Your Move

We’re entering nut-country.

-- J.F.K. to Jackie, Nov. 22, 1963, upon arrival in the Great State of Texas




I shouted out “Who killed the Kennedys?!”
When after all it was you and me

-- “Sympathy for the Devil” (Jagger, Richards)





That this same degree of strangeness accompanies the other major assassinations as concerns rounds, times, and movements makes the Fortean point -- that every particle of the social embroyo is a smoking gun.

-- Politics of the Imagination (Colin Bennett)




The first shot – coward's blow, Judas’ kiss – strikes the Goat King in the back. As predicted, he slumps forward, braced against the rear of the front seat.

Immobilized, the quarry is primed for the kill shot. Dramatic pause, an elongated moment . . . the stars hesitate and wobble, unsure.

As ever, the Queen of Heaven wraps her arms around loverboy, and as their heads meet the gunman squints, exhales slowly, and the back of the Goat King’s head flies away: doves of heavenly due, raindrops of the Republic splattering the Great State's asphalt.

Two Queens scream: one in horror, one in glee, of fine let blood from the Goat King, sopped up by ten million lily linens, by grainfields ripened, by dessicated clouds hovering above the thirsty vampire land.

The fructifying rain. So satisfying. Like a goblet of sherry!



The very word "secrecy" is repugnant in a free and open society; and we are as a people inherently and historically opposed to secret societies, to secret oaths and to secret proceedings. We decided long ago that the dangers of excessive and unwarranted concealment of pertinent facts far outweighed the dangers, which are cited to justify it.

-- J. F. K., April 27, 1961




On that day in Texas (Set-ax), what the Civil War and two World Wars could not do, American itself accomplished. The nation was overthrown, held hostage from within, its future frozen, its Dreaming Mind raped, while we exchanged inanities and goggled at the replays on teevee.

In Dea-ley (“Goddess-Rule” or “Goddess Law”) Plaza, the townspeople gathered to watch the old, sad drama enacted yet again, the Goat led up Calvary, the Wicker Man aflame in the trees, John Barleycorn feted and dead.

Licking Milk Duds smudge off our fingertips, we sat cross-legged with our parents behind, watching the price of the nation's unmatched wealth and power burst into star-spangled brainbits, the old debt that's never retired, paid.

Like Spiro Agnew, America pleaded nolo contendere, pretending it didn't see nutting -- even while the fairy tale snagged in the tape, looping endlessly and autonomically through our intertwined reptile circuits.

Music, drugs, dance, sexuality, all the original techniques in use, winding back through the neocortex, the civilized layers, down the Chubby Checkerboard Staircase, spiraling down down the midbrain rope to the limbic core.

Whoa! How low can you go?!

In the intervening 42 years, we have found out, hmm?

Say, don’t gimme no trouble or I’ll call up my double
we’ll play piggy-in-the-middle with you.
They got mesmerized by alibis
and limbo-danced in pairs
(please lock that door)
It don’t make much sense, that common sense
don’t make no sense no more.

-- “Common Sense” (J. Prine)





The Year-King went down before us, like Christ harrowing hell, like autumn rye under scythe, and we knelt again at the old blood-altar. Slipsliding down the worm's tail, down the pumphouse-well, partying like it was 1999.

Then suddenly, it was 1999.

The party ended, and we woke up and found ourselves not in Oz, but in Orwell's 1984, fifteen years henceward: in the land of Total Information, acceptable torture, Patriot Acts, Violence Against Women Acts, secret tribunals, and Homeland Security.

The Goat King was long dead, and so was his uppity brother. A few other Contenders also got snuffed. The nation plunged festively to the bottom of the sea, where dwell old things.

Forty-two years the Corn King moldered a’grave, a long walkabout in the Twilight Zone, a'snooze in the poppy fields before the emerald gates of the great city.

On that foul Dallas day in 1963, a blood-pact was sealed that cauterized a powerful potential surge of masculine dissent and creative renewal in the land. For the first time in history, men en masse were refusing war-service, and simultaneously chafing at their cultural chains.

American men were coming alive in the Spirit, and that was – and is – dangerous.

Ask Jesus.

The extremely public and theatrical nature of J.F.K.’s execution struck a primordially deep nerve in the collective male consciousness of the West. In short, it reminded boys and men from whence they came – whence being sacrificial blood-cults under the goddess and her man-drones (collective femininity in matrilineal/tribal systems).

Especially in America, with femininity idealized and intensely romanticized, especially in the arts, with religion under cynical scrutiny (however necessary), and with feminism sweeping all before it, boys and men got a visual lecture on just how vulnerable they are – and how much more vulnerable they can be – in a gynarchy.

Mass imprisonment, circumcision, warrantless surveillance, covert operations, scapegoated fatherhood, dirty tricks, affirmative action, feminized schools and churches, wars on drugs, mass homelessness, disenfranchisement of males – all these post-Sixties phenomena heavily favored females and the transgenerational “elite.”

Your Basic and Primate society.

Feminism effectively excluded tens of millions of American men from the opportunities and benefits of society, replaced the paternal with the maternal, re-deified females, empowered girls, and thrust women and men into relationships of open competiton and conflict – with females advantaged by law and cultural assumption as a “protected class.”

In sum, an entire generation of men was ritually betrayed – scapegoated, in the full and archaic sense of the word, paraded like the Goat King through the public thoroughfares, as in Middle Ages Europe, Minoan Crete, the Near East of 30 B.C.E., or any of countless other cultures and tribes manifesting the “pre-patriarchal” Mother-Son gyneaxis.

