Chapter 57—Cubby Reporters Saddle Up For Your Pulitzer Prize
Chapter 58—The Book ov Lev It A Kiss Living Prophesy
Chapter 59—PBS FCC Fed Burr of Eye Infected
Chapter 60 —Poet Prophet Marked For Extreme Prejudice
Chapter 61—Poet's Assassination Only A Matter Of When
The Coats, Jacklegs, And King Solomon
I’m a prophet. I don’t make stuff up.
This is my tale of Lev, Michael Stephen Levinson, the poet author of prophetic works who walked and talked with God; who was given words for all mankind, in 1969.
I am Lev. This is my story.
My hand lettered The Book ov Lev It A Kiss is a double column Television Scripture, a prophetic art that starts with Adman and Even in the Gar Den ov Edum, then runs puns, and guns through every spoken tongue. I am an independent write-in candidate for president. I bring to your table a Vehicle for World Peace, the biggest best idea ever spoke.
I didn’t start yesterday.
The most insidious counter intelligence file created by J. Edgar Hoover was started 57 years ago. The anti-Semitic Pharaoh of Fascist’s tattoo, his panoply of treachery for destroying the lives of all those people he despised was not to be stopped, my right to political speech and your rights, too are screwed to this day, media access blocked.
In 1969 I was on a ship 40 days and 40 nights—there given words for all mankind, my double columns to perform as old blind Homer, dusk until dawn, on all channels television for all the worlds' peoples together. I rival Dante Alighieri of Divine Comedic fame, every line of my verses, delicate sensible mull tie ling well rhyme.
Eye yam that iamb—the poet of world renewal.
My prophetic Television Scripture was lettered to perform live for all the world's peoples to listen to, sea and be part of all at once. Moses the Teacher and King Solomon's spirit are woven within every thread. Revelations and riddles, with homilies of G-d 's law are also embedded.
My plan is your Vehicle for World Peace—eye tell vision I was given—duss cun till dawn—His word revealed unto my mind— on all channels television.
In the land of the blind the one-eye man is king.
My Television Script is The Political Recipe For Peace on good ship Mother earth! I am the Cosmic Wrapper, setting the stage for whirled peace and food chain harmony, the man who is fired and wired with a new word order of world orders and word hors d'oeuvres.
My intent is clear: upon election, steer the course to deliver world peace for all inhabitants of good ship Mother earth. Whatever deck you live on, the cards are dealt out evenly. Your time is coming for whirled peace—all the warring in our world—ceased for world pizza.
Regardless who gets elected I'm here to deliver the world to peace.
The Supreme Coats, Jacklegs, And King Solomon
Ah, dear peers, as Prologue, (not in this online taste) I slipped my 2016 campaign for president mass media access request into this first chapter, on the way to showing you Bill and Hill are in the 2016 political campaign for one single reason—upon H. (as she refers to herself) taking office, after a few months she will quietly have the redacted Cox Committee Report brought to the White House, to the living quarters. Bill and Hill will have a couple stiff drinks then burn the contents to bury their treason.
* * *
I'm your friendly, non-stop cosmic Poet Prophet "Jacklegs jumping up," a couple eye blinks back, climbing the steps of the Supreme Court with my Vehicle for World Peace in hand, ahead of my time, when the Cuban refugee, Elián González intervened.
Upon my historic case pen ding, back in the day, I believed in our Supreme Coats, those Supreme do-whoppers. I practiced daily for my precious 30 minutes with Chief Justice Goldbar and the Coats, crafting my Torah delight, the story of King Solomon and "Baby Eliána."
As a matter of papyrus fact: the historical records show that "Baby Eliána" was the baby's name in King Solomon's High Court, centuries before, and King Solomon v. "Baby Eliána" is the blind cite that beyond any shadow will settle my original unresolved case: Michael Stephen Levinson v. Federal Communications Commission and United States of America S. Ct. No. 95-5876, more recently: Michael Stephen Levinson v. ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX, CNN, PBS, et al— Case: 12-15935 10 /15 / 2013 ID: 8820011 DKT ENTRY: 65 NO. 13M32. Motion Denied.
Regardless, citing King Solomon was my strategy. My 30-minutes spout before the Supreme Coats, yet to be given, will forever stand on King Solomon's High Court jurisprudence— King Solomon v. "Baby Eliána," its historic inspired wealth, well settled in our bones.
With Solomon's baby case for openers, an F.C.C. Bureau rat who operates as F.C.C.'s Political Branch decider, who is with FBI, there to infringe my constitutional right to deliver a campaign speech, televised live, who is known throughout F.C.C for his FBI connections, was and is herein exposed as Justice STEVENS,' "impermissible risk."
Sad, this current coterie of Coats has yet to craft a single thought Supreme that even approaches King Solomon's bench, prudence of juris and all of that, sew petitioning of any constitutional grievance, even without those FBI connected clerk informants clogging up the middle, ends up sunk in Supreme Coat trench cement.
By the Supreme Coats, the F.C.C.'s drenching our 1st Amendment political rights is trenched. Truth being told, I knew in advance, that my polished writ was bound for Rehnquist's bucket of sound legal trash.
But upon the dope-addicted Rehnquist switching out my petition, the boundaries of our Supreme Coats' 1st Amendment discretions, the Supremes' constitutional obligation as a court to protect my right to deliver a political speech via our mass media channels was illegally and illegitimately breached by Chief Rehnquist.
Breached! Our inviolate 1st Amendment that governs all writs, my affirmative right to give and the viewers and listener's paramount right to hear my campaign speech for President, then and now, on live TV is un-redressed—shot to fascist hell, our 1st Amendment covenant, by our Highest of Courts, sunken and demolished!
In 1927 Congress established a Radio Commission to adjudicate broadcast cases governing bandwidth spreads. The Radio Commission became the impartial decider of who was licensed to play what we heard on the radio, over the air, upon their licensing what was thought by all, an invisible though physical bandwidth of radio waves, on air.
Then came television. In 1934, Congress' Federal Communications Commission, F.C.C. replaced the Federal Radio Commission.
Jurisdiction over mass media became F.C.C.'s inherited dominion; but knot jurisdiction over our political candidates' access to deliver political speeches, except as protectors of a candidate's statutory access right. Even so, F.C.C. cannot be the guardian of the candidate's speech.
America's speech guarantor, that binding glue of our Constitution and Bill of Rights is our 1st Amendment.
As the Supreme Coats noted in CBS, INC. v. F.C.C. 453 U.S. (1981) at 377,
"In unambiguous language, Section 312(a)(7) authorizes the Commission to revoke a broadcaster’s license "for willful or repeated failure to allow reasonable access to or to permit purchase of reasonable amounts of time for the use of a broadcasting station by a legally qualified candidate for Federal elective office on behalf of his candidacy." "
Yet separating mass media access to deliver a political speech from the speech itself, with a federal agency as overseer, in charge of the middle, dividing the two, though meant in good faith, was a woeful error by our Congress, besides being supremely unconstitutional.
We cannot legally separate the affirmative right of access from our 1st Amendment right of speech. Freedom of Speech is our essence!
Airwave licensing issues of major Public Interest are rightly dealt with in Washington where lobbyists representing telephone bells, cable cartels, and airwave nets boldly reach for who can get the most palms lobster greased, furthering their own selves' in tryst.
But when a presidential candidate is denied media access to deliver their speech, the candidate's constitutional right to state his or her case for election via political speech is instantly trashed.
Only the F.C.C.'s self-imagined ruminations are forever drawn out behind closed doors with nothing recorded.
This rarest of 1st Amendment breach, the issue of knot being given or sold airtime for a campaign speech must be adjudicated in a Federal Court closest by to the TV stations where the candidate campaigning is making a political stand, knot heard and procrastinated by closed door agency bureaucrats, bunched in Washington.
According to CFR, our Code of Federal Regulations, F.C.C. has a Political Branch, once upon a time a coven of civil servants sharing a roof with the Commissioners, though back in the day, F.C.C.'s Political Branch was a couple blocks away from F.C.C.'s main gate.
