04 October 2015



1. Frank found in Veronica the muse he had needed so, as he was a literate drawer, no Jack Davis he, fine enough. She was living embodiment of the pin up girls he used when drawing Dejah Thoris and Jane and other Edger Burrows Tarzan dream girls, these newspaper goddesses, as like mythology, all had been left to the seedy and the dismissed as the wives of gay men beards had taken hold of the earth for those with no discernable sense of humour. Once when still friendly me and Gay bon ve bon writer of trite I mean truly so, crime novellas and gossip, Truman Capote, hewing effeminate little thing saw what a vile man named E Howard Hunt had been given a prize in writings, and we both shocked, he more than I, we knew the world was going to go into the hands of Jew hating, catholic girl raping, pompous cretins, of which I always had an inkling.

He now, I take it is a miasma of disco balls and coke and panama hats and such, but then, I think as suit at my desk here at Mercury, which I utilize the name as a way to fight Anvil and its dredged Thor, a hammer stolen from old man Foxy, I think that Capote is a dissolving man as I shall never be, as he is left behind, nay dismissed by his scions and his dauphins and his matrons, who I have never liked , as I shall I think, be a bitch to the coldest, meanest, satirical and snide, to the bitterest end.  Kurt Vonnegut called me in my mid roman hero worship as I play Virgil again as I had when having a set of household gods sold as roman figurines in the back if comics when I was a boy in the chitlinsless south, and I sent away for this box of roman centurions sold as were Vikings, the 82 airborne, the infantry, ect. He tells me Capote has  had a heart attack, to which I bellowed not as angrily at him as I sounded, You woke me up at three am for that….? I was sure it was an attack of the vapahs. If real at all, such was from too much cocaine use at the discotheque he shimmies at. If true, I said, tis a wise career move, and hung up, causing me to now be seen as mean as I always really was.


2.  Later in the day, before his shift of watching the beauteous was done, Frank came to the bullpen and stopped everyone from working. The bountiful, red lips made up, and redder nailed, Veronica looked up from her outline maps. People, He said with a usual tiredness which over took him after lunch now a days, I am making a shake-up to our line up...The sales are dreadful and I want to jazz this concern up around here, From now until further notice, Stanny , your sports comics is cut to two stories, get a bell…. like a Gillette ad or something... The affable black sports artist, with an eye on anvil, took the suggestion almost more literally than he  meant it, which shocked him , …And, Veronica, you’re gonna do Saturnwoman, he said ... He  turned to the bow tied comics artist man who had been here a while, Professor Irwin, he said as the older man sat there, still holding the puppets and footlocker toys, which he used as a ventriloquist to do the war comics, You will do eleven pages of that out of date gi Joe shit as a back up and no more....The last thing I  wanted was some bozo , probably psychotic two faced war addled man with a puppet angry at me.  He winked at the bow tie wearing drawer of tanks and helmets, but was frankly serious.
     The Mortimer snerd puppet merely looked at his asshole of an alter ego and sneered with a wooden contempt. I shouldn't be surprised a jack sass like you would lose yur job to a toots, you big dumb jerk..."  Irwin, the drawer of a perpetual Anzio said through the aging, chipping puppet, as the puppet said to the forlorn man, a slick, pompadour, cigarette chewing, thin man, who had a exaggerated Adams apple.
     HEY, HEY, HEY, Frank said,  Take it outside.

A fat affable buddy of mine, a pulp writer of men’s life like magazines that the horrid Playbouy magazine had placed out of business with its pretense towards a kind of literary magazine with pin ups strewn in it, looked up from the binder in which he was constantly scribbling, as he had been since he wan a Italian immigrants son, in Canal street. Don’t bother, Frankie… the large Victor Putzo said to him, thick horn rimmed glasses on a moon face of a great Italian boy man, Don’t bother he said, I just sold a script called the Mafia to some Jewish hack at Mammoth Pictures, he said, and fixed his massive glasses on a more massive face. Im getting out of comics, while I still have  a chance, he said and walked towards a sign reading . In white mid century letters on poison green, ‘MEN‘.

This hurt the other Italian younger and talented who knew if anything he be doing a variation of this comic shit forever, and sort of started to get away from ghosting the comics strips where he first had and learned of Veronica, the Venus in the weeds, to where he now was going to try to sell paintings of Romans and barbarians to collectors for whatever he could get.

