief and her Black Icarus. A Bukowski Blue Bird within all of us. Intel poetry we are not supposed to discuss, breaking the only rule of pillow-fight-clubs: In silence/secrecy we trust. The language of God for Lila Ċepa and a must for secret societies that have adjusted to the dark side of our realities’ rushed and hazed, frat-boy swagger, and have hushed and gathered behind cloak and dagger, to shadow humans to their skull and bony matters. Hidden remains to be scattered like stars in a darker universe. Shining in celestial movements, versed in “Cars” and Hapa-Iyeska-half-defense, behind full bars, seasoned from offensive wars and a well trained sixth sense, directing a musical in book form, as choreography uses the wrong pretense, and wardrobe guilts Lila in the wrong uniform. Cue Korsakov’s frenetic swarm. To bee or not to bee, buzzes the alarm. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Pillows wet with blood, drool and dreams to cause further harm. Lila enchants like cool hand Luke at the egg farm. Hatching rants and playing “Chicken-dance,” singing show-tunes with psychopaths, with that “New-Man” of earth charm. Always asking after hitting the disarm/snooze: What would Christ/Allah/Buddha as trannies do…in prison’s concealed night moves?

Giggity.

That trinity would make a musical trilogy, and it would be, or not to be…PP&C. Such is Lila’s teleology and in her defense, PP&C is like a new religion with less violence. Not much less, but enough to keep us all in suspense, with this follow-up…is it enough for God to bless? Will PP&C’s cup runneth over, or be lost in the emptiness of bad actors wearing the Emperor’s New Dress, knowing her best interest is to be the cup, empty of herself, full of Oneness? CUT. Back to One. Take 2! WTF?!? Someone coughed! And someone shut that fucking alarm off.