Today's "Political Branch" in the F.C.C. Media Bureau consists of Deputy Robert Baker, F.B.I.'s lover boy, in charge of the Branch. The terminology, "Bureau" and "Branch" are a subterfuge. There isn't any F.C.C. Media "Bureau" Branch full of fresh faced attorneys, hashing out interpretations of applicable statutes; only F.B.I.'s on-the-job consort, Robert "Bobby" Baker, riding at most over a couple underling attorneys, his $200 grand per annum Title, Assistant Division Chief except there isn't any "Division."
F.C.C. Political Branch was the desk for redressing access denied complaints, their untold stench, an unconstitutional infringement of all our District Courts whose constitutional jurisdiction is our Constitution and Bill of Rights and where, within a couple days' notice, a Show Cause Order might be tendered to protect your 1st Amendment slights.
The Founders were right on, when they brokered a Bill of Rights.
First and foremost is our 1st Amendment:
"Congress shall make no law prohibiting the freedom of speech . . . or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of the people . . . to petition the government for a redress of grievances."
F.C.C.'s "Political Branch" became F.B.I.'s unconstitutional agent of abridgement, contravening both our constitution and our politics!
F.C.C.'s Political Branch is an ironed legal curtain, shrouding the broadcaster's obligations to all our candidates, even our so-called fringe candidates, however few there may be, for example, the "Jacklegs" candidate—me, singled out more than 35 years, with my constitutional guarantee —America's sacrosanct 1st Amendment right—stonewalled.
But the only fringe in my political candidacy is F.C.C.'s secretive reference to my ancient prayer shawl, a Hebrew undergarment, four-cornered with fringe. The bureaucrat rat anti-Semites, alive and well in J. Edgar Hoover's F.B.I. infected F.C.C. are a distinguished fascist lot.
Fascist describes F.B.I. 's protected Assistant Division Chief Baker, who decades ago, under Bureau Chief Milton O. Gross slept on my constitutional affirmative access right to NBC and PBS, well past the election until two full years had passed, refusing to rule on my Formal Complaint, stifling my entitlement to redress of my grievance, my 1st Amendment guarantee of a hearing with the Commissioners.
F.C.C.'s Media Bureau policy since 1980 has been to stonewall all.
Not only a stonewall of my complaints, sleeping on my remedies, but also complaints of any and all outsider candidates, upon a broadcaster's stifling their constitutional right of access to deliver their speeches.
Either way— incumbent or challenger, before the Donald Trump campaign, we have yet to have ever seen any live, unscripted speech by any federal candidate, not under the thumb of broadcast moderators.
You have, beneath our 1st Amendment umbrella, a God given right to state your case on any street corner and bitch through the night to the Heaven's reach about your co-opted Freedom of Speech.
Blog all about this to your heart's content. Screech on your website F.C.C.'s "slippery slope," begat in 1927, wrought a fascist avalanche.
But proving any government agency's activities unconstitutional, therefore "impermissible" can only be decided in a judgment from our highest bench, and just presenting your constitutional case will chew up years of litigation, as Robert Baker's policy is to stonewall exhaustions of remedies in all election matters brought by any outsider candidates.
Hark! World events interrupt us. The best laid cosmic plans of King Solomon's deadpan advisor, Onlion S. Shem, are current evented!
We must take leave of my Jacklegs tale, "Jacklegs, Jumping Up," grant my High Court case was smashed; to rejuvenate the canceled citizenship of Elián González, the refugee whose freedom was revoked.
Grant we cannot resurrect Elian González' broken rights.
Yet the González story freed of Clintstone Cuban chaff shall open the door to changing the course of history on good ship mother urf.
Hearken again, dear peer-ship mates, the lot of you are by this writ courtroom deputized—officially vested with King Solomon's rags to judge yourselves the fascist spin that cloaked, still cloaks our Elián, just as Solomon judged the original Baby Eliána's future in his high Holy Court, centuries before, ruling on behalf of both would-be mothers that "Baby Eliána" was to be chopped right down the middle right after lunch, until Ms. Gullible Marisleysis pled for the baby's life intact, her maiden final begging at the Holy King Solomon's feet.
Sew, before we unmask president Clintstone's underlying reason for his electric-chair treason, the underlying reason for Bill's also destroying Elián González' status in U.S.A., we must refresh Solomon's approach to High Court Justice, to "keep our erasers in order."
As far as King Solomon's "Baby Eliána" case went, the wise and righteous Prophet King realized right from Jump Street that of the two mothers who appeared in his Court, the both were bluffers, counterfeit.
In the middle of the morning after the trial began, nature called on King Solomon with his learnéd chief Rabbi, Onlion S. Shem, take leave of the bench for a sidebar wizzle at their Pish-in-trench.
Rabbi Shem there told Solomon the facts behind the "Baby Eliána" case that he, Rabbi Shem had first hand from a camel driver who'd passed through Jerusalem the night before, coming from Sidon, of all play siz, the lowly town where in fact the bawling shiksa baby had been born.
According to the camel driver, neither of the woman petitioners for motherhood certiorari in Solomon's Court for "Baby Eliána's" custody, was "Baby Eliána's" true mother. In fact, both of the single ladies were childless, uncertified Sarah's.
De pen ding on which of the Hollywood flics you saw, or who you talk to, the Hebrew Sages tell us, as your Sunday school teacher taught you, there were two new babies born that day in Sidon, from two separate mothers, but of the two babies delivered, one was still-born, and of the mothers who petitioned King Solomon, both affirmed the out of wedlock survivor was from their womb and theirs alone.
Yet Sidon's papyrus records told another tale. Only one new baby was brought into the world that day in Sidon Town, knot two new kids, as you were taught, but that one shiksa baby, "Eliána." It was "Baby Eliána's" sickly mother who hemorrhaged during her labor; her own life bled away as she passed away giving birth to her baby.
This most rare, tragic event occurred in the suburbs of Sidon, two days walk from Jerusalem. There, "Baby Eliána" noisily slipped from her dying mother's un-aborted womb and that was where the Arabic shiksa baby's case should've been heard and decided in the first place, in Sidon Town Court, closest by to where the "Baby Eliána" was born, where the facts were apparent, absent the bureaucrats who butchered Elián González' right to live his life in USA, the tale of which—Elián's free soul brutally crushed—is fast coming next.
Yet first dear peers, of the two women who plead their case before Holy King Solomon: They were both registered midwives, called on by a sickly mother for help to deliver her "Baby Eliána."
At first sight the midwives were delighted with "Baby Eliána." The newborn, orphaned at birth, gurgled with ivory soap style. Between their bickering back and forth before wise and Holy King Solomon, the midwives waxed euphoric about their love for "Baby Eliána."
King Solomon was not your typical schmuck with earlaps, born yesterday. Solomon may have been born in the night, as all the Hebrew Sages tell, but not last night. The Holy King Solomon had a thousand wives, a natch a rill sense of humor and his own Child Protective, managed in-house by his own B'nai Briss Ladies Auxiliary. Solomon was thought the greatest of all poets—author of The Song of Songs.
Upon his sidebar with Rabbi Shem, when nature called them take whiz of the Court, King Solomon mused a fair solution. Without prejudice, King Solomon planned on dismissing this shiksa baby case before him, then immediately remanding "Baby Eliána" to his Child Court protected custody for a diaper change, as baby's soiled diaper was stinking King Solomon's High Court up to its Holy rafters!
A wet-nurse, too was needed right away quick for "Baby Eliána" had stupidly been fed some out-of-date colicky goat's milk. Then, after those measures, King Solomon planned to begin interviewing qualified women for foster care, leading to adoption. That is what the wise King Solomon thought to do with "Baby Eliána," to settle his baby case.
But the pleading pseudo mothers' nonstop squabble over "Baby Eliána" challenged King Solomon's warm temperament besides almost wrecking King Solomon's Thursday lunch, a rack of baby lamb chops broiled rare, washed down with kosher merlot, for good circulation.