He was a fine artist as such, but like all mythology, in fact all which the ethnics have always been devoted TO,  was demeaned into ketch, a word for art that brokers cannot sell, and like cupid and other Roman affectations, been demeaned and diguareded showing the ethics of Luther, and of the Klan, are never as far away as the nimrods and Westinghouse news readers like to portend. But like Cupid, and the other things demeaned in a horrid book called The Roman way by a witch named Margaret Hamilton, or is that Grouchos  matron, or is that oz with the dear old lady selling chock full of nuts now. Ah whatever, this book is banished and woeful, awful, and yes there is a reason that even still after the fascists that there is a streak of Romanism ruining through everything dreadfully English including if  I may the rags of lefties called the guardians and other like classics of bullshit. At times, the cupid, as I recall him from Virgil sets the stuff of Pocono’s newly wed bathtubs, and sometime the Roman stuff embossed as irrevocably earnest and real, as despite what they say, the Lutherans and the white trash are more superstitious than any Mediterranean ever was or would be, as they in their puny soul fears the sun that can bake them all.

Again this is 1970, and a revision like this hadn’t happened in a decade, since Jerry Leiber and Shapiro his bag man, had repented Anvil from a rancid little cartoon book outlet, to being hip among the college crowd with its campo and Lichtenstein colours. And yet in saying that work looking back is amazingly silly, bad, Which in fact, as BD Crumwhieght had become a stand in for mods and howling bongoing Maynard G Krebs, well, that was alike and a mistake as old BD was a fascist, Anglican division, as unlike Mussolini’s Italy , where my beloved home, La Goldfinch, all English pretence was allowed, even glorified, and his little peopled middling earth was a not so thinly veiled battlement at seeing the world  as one giant shire to be controlled by Mother Britannia.

And too, Shapiro used as camp was  mistake,  or even an insult to both he and camp, which a good American, like satire he knew not of, as he was always as serious with his shit as a tooth ache. I make the connection,  As seated here, see a newspaper that BD Crumwhieght, English poet laureate of the medieval, had been somehow and out of the blue, self immolated, as it seemed to those who saw him attacked at Oxbridge university that he has been set afire by a gaggle of what seemed to be butterflies, which if true is a perfect way for a English fabulist to die, as somehow Mater Natura gets even and back at its accuser, as funnily all the German barbarians seemed after the fall of Rome to die at Parthinium, in Italia, showing the return to the ancient ethic, though to get around this the white trash would alike to chalk it all up to VD and the gracious ladies if NAPLES, WHICH WHEN ONE THINKS OF IT...

3. Well, the trick worked, and soon, All star was a steady number two, in a matter of days. F. knew what he was doing, unlike the other full of shit analysts who merely kept getting long nosed, schnauzer,  bottle heads to do boring newsprints. Every sad house husband, every player, every black and Chicano drug seller band every wop Mafioso who sat and dreamed of sunny Naples was glued to the newsprints cast from trucks to newsstands to watch the bouncy girl who, he had settled the argument, had to wear red tight clothing.

One day, they brought her out with her black hair in over styled ringlets like a porn star... he demanded they take her back and take that shit out of her hair. There was a nice gal quality, a good girl bomber art ethic at work with this chick, which was played against her big bust, and played against all which that bosom has been said to announce since the middle ages. They quickly got her back to the way she was, but not before we had to switch the run down around. Frank knew that he'd made a star.

     As she stood there, her hair still wet and making thick swerves of basic black waves against her neck, he saw the goddess AS had been needing all along. I like the way she points at the Atlantic ocean, he heard the male anchor hero, an old fuddy duddy, a bloated bag of walnuts, a human Wayne Boring cartoon say with a wink. I have become an admirer of his National Uberman work, which Jack Vernay has committed  sell to me for the hefty price of 5,000 dollars, a pittance to cover his boy Biffs’ Bar Mitzvah, ahhhhhgh, as I am told by him he wants no part of National in a place that doesn’t take well to Nazi anything and Uberman is Nazi with a capital N. Boringly saw a humanity in this Achilles tripe, like Statius before, which is why the ninnies who preen their hardiness constantly, hate him.

