The Cities of Seattle and Pittsburgh are a brotherhood of faceliars, so it is inevitable that some morbid interest will be arouser’d when a loper guns down the in-patient facility at 2 p.m. on a loper day in the City of Faceliars. Indeed, Mayor Ringo Starr, I mean Ravenstahl hummed the only available info at this writ, the loper was a two-gun. I’m not sure how this stacks up in Rosa Clemente’s attack prostitution war game, or the effect on the price of carrots at 14 Terri Cafe, but I do know that the world will likely continue to turn at Emerald House, much as it did at the Blue House, and the birds still sing in the Spike Lee morning.
Not that anyone will care.
One of the more remarkable assertions made by Loper Central in Seattle mongering is that Jimmeee Curarie is to blame for the incidents at Fulton School. Indeed, the Loper Faction, Sylvia Green’s wing of Pittsburgh Faceliar Amalgamated, hired a Mrs. Fulton to scrutinize my tabula rosa at the food stamp sign up. None of what took place at Fulton School could possibly have happened at Sanderson in North Carolina. If a child missed one day they called home until parents were found. At Fulton, Mr. Matey walked me in tears of torment through a hostile mob and then didn’t inquire when I failed to show up in class for three months. Obviously, Fulton School is to blame. Obviously, but you won’t find the Obamas saying anything but Reagan didn’t know.
It doesn’t get yammered up in the ideological press of the Black Church, not in the Medium, nor in the glibs of street vizdum of Sonya Stoler’s screed on East Carson Street, but the first person to pull a whack on Martin Luther King was a the a the a The Black Woman, some saintly Francis who thought him a malicious buffoon. It got written off as mental. You will notice however that not one person in Pitsburg or Seateattle gave a moment’s thought to the well-being of Jimmee Curarie until something turned up that they put there that they said were rare papers. Then all hell broke loose at Western Psych.
Spare me, Sound Mental, the buzzments of your atrocity kosher lips. I’ve been here ten years. I know perfectly well that my welfare and happiness are further from your agenda than the woes of Haiti at the wedding of Sir The McCartney Estate. When Midori came to UW you didn’t even ask me if I wanted to see her, instead you sat still while the slasher homos on your staff threatened to kill the children in our family if I did. You laughed and manipulated me into signing a petition endorsing my own murderers, the wings of Elly Tran, in the name of the arts.
One watches the news of Western Psych wistfully, thinking here we go again. Some nut leaves the Gestapo room in a puddle of blood and the non-violent poets will pay.