This bold idea of Solomon's, brilliantly calling on his court butcher to chop "Baby Eliána" right in half right after lunch, ruling on the spot when his butcher announced King Solomon's baby lamb chops were a heartbeat from the table; and upon that, King Solomon's instant ruling that even silenced the fussy baby smelling up his docket was hark, only a lark dear peers, the Holy King Solomon's court ordered lark, a very sharp lark on the wise King Solomon's part as he rose to depart for his pre-lunch prayer.
Yet hearing Solomon's gut common sense, word upon word from the King himself, deciding the case as he went, and how the wannabe mothers responded to the Holy King Solomon's pre-lunch decision on that unbearably humid, diaper-loaded day in King Solomon's most High Temple Court is knot what you have ever heard or smelt before, except in your bones, where history is written.
Relative to our years ago struggle over Elián González, the six years old Cuban kid plucked from an inner tube after fifty hours at sea, even Elián's name rings an ancient bell. In the words of fair Sage Yogi, laid bare, on this "Survivor" case of so many years ago, though fresh as a rose to you, Sage Yogi said, "It was déjà Eliána all over again."
What then does your Poet Prophet of a thousand wifely one-night stands pose to you about Elián González, who was during his American hay day the most famous six years old ex-refugee kid alive on good ship mother urf; as King Solomon's Chief Rabbi, Onlion S. Shem posed to King Solomon the truth about Baby Eliána's true mother?
Cutting to the bone, we should have used our technology instead of a night court admin is traitor's door-busting writ to chop this "Eliána" González kid in half, sew both sides could have won their case.
Elián's father, Juan Miguel González, could have been sent back to Cuba with a state of the art computer, the cam built into the monitor.
Add to that a spiffy digital cam recorder for home-movie shoots at the park. The same setup would have done as well for Elián, in Miami.
Using Skype video chat or Gmail Internet telephony, dad and kid could have been on line 24 / 7. Elián and his "papa" would have been eyeball-to-eyeball every day, united by virtue of a mouse click.
In the event Elián snatched a buck from Marisleysis' dresser and disappeared from his adopted house before dinner, skate boarding after the ice cream truck, it would have been for his "papa" to ask his uncle, Elian's great-uncle Lazaro, to give Elián a couple slaps on Elian's rear end, then ground him from skate boarding for a couple of days, besides sending Elián to bed early without any nachos for snack.
On a Monday evening, before bedtime, Elián and Marisleysis could have together read "The Three Bears and the Chicken Soup" and the next night, over the Internet, Juan Miguel could've read to Elián that most popular of Cuban originals, "Little Red Riding Fidel-hood."
Elián would have been Bo-jangled in the best of bi-lingual worlds.
With Elián's papa close by always Via Internet, Elián's life in USA, laced with freedom and love, would have grown richly sweet by the day. Case dismissed with saving grace.
Every rescue anniversary, Elián could have announced his love of both countries with a personal televised pitch for economic peace and trade between Cuba and America. The economic door between our two countries, jammed open from Elián González' world famous migration might have imploded Fidel Castro's regime.
Elián living in U.S.A. would have set the stage for a mutually enriching commerce. Cuba's cut-rate cane could be saving America the millions of dollars spent every day, subsidizing our homegrown sugar.
But this Eliánomic grace, a careful mutually orchestrated saving of face was not yet meant to be; though, in the common sense of founding fodder Ben Franklin, he, of $100 dollar fame, "A billion dollars saved, with loopholes to itch the rich, is a billion green backs urned.”
Hark! Barack Obama has opened the door to U.S. trade with Cuba!
Peers-ships! To understand Elián González' immigration case, and understanding means to get beneath; to uncover the reel deal behind Elián's saga, though fifteen years has passed, we must first examine King Solomon's "Baby Eliána" case, that of a yesteryear stamped in our collective memory—to unmask why President Clintstone manipulated a government agency to stifle and destroy Elián González' U.S. freedom.
King Solomon knew by 10 a.m., upon three shakes of his member that both of the mothers were lying thru their teeth. The King realized before the women began their pleading that v. "Baby Eliána" should have been heard in Sidon Town, closest by to where this shiksa orphan baby was born, where the facts were apparent. The Holy King only let this shiksa "Baby Eliána" case onto his High Court docket to be fair.
As long as these two women had made it this far King Solomon let them rumble on with their falsified bicker. From the bench he watched them proceed, the women taking turns shifting the fussy, diaper-loaded baby an arm's length back and forth between them.
Then King Solomon's chief chef-butcher entered King Solomon's Court through the side door, announcing to King Solomon that his baby lamb chops were almost ready to come off the spit.
Chops. Baby lamb chops. Boing!
As King Solomon rose for his lamb chop prayers, the King decided his baby case: "Enough already," Solomon proclaimed, following that with a gavel smash so fierce all the murmurs in his courtroom, in clue ding even the bawling shiksa "Baby Eliána" were pin-dropped. Then the Holy King Solomon ruled, "We shall chop this shiksa baby right in half right after lunch so both mothers get the baby."
It grew so quiet after King Solomon slammed his eucalyptus gavel, you could hear the rustle of Solomon's robes as the King rose to depart.
But the Holy King paused before heading out the side door, which the elder Sages say was to his left, and he focused on "Baby Eliána."
King Solomon extended his right arm, his right hand vertical, as though lining up "Baby Eliána" to be butchered, and then he announced to his cluttered courtroom, "Butch, when you chop this "Baby Eliána" in half," the King's fingers joined, moving to the right, "leave her nose to the right side. It looks to me from here, this shiksa baby's schnozzle favors the mother on my right."
Onlion S. Shem immediately blasted King Solomon's official court shofar with a long drawn trumpet-like note and deadpanned, "This trial is over. Case decided. Lunnch time."
Upon Onlion S. Shem's herald, King Solomon began to sing as he rustled toward the side door, "Rack of lambie here I come, here I come. Rack of lambie here I come, God bless our sacred chops."
Responding to the Holy King Solomon's rule, the barren Sarah to Solomon's right crooked her neck, put her nose to the air and noisily declared for her own supportive claque, "See I told you so. Baby favors me, not that shiksa south-of-the-border dirt bag with her fake ID!"
Solomon had had it with this case. King Solomon was done with both of these fake mothers who'd falsely plead before him. Bolting for the door, singing away, King Solomon signaled his butcher to run ahead and turn the spit so as knot to burn his lunchtime lambie chops.
The King's hard-nosed decision demolished the other would-be.
Though it'd never happened before, the midwife Marisleysis hurdled the railing in King Solomon's Court as though she was a champ track star from the Olympics. She ran to King Solomon who was only a step away out, through his exclusive, King-Only Courtroom door.
Marisleysis fell at Solomon's feet, clutching his robes. As best she could, Marisleysis composed herself. Then, in an octave above earshot, this comely Marisleysis begged King Solomon, "Don't kill Baby Eliána. Please, oh great King Solomon," she begged, "Take my life instead. Let the baby live," Marisleysis pleaded, "Take my life instead."
Had this gullible comely Marisleysis cried out, as all our Sabbath schoolroom sages tell, "Don't chop Baby Eliána in half. Give her to the other one to raise." Upon that our greatest Hebrew Prophet after Moses would have denied comely Marisleysis' pleading without comment.
In fact, the humorist Prophet King was only kidding. What King Solomon knew on that diaper-loaded, smog-fried day, was that neither of these mid-wives was Baby Eliána's true mother, so why should he give the baby Eliána to either one?
Of these two would-bees in King Solomon's Holy Court who plead their case that whole morning long, Solomon could see that both were born again consummate High Court liars; that the two mid-wives were bearing their fibster false witness for the custodial rights to a shvartza shiksa wetback baby whose birth mother wasn't even a citizen!
But this forlorn Marisleysis did not say, as you yourself might have said, "Don't chop Baby Eliána in half. Let the other one have the baby." Indeed, this comely Marisleysis in King Solomon's court spoke to King Solomon as a true loving mother from the depth of her own near-broken heart.