The next day, when Frank  had come in at eleven, rolling in as thinks he owns this place as I am an unwitting stooge,  as had done before, he took a look at the overnights sales , up 40 percent, and saw that her use in a comic called Saturn woman, in a style his parents had told him about, a fumetti,  had made this the greatest success ever. He put her comic’s report, against all known research, to last in the book, as was never done in comics, with a quick cheap photographic daily news calibre picture shot of her reading the days comic at page O6. The other marketers thought he was nuts, but they didn't have Jane Russell doing their comics crap, and I did. Later in the week, before the kids show that ended everything,  he got her on as a guest, Nero’s Palace, a strange image for a kids show, the bloated Roman mad king, but appealing to a Romantic Italianate crowd of immigrants, WOT, called Rot tv in the hinterlands, was on channel nine out of Secaucus new jersey.

He, as all star’s eic, got her booked in this afternoon cartoon show as a heroine, just on the strength of just seeing her image in black and white dots shown to Paul, the gravel voice of God, who amazingly liked Saturday morning and showing cartoons with his dancing girls and a midget named Rex Read teaching kids to read amid the dick jokes pop got , and a lovely Dog named Maximus, and the styriophome palatine, in which they had made for this adventure time show. It was  on five days a week with a  Greek  host named Tricky Nicky, who, It was said, tried to now famously fix the lottery with his shady underhanded Greek buddies, which of course made  all the local Italians laugh.

She was booked as a guest, many of whom under Paul had a well turned ankle to appease the Roman Lord grumbling bald anchorman at canal 9, who again, like the dago weatherman Chilly Phil, loved his sanctuary Midnight  monster chillier horror  spectacular in which he parented to be a count said to be based on Me, Count Gore FUGAL, and so introduced badly made movies made by funny Italians artisans who would sadly show that the b movies would be the future of films. A coming truth in the winds, in ways I, writer of QUO VADIS DOMINEA,  and The last days of Atlantis, always trying to give this trash a underpinning of decency, while others just trudged through it all, the last fil before Brutus the God hit big, despite the Timers open hostility, with smouldering Sophia rebuffing the advances of Victor Mature,  a sludge that couldn’t have imagined, but which drives Jack Vanrey out of the goddemned business.

4. She was seen and booked by Paulie, from badly remade photos the cereal box presses of All Star could use, Frankie went up to her. He took her red blouse and he undid the buttons which she often, being naturally shy as a busty gal, had all this time been buttoning to the top. She winced. Oh, Franky, She said, as he was more randy than usual, but more publicly. then ever here at the station, as a bloated fat man anchorman dressed as Nero stood among cute park way broads in a Doric salon made of plywood, and whining about beanie and Cecil or other Jay Ward fares amid the  pillars made of styrophome and marble, which just was painted old weather maps.

She pulled back, but her in the rosy Speedo with the embroidered Saturn ringed planet on her long formed torso drew the drawer a bit mad with ancient desire, as was seen in a long ago Naples, which both families had left for a golden door. Frankie, puleeese…she said pulling back, afraid that Italian girls in America are always ore step from being whores, if they ever give in to advances espially from married white men. Yer one of the few allowed to call me that, he said to her, And putting a pink hand to her breastbone, she said, I'm a meteor girl, a super heroine, I'm not a piece of cheesecake...please, sir, I'm trying to rehabilitate...Just as in Dagwood’s holler, aint huthin wrong wid sex per say, she said giving into a bit of a Virginia esque drawl, But taint good round here, Frank, please leave me be…

    5. At this, a giant arm out of no where, not hers, strong  and meaty, came out and took Frankie Franzetta by the collar and hurled him onto a wall of pulleys backstage. Frankie turned around to eye what this was, and saw a Marty like Borginine old Italian Nero, a Centurion  of the drainpipes and the pop bottle signs, an acting cartoon show Nero, a Prcineipate from the jersey badlands, Nero himself, stand there next to the pretty and exotic woman.

With a TV hostess dancer vestal named  Vickie something between the Damon Runyon anchorman, and the man who played Fred Flintstone, but had been in guys and dolls, but not Alan Reed, the grumbling man in sheet toga came and socked Frankie in the jaw. Did yew hear wat de gouil told yuz, handsome, you faggot fuck, he said, with deep sunken eyes and massive figure draped in white and gold station identification Romanism, and with giant laborer thumbs said, Beat it, touch guy before I mudder ya, you capish…? Get lost, he said gruffly, See, or ill make yas lost, got it, Casanova…? Girls there as handlers of the kiddies dressed as vestals stood in the wings, wondering what  had happened. The children stead in the penut gallery cheered their hero on. I called Mister Pentangeli to apologise voraciously and tell him when I had heard that Mercury, I lay that name on when trying to show off, or seem better than the usual hacks, was in no way assorted with Frankie anymore, and that he had been sadly when I think of the numbers and his thoughtfulness at knowing the ancient pull of the goddess, been summarily, fired.