These are the “serprent-worshipping” cults (whether fraternal, sororal, or combined) whose occult strengths are psychological influence/propaganda, and ritual/blood magick -- especially terrorism via trauma-based group "workings."



Somersett: “Do you think he knows he’s a marked man?”

Milteer: “Sure he does . . . I’m sure he does . . . yes”

Somersett: “Are they gonna really try to kill him?”

Milteer: “Oh yes. It’s in the working.”


-- Miami police informant Willie Somersett and Right-wing honcho Joseph Milteer, in a taped conversation held thirteen days before the “Dallas Working”




So we have an answer to Mick Jagger’s luciferian accusation that “after all, it was you and me” who set up and murdered the Kennedys: our own tacit approval of the old psycho-sexual blood drama allowed the serpent’s tail to cycle back into dominance, sweeping aside the foundations of civilization.

We pulled the trigger on our own King, as we always do, and sealed our own fate.



Don’t build no heathen temples
where the Lord has done laid his hand.
There’s a well on the hill --
Let it be

-- “Lo and Behold” (James Taylor)

The ritual murders of R.F.K., M.L.K., and especially J.F.K. were reminders – like an eight-day-old boy thrashing in a Circumstraint, like an honest man nailed to a tree – that there is always a war going on around us, sometimes seen, sometimes not.

These intensely-orchestrated year-king sacrifices, straight out of Frazer’s Golden Bough, are time-bombs planted in our national unconscious, jangling us, dangling us like puppets in a perpetual psycho-physical stress of fight/flight mode.

So we scanned the skies for the imminent UFO threat, while the adversary took us from betwixt and beneath.

When the Goat-King fell, American masculinity was castrated, like every year-kings that ever walked in Diana's Grove.




The world is very different now. For man holds in his mortal hands the power to abolish all forms of human poverty and all forms of human life. And yet the same revolutionary beliefs for which our forebears fought are still at issue around the globe—the belief that the rights of man come not from the generosity of the state, but from the hand of God.

-- January 20, 1961 -- John F. Kennedy [Inaugural Address]



This country is on a perilous course.

-- R.F.K., March 18, 1968, on announcing his candidacy for the Presidency



John Kennedy didn’t die mainly for political, monetary, military, or even personal reasons.

He died for primate-hierarchichal reasons: for the consummation of a psycho-sexual fetility schema still branded into our cerebro-spines and D.N.A. -- a pattern of terrorism apparently embedded in the very soil of the planet.

The ritualistic murder of J.F.K. re-staged the oldest theatre in the human story: the primal psycho-sexual tension between the unconscious, material feminine, and emerging consciousness, the masculine/spiritual pole. Like Christ entering Jerusalem on a donkey while the people laid down palm leaves, J.F.K. was paraded through the streets as Atonement Sacrifice for our fallen generation, in an ancient rite that still hypnotizes and charms the serpent in us all.

For the Baby-Boomers and other post-Sixties subgenerations, masculinity never matured, fatherhood never concretized. We were collectively frozen in childhood.

Forty-two years later, maleness remains catatonic. Partly in reaction to these “fertility” assassinations, a void opened in Western masculinity, a breach in the walls of heaven.

Something walked through that breach. Something occupied that void of power. A lot of Somethings.

John Kennedy was simultaneously a sacrificed King and a mere pawn. He seemed like a check-mated and toppled Regent because we lived through Camelot, through the ritual and pageantry of his presidency with him.

But J.F.K. was actually an opening gambit (if perhaps an Endgame gambit) in the tessellation for the new millennium . . . a Pawn, at most a Knight, in a game played before the nations of Earth, under the spotlight stars of the “celestial court.” The movements of the terrestrial players are mirrored in the heavens, and the hands that manouvered J.F.K. into Dealey Plaza were as unseen as the Moon's ass.

The game ends, of course, when one of the kings is killed -- or captured, as in 1 Samuel:


And the ark of God was taken; and the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, were slain . . . And when Eli heard the noise of the crying, he said, What meaneth the noise of this tumult? And the man came in hastily, and told Eli.

And the messenger answered and said, Israel is fled before the Philistines, and there hath been also a great slaughter among the people, and thy two sons also, Hophni and Phinehas, are dead, and the ark of God is taken.

And it came to pass, when he made mention of the ark of God, that he fell from off the seat backward by the side of the gate, and his neck brake, and he died. . . .

And his daughter in law, Phinehas' wife, was with child, near to be delivered: and when she heard the tidings that the ark of God was taken, and that her father in law and her husband were dead, she bowed herself and travailed; for her pains came upon her.

And about the time of her death the women that stood by her said unto her, Fear not; for thou hast born a son. But she answered not, neither did she regard it.


And she named the child Ichabod, saying, The glory is departed from Israel: because the ark of God was taken, and because of her father in law and her husband.


And she said, The glory is departed from Israel: for the ark of God is taken.




J.F.K. was sacrificed on the gameboard, in broad daylight on Main Drag, U.S.A., forty-two years ago. His body is now toppled over, lying on a sidereal sideboard, beyond the boundary squares of dualistic incarnation. But his blood must be restless in the Earth, because it still pounds like a cop at the door, demanding, relentless and fierce, with a warrant to come in.



The drum rolls, and the Butcher drinks a glass of fire.
When you kill a King, you don’t stab him in the dark.
You kill him where the whole Court can watch Him die.

-- dialogue, “Gangs of New York”