As though a true-to-life mother, Elian's mother, Elisabet Brotons, the original Baby Eliána's mom who had died giving birth her first time around, centuries before, this midwife Marisleysis past was willing to give her own life so "Baby Eliána" could live. At sight of the baby, at birth, in her heart Marisleysis loved the "Baby Eliána."
Upon that, Solomon cut all the added papyrus work; that brought upon King Solomon dismissing the diaper-loaded sticky case to arrange for the orphaned Eliána to be under his own Court Child Protective, before his initiating High Court proceedings for a foster care adoption.
Instead, Solomon gave "Baby Eliána" to the righteous though gullible Marisleysis who plead her finale at his feet, as God revealed to King Solomon comely Marisleysis would be a loving protective mother for the diarrhea-diapered colicky shiksa baby.
Regarding the Torah's teachings on the story of King Solomon and "Baby Eliána," King Solomon inked his own case law with Onlion S. Shem in charge of the well. The LAN' Lord uh pin Heaven, Holiest of Holies, held King Solomon's inky middle ear the same way as when God spoke to His Prophet Moses, the Teacher.
God led His Sage King Solomon rewrite Marisleysis' speech, plead at Solomon's feet for his ears only, for God knew that we, His chosen people would be en-massed with Solomon's rags for yet another "Baby Eliána," this time a Cuban kid refugee, Elián González, entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in USA, the LAN' God promised.
Jacklegs The Poet Prophet
Resurrections are self evident, and across the millennia, few and none between.
Sew it was lettered in Ha-Shem's inspired The Book ov Lev It A Kiss, the LAN' Lord uh pin Heaven's prophetic Television Scripture, His Vehicle for World Peace for His chosen Poet Prophet to give on this, The Creator's good ship mother earth, as Moses the Teacher, King Solomon, Dante, Mohammad, and old blind Homer gave; yet this time, worldwide live, on all channels television, frum duss cun till dawn:
"This is the Promised Land.
That was then
This is now
Each land show its promise
Pow wow to the pea pull
Up with the folks."
The Book ov Lev It A Kiss, Copyright 1971
This inspired conception: world peace, beginning with a peaceful dusk until dawn Thriller, to be given whirled-wide on TV, was given to the poet Michael Stephen Levinson, (me) your "Jacklegs, jumping up," "onna ship 40 days and 40 nights," in 1969.
I walked and talked with God, our Creator who revealed His word unto my mind during the 40 days and 40 nights in Mother Nature's wilderness! I knew something was up from the day I was born, but not what or when, until our Creator revealed His word unto my mind.
I was writing a sea poem, the plot note-booked, when the Heavens opened. You see the narrator in the notebook being transformed before your eyes, from poet drafting a book length poem, into a room, talking on all channels TV to all mankind, revealing what God spoke to Moses and said, this time His word re given in a first person sing you learn.
Lev, (me) "Jacklegs jumping up" is knot the first poet prophet ever to live. I am today's. G-d spoke to Moses and said, "I yam that iamb."
Our LAN Lord's prophetic Vehicle for World Peace, runs and puns through every spoken tongue. His coming twelve our video trans crypt was lettered in my hand to perform, dusk until dawn for all the world's peoples to sea, listen to and be part of all at once, sew—wun sin fir all, the course of history on good ship mother urf can change die wrecked shins by dawn. World Peace, nothing less is my whirled wide purpose.
Me. Poet Prophet Lev. I'm the one to perform His multi-lingual poem for all the world's peoples at once, and whilst I'm doing my part, handily telling His vision, God, the LAN' Lord uh pin Heaven, the Creator of our universe will move through me, via your televisions into your living rooms, into your hearts, to change your views, the way you sea your world and all His worlds to come. A super deal for everyone.
People will proclaim it's Judgment Day, the Apocalypse, yet only a pox on yer lips, and you, by the seat of your pants in the Jury's Bach's.
Judgment Day is right around the corner; and you __________ (print, don't write) are off the hook, booked, beyond reproach—part of the Grandest Jury. As they say on the car dealership lots, "In the box."
King Solomon sidebars:
Do you imagine J. Edgar Hoover would let your Cosmic Wrapper Poet Prophet into the public eye, me your Lenny Bruce like Bach's Poet Prophet whose words appear as most art, lettered in design to perform whirled wide for all man kind duss cun till dawn?
The longest deepest, most offensive counter intelligence files ever created on any U.S. citizen in our lifetime are the F.B.I. files Fascist Bureaucracy Ink maintains on my private life and times, up to this day.
World Peace, raising both standards of living and learning world wide could have ha penned forty years ago; His twelve our video trans crypt delivered, but for that fascist cross-dressing pervert of dirt, J. Edgar Hoover, Washington D.C.'s Pharaoh of Fascists, who ordered his minions in 1970 to keep this poet, me, corralled for life, or take my life.
Two attempts have been made. Judge their final awaits approval.
Elián González, the Cuban refugee was in USA fifteen years ago, rescued at sea on Thanksgiving Day, a national holiday for all the diverse peoples who may cup America, the land of freedom and liberty.
Every Thanksgiving America's door springs open for the homeless and hungry. On the day given to Thanksgiving, God's Promised Land in clue did Elián González, the motherless refugee saved at sea.
Donato Dalrymple, the one-day-only fisherman recounted he saw a couple bottle-nosed dolphins standing like breaching whales jumping on the sea top, flopping their tails and he convinced his cousin, Sam Ciancio, whose boat it was, to give up trolling for fish and instead steer over to the bottle-noses to see what the heck was going on.
They came upon Elián, in the words of this one-day fisherman, "in the water, as beautiful as a freshly plucked flower on the sea top."
Donato's cousin Sam knew how to swim and he clambered into the ocean with the two wild dolphin lifeguards treading near. Sam heaved Elián from the inner tube into Donato's outstretched arms on the boat.
Donato lifted Elián and cradled the tired kid-seafarer to his bosom. This one-day-only fisherman, Donato Dalrymple is your typically innocent, humble servant of God. It was the LAN Lord's plan for Donato to go fishing with his cousin, Sam, and rescue Elián González.
Donato's cousin Sam, by himself, would have kept to his fishing. The cousin would not have bothered to visit the pair of unruly dolphins who appeared from a quarter mile away to be very close to the shore, horsing around with some sea worn inner tube flotsam.
Elián's bodyguard dolphins tread by the boat to see would Donato toss them a fish and to be sure the kid they'd baby sat all the way up the Florida Straits to the eastern seaboard of United States was safe.
Then the bottle-noses swam off to catch up on some much needed lunch as the two dolphin gadabouts, like their charge, Elián González, did not have even a single minnow to crunch for a couple whole days.
King Solomon muses:
Elián González survived Mother Nature's treacherous sea because the bottle-nosed dolphins hung with the ocean-stranded kid more than two full days, a most extraordinary dolphin behavior as ever noted in centuries of bottle-nosed dolphin tales.
Nonstop, the dolphins closely supervised Elián, swimming alongside fifty hours, nudging the kid's adrift inner tube to ketch the Gulf Stream. And during the two-day stretch when great white sharks swam by and reinforcements were needed, other dolphins came along.
Who trained these nosey dolphins to physically guard the drifting kid from great white shark brushes?
In God's eggs pan ding Universe God is the ruler. Of His Cosmic Universals nothing is for sure. On board good ship mother urf there is a first time for everything. Your oar doesn't slip into the same river twice.
What is, is, relentless Mother Nature or the Spirit high above her.
The dolphins were spectacular guardians, swimming beneath Elián whenever the Cuban kid dozed, using their ocean worthy tails to protect their hungry worn out charge from sliding into the choppy sea.
By propping Elián back on his inner tube when the six-years-old fell asleep and began to slip, the bottle-nosed dolphins, inspired by their own un-muzzled sight of the Holy Mendel Spirit, for two days running kept this special kid alive. Had their trip, splish-splash, taken more time the dolphins would've been there, slip sliding in rhyme.