The Nero dressed man stood there at the tall lean figura of the comic book goddess next to him and smiled a big toothy grin somewhere between scholar and button man, she wasn’t sure, but she had met many of these Italians who ever no where to be seen in the holler of vicious hillbillies who had all seen her if at all as a combination of witch and or whore, which is what most of the war brides from Anzio found when they got here. Though the rest of the week he growled the news at a angel to the camera from the desk, he enjoyed his Saturday morning stint much, and strangely he pulled off the look amid all more real by his glowering and his girth. He did make it count as they say in the theatre, proving there are no bad parts, nothing that cant be given dignity if done well, oer at cross purposes, as carry  it off did Paulo. As somehow his material, self same, inherent  grumbling disposition did help to sell the white bed sheet with gold trim, the throw rig mantle and the lettuce leaves like Laurel eh wore on a balding comb over head.

     He smiled, did the smitten Nero, Paulo Pentangli, called now as ethnics must analgise a name, Paul Strong, and let her collar open, as he was in control, he to show the great swell of flesh just begin. NO honey, he said, See, he said with dead end kids charm, You’re more like a lady finger.... This made her smile, as after dagwoods and the strange mixture of being constantly made to rival daisy Lu and yet still fend off the unwanted advancements of Klansmen always wishing ironically for a vampire like they saw in the newsprint comics handed about, she soaked up praise as did Captain slurp up the sun raqys. But she was uncomfortable, as if she really wanted no more attention paid to her bosom than it already took up. She did her affable heroine cast, to boys who knew somehow instinctively this was someone they wanted, knew they wanted eventually before the America of Donna reed would make them choose from homogenizer wives who, as the war brides knew, and as Victor Putzo sadly realised to me, they would abort their Italians children these women would, with agree and a usefulness which would evocatively become American law from all woman, those who had stupid Italians husbands or not.

But she was strikingly preoccupied. SO was F, as he watched a small circle of pink flesh, as it popped and hovered over a fold of red silk. Seeing him still there, Nero gave a signal he hd given before and a blond TV goddess in cheap Toga dress hauled off and kicked him off the Jersey premises. Nero, the grumbling newsman, who did this for fun, and dancing girls, looked back his country woman, the sort destroyed here in the country he had come to as a boy and never bought the shit about quickly waved flags, and he knew somehow he had fallen for one of his girls in way undone before.

6. There was something about this woman, something beyond her striking, dark beauty. There was something even beyond a scene of giant bosoms, which as the fetish of every man, as the cheap men magazines then said, before they were re done by the gyno exams coming in the dower and Lutheran pressed Playbuoy, at least those red blooded and from the Aegean sea as was curly haired Francisco.

And, soon, he found himself not just falling in destructive passionate lust for the Sicilian chick, more so as he had for his gaggle of sport contest cheerleaders and lotto ball holders, but found himself desperate to want to follow her around and beg her to be his Sinorina, a fear deep in the heart of every mischievous  boy man, and Franzetta was no genetic exception. He was thrown out of WOT, TV, CHANNEL NINE, as Nero w as showing already old copies of Cisco and Poncho and Sea hunt and Uberman when It was played by suicidal fat actor Loren James, who never worked again, and when those first shows where a lovely and immaculate creature named Phyllis Coats perfectly played spunky newspaper girl Rhoda Reign. A seemingly old now sixties show of Ratman, now certainly disavowed comic camp was shown, and the boys in the audience looked and saw in the wings  Veronica as a herald of what they both wished to find and already missed caught their blue and green and toe head eyes.

    At the end of the show, he  walked out to leave the building when he saw that the dressing room area door was opened. With no bigger thought in mind than to just shut the door, he walked over and saw, far off in the corner, the Super Table girl, who shined here with more than a van nyes shine many porno queens and bus girls used here had, had come to get out of clothes which were basically owned and bought by the comix company. A lot of the women anchors were not trusted to buy the right clothing, as most actually were quite frumpy even after the hours it took to carbonize them into something fit to be put before the skyline scene at six pm. He went to close the door, but instead, he saw Ginny, as her friends called her in the weeds holler, as she unhooked her clothes, and stepped out of her skirt, and allowed her blouse to fall off her shoulder.
She now stood before the mirror half clothed, bundled in thick white  underwear, of the sort her fleshy, though not fat at least not then, before our queer anorexic age, body needed to be placed in. Frank’s beater was there as silent as a boy peeking through the windows of a mother's friends house, to see a neighbor in her hidden truth, as he had done at the first emergence of Levittown then, when Lucy bought the horse and all were told to journey to the suburbs like Ulysses buying a station wagon and a grill, and he began to smile. She was mindlessly humming some radio tune, but, he had stopped listening to that new fangled be bop crap a few years ago. This girl was something else he thought, like some Italians do, tiring of the American scene in his warmed dago blood, and gagging in images of horrid women in tweed dresses constantly shilling the better lives found through the goggey signage and space aged dishwashers and appliances from Westinghouse, the grumbly, angry, strangely dispassionate anchorman before this Saturday angel came. He stood there slightly hidden, as he more impressed than sexually voyeur, he watched her dress back in a this time blue, but similarly cut dress given to her by the only friend she made lately, of her mothers Romanian maid, the only person of her size, and Nero stood there as of a naughty little boy again, as she had as his mothers war bides had, both inflamed and interested that boy whod be another well off gumba on the parkway, with a decent job and as far as he or Jews could get in the suburban wasteland.

7. He didn’t know yet that WOT TV was being bought by Group W, who had plans for the station, which didn’t include news at all, but showing repeats of Gilligan’s island and the direful, heinous, Mets each night. As this had seemingly become a road to riches among the plutocrats with daddy issues, and the charm of local television would melt away into screeching Negros with bad cheap k mart deshikes screaming about bus fairs, but the days of Bennie and Cecile and Bullwinkle and Rocky, the mighty heroes, and Flash Gordon Buster Crabbe movies soon enough made by Gordo Lucan, bought by Pizney, bought by Colossus, bought by Matsomuro motors, et al, and days of Phyllis Coats  on television as usual, were numbered.

A man named Fred Silverman was sussing quality television as a kind of gimmick, he always held tit shows in his back pocket, anyway,  and so well see how long that lasts, but today, at the quietening studios, where big mouthed capped teeth survivalists demagogy would wipe their ass with American flags just for the sheer great circus of it, as the statuesque girl who reminded him of Julie Numar from that camp tv show, but with Hershey’s unsweetened chocolate powder colour hair, no, it really showed blue like an Arab queen might have, he stood in awe of the woman, who this time Paulie didn’t have to, once important in casting, actually see naked. This w s the powre of Veronica, once called Moon girl, now freed of the dying woods, like the ancient smart ass princesses in John Hespa, Angelicas long before who, God knows, not with his late lest cash flow, the dissolving Arthur Pizney would and could never make into one of his plastic haired theme park goddesses
So, Paulie was out,  and would find out soon enough as the station would bring in cheap awful Jap cartoons, sorry world war two and the Aleutians sticks with one, and a show would be syndicated about some effeminate who drives a car that looked like a white feminine hygiene product,  down to the strips of red blood and who like them all, had the bedroom eyes of Elisabeth Taylor. But for now, as he tells me at the arrangement, for once , here as the over sugared brats played prates and ball players and superhero as the kids do and did, and which abortion on demand shall turn all in to little lord faulterloys if not worse, who rereads Trazan now, I ask.,..

As this magma Grecia will soon enough be a Sicily unto the sons, always freed from the abortionist sink, as the awful women always have a inkling taught to them by witch woman mothers, that this day in Secaucus did the days of wine and roses returned to The bay of Naples, where he grew up and as a little thief watched the goddesses frolic in the surf, Cynthia’s all, from a middling awful and middlebrow earth. And he looked at the girl as she in fact did take everything off making him wince with a kind of pain, as Vickie whatever watched this unstirred what to say or do or think, but sure not to tell Martha his American and hateful and awful wife back home. The days of cartoon colorama and Merv would be taken away recapped with a dredged live and Five, as helmet headed bimbo’s and cocklebur fat black men spoke in hushed tones about the next thunderstorm. He, he said remembering looking at her as she redressed, didn’t yet knew that even bore Westinghouse had sent him the pink slips they would send to almost everyone outside of management.