Elián's ocean survival was a miracle from God, believed in by all the Cubans who believe in God. For Cuban Americans, Elián González was a refugee message from the Holy Spirit above us, though why this kid was ripped from his life in USA remained, before New Word Hors D'oeuvres, unexplained for all who saw this miracle Cuban survivor on TV, especially Cuban Americans in Miami-Dade's barrio, Little Cuba.
Elián's misdeal was the way cup call for all of us. Elián's refugee story was recast in a carefully crafted Clintstonian ”Slick-Willy" shaft, to keep the actual truth distorted and suppressed.
Yet America can't be faulted for failing to grasp Billy Clintstone's stacked deck, his pollster driven fascist twist before Elián's freedom was wrecked. Not only are our poorest coming and going, as they must, stuck in daily traffic, struggling to keep afloat, put bread on their tables and pay their cable bills.
Working and wirkt, living on hope, in blizzards of conflicted latest dope, all our ho-hum potatoes, finally home, ensconced in their castles, cannot find time to mull the news for any rhyme or reason.
Instead, the classic middle folk fall out on the couch whilst all the talking heads shred the day's events, followed by fresh skews and views from television's late night comics.
Solomon, the Holy King muses:
When the tribes of Israel were enslaved, complacently living rent-free in Egypt, loath to depart Pharaoh's fruitful land for freedom in the roofless wilderness, God, to awaken His children, ulcerated Pharaoh's heart. Ramses decreed all his Hebrew slaves should suffer a filmable batch of afflictions. One translation for the Hebrew word "affliction," is "tax" that Ben Franklin, incidentally thought should be flat, determined by spen ding. Keep your own churn:
The day is here
Ma schines kin run
In do the whirr kin
No tax on my hands
Bruther. No tax on my hands
Tax ma schines in stead.
The Book ov Lev It A Kiss, Copyright 1971
It is the tax on the people's hands that covered Attorney General Janet Reno's Rule-of-Law enforcers who followed Clintstone's storm troop orders to press ahead and butcher Elían González' marvelous new life in U.S.A.
General Reno, the enforcer, claimed her Rule-of-Law performance was on all our behalves, though she seemed an entity unto herself, having been given her lockstep orders from above us, but not of us, the innocent lawful people, Poet Prophet muses.
Elian's Dolphins And Mendel
King Solomon muses:
Full-time squadrons of bilingual angels cloud the Florida Straits, there to minister the refugee's souls when their boats are capsized and their bodies in waves of shock are mauled by sharks then gulped by the seas before their departures, Heaven bound.
When the bilingual angels first heard Elián's mother, Elisabet, counseling Elián over the crashing seas that God would watch over him and he, Elián, would get to Florida and she, his mother, would always be with him—God's super mom, His Mendel in charge of all the under-age kids on good ship Mother Earth appeared to the sea-top angels.
This Highest of Spirit Mothers, above the bottle-nose dolphins and all the waiting angels of the uncaged sea, also heard Elisabet Brotons' cry out to the LAN' Lord uh pin Heaven, that He should guide her son Elián, and this spirited Mendel lady realized why she, a super-charged spirit, was that day upon the windy sea top with the unsayable God, our Creator who Masters the Universe, close at hand.
The Mendel spirit lady tendered the waves as Elián's mom slipped beneath the raging sea. Then Mendel Mother-of-Life spirit lady ordered the Florida Straits angels to watch over her charge while she went off to rustle up a couple dolphin volunteers for sea-top kid-watching.
The spirit lady admonished her deputized dolphin lifeguards. "The kid doesn't have anything to eat so you two keep close by for a couple three days at least, as long as it takes, without slipping away to locate a rush-around ten course dolphin brunch."
The pair of dolphins listened to the Spirit Mendel's order to keep the kid safe so the Gulf Stream currents could carry them to America's shore, irrespective of curious great white sharks coming by, or inner-tube swamping waves, or overcrowded schools of tasty grouper, not too far, or baby halibut swimming along, a half mile yonder.
"History is written in men's bones." The dolphins knew that Elián could not make it to America's shores without their handy flippers, round-the-clock watch and tail assistance. It seems beyond miraculous, our universal sensing of the LAN Lord uh pin Heaven high above us, His cosmic truth refracted for our collective mind.
Yet when something is truly miss tickle, as are the poet narrations of Prophet Lev, here, carefully retelling Elián's sea-top story with the Mendel Spirit Lady clearly visible to both Elián and the dolphins—when we are presented with mystical, we miss a lot, but we get a tickle.
Understanding, the word, comes from the Greek, and means to get beneath. The dolphins, inspired, clicked beneath our stranded Elián and kept the kid afloat, so you, too, peer-ship mates shall cut through to the marrow in the bone of Elián González' butchering to get beneath, to understand the truth of your not yet re-elevated Clintstone; revelate as to why Clintstone stoned our rights and staked our democracy to keep his amiss legacy, like sunken submariners, submerged beneath the sea.
So it came to pass, the sea-top stranded refugee, Elián González, was singled out by the LAN' Lord uh pin Heaven to go bobbing in the Atlantic Gulf stream with a pair of bottle-nosed dolphin buddy guards, and survive by his mother's dying cry out to God, to give her Elián His chance for a new life in America, the LAN' God promised.
Elián was instantly worldwide video noose. At first Fidel Castro wasn't sure what he could or should do, relative to the Cuban survivor. Fidel, though powerless against the United States, thought there should be a way for him to get this miracle Cuban kid immigrant back.
This immigrant's rescue on Thanksgiving Day was a phenomenal story, planet wide. Fidel Castro thought that with Elián repatriated to Cuba, possibly this miracle survivor could reinvigorate Fidel's aging revolution. Fidel thought so. Fidel felt that expatriate Elián González, back in Cuba, could be the Cuban to inherit Cuba's threadbare future.
But Elián back in Cuba didn't rejuvenate a thing, though fifteen years ago he was regularly on Cuban TV telling Cubans that Cuban life was sooo much better than living in the U.S.A.
Elián's Cuban life was news blacked-out, a non-gander, though The Wall Street Gurgle did slip a line into their editorial that shortly after Elián's repatriation, Elián was taken away from the care of his natural father, Juan Miguel González.
Give or take, a week after The Wall Street Gurgle's editorial snip, then NBC cable news anchor, Brian Williams aired a scoop on his cable news show. Peer-ships! Hark. The Wall Street Gurgle's editorial one-liner on Elián González's whereabouts is unraveled! Fidel arranged for a video-op with Elián on TV, splashing around a hotel pool with some cousins, uncles and one bottle-nosed dolphin.
Elián's family is bunched in the pool with Elián. They are wrapped in life jackets. The camera grabs Elián, clearly having lots of fun, then Elián's "Papa," Juan Miguel who looks tight lipped, under duress, and totally stressed. The civilized dolphin is squealing away for fish pay.
Elián and his family were celebrating Elián's return to his school in Cardenas after Elián played international hooky, part of that time alone in the Atlantic Ocean, supervised by a pair of wild dolphins.
Castro's staged video scoop response to The Wall Street Gurgle's editorial blip, that, coincidentally placed with WSJ's media sister, NBC, was a media rip; very slick.
But before Fidel established his iron fisted, short hairs grip on Clintstone's Oval Office, the Cuban dictator was empty handed. Given the chance, half of all Cuba would motor across the Florida Straits the same as Elián and his mom. Half of Cuba's people would skedaddle for America, were a get-away from Castro's Stalinized Cuban life possible.
The Wall Street Gurgle was correct. Elián had been removed from the care of his father, Juan Miguel González. The vast majority of Americans, all rolled and polled into believing Elián should have been sent back to Cuba to live with his dad were haplessly confused, under-the-rule-of-law misled. Fidel is Cuba's papa, simple as that.