02 October 2015


1. I watched as the blond biddy chomped away, growlingly, divaly, queen beamingly bitching, her hitting the air to make her lacklustre points, with gauntlet-ed white opera gloves in a blue and white suit that had been designed by wonderful Walter White. Seeing this in the feasts of the woman cartoon book, VunderFrau, like the beer, umlaut stained, as a waste on the woman whose Americanism blinded the immigrant Rosenberg, and which left me cold. So then, I asked him, WW,  to design a suit befitting Veronica, but no black and no overt flag, as that seemed too much to me to be playing to the tenth row, always out there in comic land.

In ways I merely stared there, really rather than listen to Denise, but was seeing Veronica coming to work. Here, she said to Mario, was the only place she felt at ease, as a family unused to her and a junior league mother racked with guilt about that old crow Mammy, well she felt more at aware here, away from the well off family, who frankly saw her barefoot charm as something best to be gotten out of her, shown mostly by the fact that she liked, even in the fall, to sleep under the big dipper, as if a voluptuous Snoopy who had come home, but in ways owned the place. Id rather not listened to prattling Denise, bitch Away, then watched Veronica, as she walked with verve and vitality towards this respite from the holler and its era of disease, and it wiping out as, she would have been caught up, but the fates who adore such as she had to save her for something more than to be some artist’s modella whore, or Worse of all things, a house wife. Is there anything worse than that…?, if so, I can’t imagine it.

She, I saw through the windows or those not cross crossed with lead spines, or clouded, walked with joy and vitality and a pep in hers step as we said in a previous day, as she crossed Broadway and tenth I coolly followed along  through the dirty windows, some gumbas and hacks, looking at her out of cabs, though she wasn’t dressed provocatively in yellow dress she seemed to mostly be in, did she have another…? I wondered, and she walked with a goddess like March, as  even the diuretic pigeons of the decalcifying city noticing her as if they were blue birds in one of those dreadful Pizney cartoons. Rose red had come to life, as I saw here, but had a first purchase of the famously bank of America familia money, bought a pair of ray bans which made her look a new Pier Angeli who had come looking to star in black and white silver nitrate films in this salty ebbing ending United artists, last golden age of great films.

2. She smiled with as if an electric neoned beam I could see from up here, the kind of woman Capote collected before the fall, the kind of girl as Saint Lucian’s school for boys would fall for before their dragooning mothers would out and end to the love affairs, as she was a Mediterranean, thus, close to Negro, and then, they’d all stand up at the local democratic party enclaves and hiss and spit about what non bigots they were.

She was the kind of woman that abortion was being accepted for, lest gals like this come home with half Italic scions for the sissies of skull and bones, but mostly they were aware of this glass cellar, an knew not to ever play in so sanitized and vicious a pool. The frequent attempts at equality, mostly  payees for by the USSR and snapped up by the local new Amsterdam Jews well I can attest, has caused a mixture of races and little brown grandchildren that have the teeth of the old Roses on edge, as their vain testaments to make sure their families were free of Poles, Dagos and Greeks has left them open to this, which serves them right.

She passed the Rexall drugs sign, in this sleepy Any Wednesday era Sunday in New Amsterdam afternoon, and then passed a billboard written on a script in iron that read Bloomingdale's on Fifth. And she walked closer to the building here, as Falsie queen here prattled on with a story that, to me, seemed to be a hidden attempt at exacerbating a lover’s quarrel. As she and Uberman were connected as the sixth grade mind at work in comics would agree to, as I knew by now she had been thrown in with Uberman, who was Shapiro’s bag man in all of this, cause of unsteadiness on a newsprint Olympus.

And whatever happened between these two lovers, it certainly wasn’t going to take my attention, as had the tragic story of the school killing between Veronica’s sister and that idiot who wore that inside out fedora as a fashion statement. I was by now waiting to hear the lovely girl tap tap tap against the metal steps of the almost desolated building. She was the future of this place, at least to me, and Denise was a dreary present in which everything as drowned in miss Clairol and spermicidal cream as way to always find the 3 martini dream of a button down, Madison venue life, that Marlyn Monroe, speaking of sickening Capote, had left us all with, more fraudulent by the nonce.

3. When Captain Magnus finally got up from kneeling and up chucking and ruined and beaten at the Martian dusts, he was half completed, and tired and sore and broken, and he wiped his blue black hair back from his punctured and reddened and whipped skin. The fact that he had so black India Inked straight planks of thick hair, and such a brow, was not by bad aiming by the fates, as the human battery of sunlight he was made into by that meeting with the Star man, his godfather fairy, the black of his hair allowed as it did for Italians and Arabs and Jews for time immemorial through a Darwinian exercise, the ability to soak up the divine sun. It had allowed them, as he, to store as much sunlight from the Martians sky walker sky god Sun. So now for the next time in millennia,  Catha, the boy who rode the white gold chariot across the sky, gave the boy man sunlight as he could get, as the yellow bracelets he wore, a remnant of the great  Curmudgeon CC Gimbals, who worked on his ancestors strips, and these sleeves were protectors of his almost Popeye like forearms  too, soaked up the stilted, rounding, almost bright light of the forth planet.

Now he walked with torn cape and torn chest insignia, a recalling of the signage all centurions wore on burnished chest plates of yore, with the pretty purple shinning sprite next to him as she as if a be smitten Bea, took a joy in being and alighted about and around her beloved Roman God who wore so convincingly royal, or was it blood, Caesars red. Even the hair on his hands sopped up the sunlight to regalia him with solar power, as he walked less tired and less at wits end than before, but, she kept along an anti Tippy toe, an anti fairy, against and buttressed from those as you’d see in those awful Pizney drawings, or that heinous doll given to girls to learn their place as math hating boy mad whores, and so, Bea the butterfly girl kept up with him and felt a certain joy at all of this. They walked along the crashed path, playfully she spun and caned and flicked about him a creature of an Ovidian knight time eons before the midsummer’s of the Elizabethan age, as he could feel his soaring, growing, as if eating spinach in Segar, almost cartoonist made,  musculature gaining in the vitamin d energized blood he had been remade as, and given unto, when the felled Starman hit the earth, when he did, and decided to get somehow away from the adventures he had tired of.

She laughed, and burst with joy this close to her beloved, as she adored him so, again put here by conniving Anvil commix group as they vain gloriously called themselves, he was no less a mischief loving, dark Browed Mitchum, in a world of weirdos and pansies, sissy’s and chumps, goofballs and ninnies he was a return to the laconic, tired, listless, fitful and yet lazy, honest and yet shady, marker cared reader through tired droopy eyes, that Magnus was to her. She laughed and he was glad to have seen her, his fiat moneyed, baby doll protectoress, as theirs could have been a sacred attitude by him being found or kept alone on, Mars. The Roman planet in whole and parts, stolen and hidden from the usa and its beer drinking cheater hordes,  waters and springs not here, necessarily, but the water of rivers under-did, which rapids and whooshed arises from  the red planate in photos seen by Brezhnev quickly called Classified, or at least the Russian word for such, AS FRANKLY THE DEATH OF COMMUNIST RUSSIA WAS PRETTY MUCH IN THE FACT THEY NEVER STOPPED BEING ORTHODOX, at enlisted in its worsted parts, which was most of it all.

As he would have to stay here, the short haired dancer sprite said to him, until the cocoon he lived within and survived within had to completely reassign itself to him, something’s seen mostly in the gorgeous art deco monstrosities of Fletcher Hanks, lest he be torn apart trying to traverse the escape that the star wizard had eagerly tapered about until he had as all men do, tired of the centurions creed, although some never mouth it to begin with.

4. You’re a heck of a man, Bee said in best Olive Oil Admiring of the sailor mahn, as she spun her white wasp wings about , frantically and blue birdisteically, to keep her afloat in the light Martian air. Thank you, he said, not realizing yet that she had saved him as she had by twanging her magic Twanger as she had, but he had a good idea, that she was behind his freedom. I must get home, Doll, he said, making her swoon, she loved him now so very much, but all, as in tales such as this , if she would break the magic spell,  had she made herself anything other than his guardian, Mother Gaea would have been quite the angered den mother of her and the other woodland friary woman.

Oh, she was no Virgin, god knows, this isn’t the works of Grimm’s, who took the works of the show makers and the babblers of Italy and made them sexless and dull. No, she had her share of boys or men, other warlocks, male sprites, doges, kings, princes as  she used her sexuality as a weapon at times to get even with vulgar men in a way in which cardinals or rabbis thought they were immune and why they paid Florentine indulgences between rapes. She had had them all, none like this monstrous centurion, gods knew, and with males sprouts, as in all of action it was through such copulation that all living things are born, including fairy centaurs and Satyrs and such creatures, a bestiary demeaned by boring English minds, as usual, no matter what Arthur Pizney said, but rules were rules.And she thought,  she lost her heart to this massive boy made man, though she yearned and  longed to know what that giant Prick behind Red corduroy pants and suit felt like within and about her, should she berate the magic seal, they would both be destroyed, as did Romans take vestals and centurions who were caught coupling. As back then, and still in ways, they would be thrown into pits and showered with cement until they were made human fossils, now seen all over the place  in old mother Italy, from where she had come. She admired the man, and had to get some sort of pleasure just by being with him, in that sort of sweeter and yet sad, way that the italics call literature.