Armando Valladares Perez (born May 30, 1937) is a Cuban poet, diplomat, and human rights activist. In 1960, the Cuban government arrested him. What follows is a very sad seven-paragraph taste of "A Firsthand Account Of Child Abuse, Castro Style," originally published May 5, 2000, in The Wall Street Journal:
"I was in solitary confinement in Fidel Castro's tropical gulag — where I spent 22 years for refusing to pledge allegiance to the Communist regime — when I heard a child's voice whimpering. "Get me out of here! Get me out of here! I want to see my mommy!" I thought my senses were failing me. I could not believe that they had imprisoned a child in those dungeons. Later on, I learned the story of Robertico.
He was 12 years old when they arrested him. A captain in the political police had left his gun in his open car. When he returned to the car he saw the child playing with it. He slapped Robertico and took him into custody. The child was sent to an adult prison in Havana, where he was condemned to spend the rest of his youth. He would not be released until he reached the age of 18.
Robertico was sent to a galley with common criminals. Within a few days, those soulless prisoners raped him . . .
Robertico was so slender that his body fit through the bars of the cells. One night he slipped out to watch cartoons on the guard's television. When he was discovered, he was sent to the punishment cells. He was taken out of those cells three times a week for injections because he was suffering from a venereal disease. A guard told me he was so young he did not even have pubic hair . . .
It is standard practice around the world to transfer the custody of children to the surviving parent when the other dies. That is what is normal. But Cuba is not a normal place . . . Outside of Cuba; Elian can grow up as a free person with a free conscience.
But if he returns, he will be "reprogrammed," as Castro himself made clear. The Cuban government has already shown the world the residence where psychiatrists and psychologists will instruct Elian on how to despise and hate anyone who is against communism — including his own mother, who gave her life to bring him to freedom . . .
Children are indoctrinated in Cuba from the moment they start to read. They are taught that the Communist party is owed loyalty above everything else. And they are taught that they must denounce their parents if they criticize or do anything against the Revolution or its leaders."
The only other survivors beside Elián, the only passengers who paid Elisabet Brotons' boyfriend for the chance to cross the Straits with them, were a pair, Arianne Horta, and Nivaldo Fernandex who today are living in America, the land of freedom.
America's press paid Arianne and Nivaldo little mind, but the two survivors recollected there was one little boy, still aboard the crowded flat bottom boat after repairs who kept hollering as they pushed off, "I'm going to America. I'm going to America."
Peer-ships! "I'm going to America, I'm going to America," was our Elián. Elisabet Brotons, Elián's mom planned on sloshing the Florida Straits from Cuba to United States well before their ill-fated journey.
Elián was a party to her secret plan from its outset. Elián was really psyched up for his ocean crossing to meet his American cousins.
This contradicts CBS's 60 Minutes interview with Elián that aired October 2, 2005, repeated once. Elián says, in Spanish, he didn't realize when he climbed aboard the boat he was leaving his homeland Cuba, for U.S.A. Elián says had he known he was immigrating he would not have gone, as though a six years old kid would've separated from his mother to stay in Cuba, what Elián was coached into claiming, showing how fascists besmirch truth to support a predetermined point of view.
Attorney General Reno And Elián
At first our government agency was cooperative with Elián's American family. Our immigrant laws are tailored for Cuban defectors. Then, without any reason tendered, in a heart beat, D.C. bureaucrats flipped their mitigating policy on Elián González—just like that, just as years earlier, 60 Minutes flipped its Edward R. Morrow approach to broadcasting news, Morrow style, to expose the reel deals lurking behind the headlines.
Attorney General Reno remarked to a trusted friend reporter, in the midst of her Elián González ordeal, that she, General Reno, had, "had a phone call."
Edward R. King Solomon queries: Who called?
When Elián's story became a medja shark circus, his great-uncle Lazaro's house ringed by news-thirsty press, ready to roll their portable satellite dishes, The New York Slimes' columnist, Maureen Dowd, she, an American op-ed Beauty, her skills inspired, replete with all her special repartee, hers an original nitty-gritty; 'twas our witty rag doll Dowd of Slimes pate who pointed out, "dads are a dime a dozen," noting further that Janet Reno, in defense of her rigid, unyielding intent on seeing this refugee kid, Elián González, reunited with his "daddy," sounded "almost schmaltzy."
Our esteemed Journalista, Schmaltzy M. Dowd, grows sharp-tongued as cheese, her salary svelte, and reportage litter free. Schmaltz is kosher chicken fat and there are two things for sure former Attorney General Janet Reno is not: kosher and a chicken.
Yet General Reno did get misty eyed over her FBI agents ripping Elián González out from the safety of his house, that to short an 11th Circuit Court case from its charge.
We were told that Reno broke down and cried when, defying a Florida Supreme Court order, she finally signed the order for her Secret Service to crash Lazaro's doors and confiscate the sleeping refugee, her claim of federal jurisdiction, violating our constitution.
Still, Reno looked schmaltzy on TV. She remarked that the image in her mind of Elián, flying on one of her jets to be reunited with his "daddy" kept her going.
Did our Attorney General Reno go to method actress school? Our former Attorney General was really imagining herself as a little girl, waiting in the yard to hug and kiss her "daddy" every afternoon when "daddy" came walking up the street, on his way home from work.
To Elián, his father is, "Papa," But Reno kept referring to Elián's "papa" as his "daddy." How sad, Attorney General Reno euphorically waxing schmaltzy about her own kid self, Janet Reno, in her daily kid ritual, running outside to the front gate, yelping "Daddy, Daddy".
Yet Janet Reno cried upon issuing her fascist order to seize little Elián and butcher the kid's American life. She knew her storm troops, ready to go, in their self-imagined line of sniper fire with Ruby Ridge and Waco, were hyped for over kill, and she, Janet Reno, our chief law enforcement officer, our U.S. Attorney General was their facilitator.
King Solomon muses:
Attorney General Janet Reno was ordered to violate the United States Constitution. This outright order was tendered to Reno over the phone months before from above-the-law Bruce Lindsey, Clintstone's designated top shelf hitter and the fellow Billy called into play when gnashional insecurities loomed.
Chief Hatchet Lindsey was the guy who very quietly behind the scenery pressed Janet Reno every day to get on with butchering Elián González' constitutional entitlement to liberty, life, and the sweet fruits of his personal kid happiness in U.S.A.
Billy Clintstone's Triple X Videos
Had the truth been revealed when it happened, instead of today, were President Clintstone's reel reasons behind exposed why Billy Clintstone butchered Elián González' freedom; —that would've fueled Clintstone's legacy on the spot with wildfire cries for "Out! Get. Out," the call from every quarter in D.C., spreading from sea to shining sea, all who're in favor yea, opposed nay, whirled wide—the yeas have it!
An immediate unstoppable impeachment hurricane, a 'get him-out' whirlwind may've spun uncontrolled upon Bill's secret trip-X slithery exposed, his treasonous trip-X stain in all our rags disclosed, such as treason goes.
Then Clintstone's unceremoniously speedy nonpartisan removal from our White House via force-out by Bill's own party leaders, within the week, Billy's personal effects piled on the curb; that, besides a jail house cell for our Chief ex-Chief—Billy's cell a duplicate O.J. Simpson cell, was guaranteed our president Billy's fief.
At least inside Billy's mind, his presidential unravel loomed. Prison golf for life, the links behind a Federal prison's chain link fence would have been seen by Billy's friends and foes alike as tragic, especially a chain link term brought by an expendable Cuban refugee. Dearest peer-ship mates, is any person an ex-pen dibble throw away?
The press failed to inquire of Janet Reno who she'd been keeping abreast of her ever-reset timetables for Elián's political butchering.
Perchance, might there be someone privy to her daily reports in the Old Executive Office Building where Richard Nixon kept a fireplace burning, upstairs from the White House mailroom, that, right off the first floor hall, a couple yards away from the outer wind-swept door?
Had our independent D.C. eyes and ears hammered Janet Reno on who was keeping tabs and calling her shots from the White House, and then gone for Reno's gut, popping was Billy Clintstone's aide, Bruce Lindsey, he, of Monica fame, involved, Reno might've shed her vague lawyer answers and allowed the truth out, about Lindsey's anti-Elián plot. Clintstone's Elián involvement would have crackled up and down the wires on cable TV every other minute, for an opener.
Elián was alive in Miami, on the world's collective mind, his story in the news every day with a rising tide of Cubans flooding his Little Havana barrio proclaiming USA. The kid, kept alive by wild dolphins, had beaten Mother Nature, slipping around on her unbridled sea. Could Elián González survive our government's under-seal bureaucracy?
But Attorney General Reno wasn't about to name any White House names, flooding her chambers with press on her own, volunteering she, Janet Reno was a true free agent, acting alone when she was only a cabinet rookie, pushed up and down and over the line in exchange for her 2nd term.
The Pulitzer Prize winning photo of Reno's agent, by Alan Diaz / AP, assault rifle aimed at traumatized little Elián in Donato's arms made magazine covers worldwide and was recently republished, upon President Obama negotiating Cuba's doors to be finally reopened for trade with U.S.A.
Marisleysis And The Correspondent's Dinner
Later on that morning, after Elián's house was stormed in the night where Elián's American relatives, including even Elián's sleepy cousins were threatened at gunpoint, Elián's American family held a press conference. The conference aired live and uninterrupted on Fox News.
Cousin Marisleysis González, Elián's self-adopted mother, gave a most articulate patriotic statement, her public speech as compelling as any ever delivered by any woman in our nation's history!
Words mean something—they relate. Your words express your soul. Our Creator, the LAN' Lord uh pin Heaven inspired the heartfelt words of Elián's self-adopted new mom, Marisleysis González.
Later on that day, after Marisleysis' speech, hers an unfolding part of Elián González' repossession-at-gun-point story that played and replayed wall-to-wall live on the news worldwide, President Clintstone issued forth his own dashed out remarks to a smatter of White House reporters hanging out on the White House tarmac.
Competing with Attorney General Reno, or taking his cues from watching her skirt the issue, Bill repeated the same blah ad min line— we live under the rule of law. Then, for a grand five seconds President Clintstone waxed euphoric about Elián being reunited with his father.
Fatherhood? Peer-ships, didn't Clintstone's father die before our Billy was born? And of Clintstone's stepfather, wasn't he a drunk who regularly beat up his wife and kids?
How many times were we told how Clintstone jumped his drunken step dad, when Billy felt he was big enough and the old man sponge was drunk enough, and he scared his drunken step dad into knot beating up on his mom or on his kid half brother, Roger, any more.
Esteemed Maureen, Schmaltzy M. Dowd, nailed that issue plain and simple in her commentary: "Dads are a dime a dozen."
Clintstone, he of a lip-oh-bitten wistfulness for thong sliced gooey pizza dissed a shouted question, turning back to the White House after reading his hastily prepared statement, Billy's main thrust there being: " "I, [Clintstone,] was absolutely not involved in the Elián case."
Our POTUS— The Chief Finger Pointing President of the United States confers with us, with we, the people via his White House press on the status of a refugee survivor famed worldwide who hours before was seized by Clintstone's people at gunpoint in the night, that in itself a troubling minus, and the D.C. press corp. cannot be bothered to even show up and hear their chief spinmeister's Elián shmear?
King Solomon muses: The buck stops where?
Since when does a United States President meet the press without the press? Who told the White House pretzels to skip his public con? Who advised the press Bill would say little and finesse every quest yin?
As Clintstone turned back to the White House, one could see by the stiffness in Billy's mien that our President knew in his bones, that to all of us ho hum viewers at home the Elián deal he'd just parsed to us and to his smatter of 4th Estate pretzels, hanging on the blacktop apron was, upon review, a crock full of _______.
Coincidentally, that same Saturday morning Elián González was seized at gunpoint in the dead of night, later that day National Public Radio caught Billy's Cuban double, Fidel Castro, at a Free Elián rally.
In a euphoric moment with 100,000 thronging Cubans, Fidel let slip to his jubilant crowd that he, Fidel Castro, had a cellphone call the day before from Elián's father, Juan Miguel.
Juan Miguel had been getting edgy. Juan celled Fidel, Cuba's Maximum Leader and told Fidel, as Fidel related to his wildly cheering audience, that unless the United States government retrieved his son, he, Juan Miguel, would fly to Miami, maybe Easter Sunday or Monday afternoon the latest and go get Elián himself.
Imagine you calling up George Bush when he was our president to state your case for world peace! A cell phone call to Fidel would've certainly beaten a pit stop at Bush's ranch to squawk on the fence about your next-door neighbor's son whose bones were shredded in Baghdad. Though ill, Fidel might've taken your call. With your voice disguised you could've told Fidel, "It's me, Juan Miguel."
Our pretzels didn't thrash about; investigating which day Juan's flight was booked to Miami. Was Juan Miguel's plane ticket for Sunday or Monday, round trip 1st class or trash? Monkey seize zero evil. The editor’s slash is the editor's way of proofing a news scoop knot proven.
The mucho praised impeachment guy, Greg Craig, Juan Miguel's lawyer, the attorney from Billy's impeachment days, fronting for Fidel, remarked in his only talk show interview a couple weeks after Elián was seized, they "had to" rip the kid out when they did. Attorney Greg Craig's "had to" was a lawyerly slip of mouthpiece tongue.
Elián's Miami family had agreed to Elián's repatriation. Why was it "they," meaning Reno's agents, "had to" grab this beleaguered refugee?
Elián González was six years old. Hadn't the little boy been through enough already, having lost his mother at sea and about to lose his self-adopted new mom, Marisleysis, besides losing his new life in U.S.A.?
Guns drawn going in, Reno's ad minis traitor S.S. henchmen seized little Elián. From their lock-step approach, orders are followed. But what of our Federal Judiciary, our constitutional check to keep our government agencies in balance? Wasn't that, originally our founder's constitutional scheme to maintain a lasting democracy?
Dream on citizenry. Your self-imagined constitutional right to any grievance redress is hidden from our Courts behind the bureaucracies' own exhausts, behind their self-woven ironed legal ironclad curtains.
It's only after an injustice is well settled you might have a 30 days window to appeal your aggrievedness and sue. Yet even today, years later, the quest yin why—why Janet Reno ran her storm trooper snatch of the famous Cuban immigrant, Elián González, cannot be dismissed.
King Solomon pushes
Since when does a Cuban dictator issue return-to-Cuba ultimatums to the US president over who gets to stay in USA, with a no-cut non-negotiable timetable as to when and who must be repatriated to Fidel.
Fidel held something over Bill. Fidel controlled the deck and was dealing all the tickets. Fidel was getting his miracle kid back to Cuba right quick, or else! Or else what?
Bill couldn't gamble on Fidel Castro's next move. Clintstone had to snatch Elián González before Easter, or chance the wrest of his career!
Billy Clintstone's remaining public career was staked, the "or else what" that drove his swat-team Elián snatch. Billy had plum run out of options. He couldn't afford to gamble on a game delay with Fidel.
Behind his own ironclad curtains, President Clintstone pressured Attorney General Reno. Clintstone was working the phones, too, off the record, ratcheting every possible fawning medja pawn within reach to somehow jump-start Elián's deportation to Castro's Cuba.
Had Juan Miguel flown to Miami Easter Sunday, or the Monday after, by the time he arrived at the Little Havana barrio where Elián and his Cuban American family were living, waves of fellow Cubans would have shown up, too, to greet Juan Miguel—hundreds of people deep, packed like sardines in all the surrounding streets, throwing garlands on Juan Miguel's path, cheering Juan Miguel González to the Heavens.
Juan Miguel would have gone into his uncle Lazaro's house where the family and Juan would have hollered back and forth, then maybe cried and hugged before sitting down to pizza, or yellow rice, chicken, black beans and plantains; and then, after lunch, planned their next steps as a Cuban family united behind Elián. The order of events to get all of the González family out of Cuba might've been mapped out over the noontime meal at great-uncle Lazaro's kitchen table.
Elián's reunited Cuban family, together after a lunch would have issued their press release for the press outside, announcing their intent to remain in U.S.A. for every Journalista hanging by the house, and by satellite dishes for all the world's tuned in peoples, living witness.
Clintstone could not by any stretch allow that scenario to unfold at any cost, regardless of U.S. family values, the TV village, or America's good-guys-always-win mythos. Castro would have smelt a double cross and Castro, with his short hairs grip on Bill Clintstone's Office was calling all the shots from Cuba. Unless Fidel got his refugee kid back, Fidel was going to let what he, Fidel had over Clintstone rip.
An imaginative leap is not required to gather Clintstone's Justice Depot, fascistically reoriented, intended on seizing the Cuban refugee how and when they did.
Theirs was a Nazi-styled predawn plan, ready to roll, with all the moves for snatching Elián worked out in advance, set to go before "the rosy fingers" of old blind Homer's dawn broke the time of night when Billy's S.S. felt it best to operate.
Therefore, in the wee hours before the dawn, with Elián's proposed transfer to Reno's people supposedly a done deal, Reno, on the phone long distance, asked the late night González negotiators at great-uncle Lazaro's kitchen table to please, "Hold the line."
While the negotiators sat waiting, on telephone hold, Reno signed her snatch Elián orders.
Scroll back to the photo above.
Reno's Secret Service cadre, dressed as though storm troops in the Warsaw ghetto stormed the barrio, smashing down Lazaro's doors, their fascist racket rousting the sleepy little kid from his bed to run hide in a closet with Donato Dalrymple.
Juan Miguel booked his Miami flight for either Easter Sunday, or early Monday morning, which Reno was sweating because, above her, Clintstone was really sweating; so Janet Reno's negotiations, dragged past Friday midnight, were a deceptive government ploy, purposefully set up and publicized in advance, to becalm Florida's Little Havana.
The Cuban Americans of Miami were not prepared for Clintstone's Nazi Justice, his forced snatch of their blessed special immigrant kid in the wee dead of night.
Clintstone's people knew they couldn’t allow round-the clock human swells stitched in the barrio ten streets deep, un cleft for any and all to pass but Juan Miguel, the Cuban "papa" who was himself getting edgy, ready to cut loose from Castro's communist grasp.
Furthermore, had Juan Miguel been spotted at the Miami airport, heading for Little Havana to shield his Elián from Reno's pepper gas, or a misplaced blast from one of her dressed-for-war stressed agents, then all the press pool bets on which day Elián was getting snatched would have also been lost.
Were that not enough, wall-to-wall Elián coverage throughout that Easter weekend, with violence attached, might have forced the barrio stationed D.C. press into missing out on their Correspondent's Dinner.
Anything could have happened. Clintstone's whole presidency, his world could've visually slipped away live on live cable TV because this refugee kid, Elián González was alive and well, yet free, "free at last" in America, the Promised Land, free in Miami Beach to run around his yard like any normal youngster on an Easter bunny Sunday in U.S.A.
Clintstone's farewell 4th Estate fête was right around the corner. The pretzels major sit down din was scheduled for early in the week following Easter; but the Washington press failed to relate Clintstone's seizure of this all-of-six years old immigrant kid, Elián González, with their Farewell to Billy Dinner. How could the D.C. press have failed to connect the obvious Elián dots?
Coincident with the press corp.'s annual shmear via back doors to Billy, Fidel made it clear he was planning his own Clintstonian film festivity for the free international press, serving up his trip-X videos of Billy, vids timed to roll before the D.C. Dinner correspondents sniffed their first aperitif.
Clintstone's White House home movie, produced for the Pretzel Association dinner, that, along with Clintstone's presidential career, his whole presidency, was about to be going 'down Derry down' Castro's television tubes, stuffed in the rough, an international al Jazeera smurf.
Upon Fidel's going through with his plan to release his vid exposé, both Billy and Hillary would have been irretrievably forever and for all eternities, permanently scorched. Clintstone's plaudit led pulpit shower, riddled by Fidel's trip-X-rated TV feed, might have, on the presidential dais, become the Clintstone's trip-X funeral pyre, their treason clear.
King Solomon ripples:
Clintstone's reason for treason would've been the trip-X scene on YouTube, Bill's pants down—smurfed erectus, the public blush of his presidency blushingly finished; done for. So that's why they "had to" seize the kid. Fidel 's video clock was about to scandal tock-unlock.
The White House pressure on General Reno to sign her clandestine Secret Service order enabling Elián González' seizure was so intense General Reno uncontrollably sobbed and wet her pants.
Clintstone's demeanor was so exquisitely smug at his Pretzel corp. dinner. How could Billy's chorus of gobblers have missed the obvious?
Clintstone saw the fair Marisleysis' speech criticizing him and he arrogantly went the extra mile, mocking Marisleysis González at his press corp. dinner.
Clintstone had claimed throughout Marisleysis' public ordeal that he, Clintstone, the President of United States was not involved in the Elián González affair; that he had been "keeping out of it."
Yet Bill, not "keeping out of it," raised the González issue all by himself, ridiculing Marisleysis at his self-celebrational affair sponsored by his fawning D.C. press corp. But why did Billy go out of his way to deride Marisleysis González only days after disaster had befallen her?
He mocked Marisleysis González in his film script with a hastily inserted video snip of his hair, sloughing the issue Marisleysis' raised at her press conference that something looked fishy with Elián's hair in the pictures attorney Greg Craig released.
Marisleysis felt something was wrong. Marisleysis could say so as she was a hairdresser who'd given her Elián a haircut two days before.
Observers paid close attention to Marisleysis' claim in her amazing God inspired speech. Experts were called in to examine photographs of Elián, but knot Elián himself. What with today's beyond belief makeup techniques, the "Elián" in the photographs could have been a look alike, made to appear a duplicate—one of "The Boys From Brazil.”
Bill, in public, on television, mocked this woman whose grief was before the whole nation. We watched a world leader, our President jeering a poor powerless citizen to the dining D.C. press in his pocket.
What did Marisleysis González ever do to Clintstone besides stand up for her Elián who was both her cousin and family-adopted kid?
Clintstone dared not gamble on Juan Miguel not catching his flight from Cuba Easter Sunday, or the following Monday, and not flying to Miami. At stake in such a gamble was Billy Clintstone's presidency.
Bill could knot chance Fidel's threats becoming facts after Castro's ultimatum passed, as Fidel had nothing to lose in bringing down Bill, though so much more to gain from knot.
Billy couldn't gamble on Fidel knot blowing his Cuban stack; knot playing hardball with his purchased jokers, his deep-throat deep holed pants down cards, face up on the whirled wide inner gnashional table.
King Solomon poses:
Billy unabashed was celebrating his own relief with the last rail smashed into place, the final trial for his Bruce Lindsey Elián railroad, Auschwitz-Havana bound. Reno's legacy, her seizure of an innocent Cuban refugee was Billy's triumph of his own approach to justice, his, a fascist bureaucrat's success over our endowed free spirit.
Dear peer-ship mates, does that "F" word spring anew? Zoom golly golly, your own personal freedom, squelched on the path to a lip-sealed bath, Guantánamo for you.
Your 4th Estate medja diners wallowed in lockstep hollow laughter at Billy Clintstone's self-indulgent White House home movie. For days after, on cable TV, all the blabberifics fawned over Bill's movie shoots made expressly for them, C-Span and us.
The press covered the Elián story. But as an exclusive dining body, they cast a blind ear. Not one of the pretzels cared or dared to comment on Billy's smugly oppressive podium demeanor, his indecency toward Marisleysis González, the president's genuine rudeness, the lack of any remotely redeeming contents of his character, exposed.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: Truth be told, your Rule of Law eats up shelf. As the old Cheyenne-easy saying goes: "In the Halls of Justice, the only justice is in the halls."
Billy did what he had to do, to save his office. With Billy's whole career teetering, about to crash, he trashed our Rule of law, relative to Elián González. Our president of the United States managed to pull it off, screwing Elián and screwing US, expecting his feed forever, at the post presidential trough.
King Solomon muses, "When I bet, get out."