5. He walked now a good mile from the plumes of the Vesuvius made there confounding and terrorizing the watchmen of the night sky in Los Alamos, as the paranoia of empire cause smaller clerk men to see all metre of threats in the night excepting,  of course,  the ones that are possibly real. But by Martian noon, the weakest sun high in the Panned sky, making the world here shine with a red worthy of a Spartan cape, they had come to the edge of Cryse. It was the name of the plains here, made by long gone glaciates in the Martian foreverness, now gone but a small white cap to the planet, as it was called the sea of Gold. So, don’t think the Ussr commies haven’t sent drones to find out of that name was true, as they search mightily for enough money to keep their surveillance state afloat. On Mars, the days, father from the sun can be indiscriminately long for the season of poles and shifting and angles there of  which may have devastated the war planet back when Jack was its warlord king, three thousand years ago, as implied by books that the Greeks, those original imperial hacks, burned as mere apostasy, but which men called  as a name Naevicus kept alive, and Ariosto too, inventing something referred to now as science fiction.

 He had by now ironically veered back away from the centre of Cryse, which he now made a black smoke and immense flames Temple to Vulcan, worthy of death of a Roman scientist or thinker or poet, all were once intertwined, a mount which now existed, which would have drowned a thousand Pompeys. The flitting purple dressed organism with bangs ,she flew about in circles as her sprightly body as intoned and intertwined with his in ways both sweet and dangerous, but a lover of the Roman hero as was she, she had to make sure she never made herself big enough to be with the massive man, lest she go down in history as a kind of Delilah more akin to the woman hating epistles and screeds of Jews ,as every woman in Italy if pretty enough has  more of a Delilah in her than those sad girls and haggard marginalizing yentas of the similar and yet diametrically opposed Middle race. Delilah is a goddess in some parts, which the Italians at least never  much give into making into an archetype as the Jews had. You have to stay here on Barsoom, she said, cueing the name from the yellowed books she and her literate magical ilk adored, read by many a boy in thieved pre Imperial days of forced decency and civility as they call it, way before our Caesar FDR decided to , despite being called a communist, gave the military the America it had hoped to get its hands on for decades, and now could own, openly,  as Roosevelt had gathered together all the trash on the same said en gave them payments as a Caesar would.

They walked, again he in a kind of physical shininess, and they made it past the remnants of the face, an ancient monument,  looking out over and into the night sky that they had mapped when the earth was still full of creatures  who lived mostly in the dew of grass, after the last dragon lizard king fell to earth after the meteor had struck and would make them all museum pieces literately.

She couldn’t suppress a smile, knowing that the burgeoning vendetta in her beloveds  mind was now added to and matched for some reason by the Roman writer Dore, who she had come to admire for his love of warding off the vile eye another thing as so many Gaius and Perpetua  Brought TO Christ’s table, whatever he would like it or not, as Paul again knew to always go where the power leis, and to Jews and Greeks, despite it all, that always means Romans and never means slaves. Look it up.- Ed. No, she said, gingerly, this anti Tippytoe, this Beatrice of the vines, Fox is gone, replaced  by Dore Duvall. The name immediately means something to the boy hero as he had read Brutus, as a kid, and saw Dore often being bitchy and wonderfully so, acerbic,  on the David Susskind show when hitting PBS on the uvf dial by accident on Sunday afternoons.

Ill get you home, she told him and buzzed by his face,  her immense in most ways, especially to her,  light peach south side Italian cheek and gave it a slight peck, as she had to by now. Ill get you home, big man, she said with a slight goofiness about her which as beguiling, No matter what.

He now stood there shimmering, as if a Roman antiquity that Moma despite any bullshit, will always buy in the black market from whatever Sultans or pimps, radicals or rich Agnelli are willing to haggle, and that their art thieves always on the lookout for. The selling of which as much’s Sulimans actual brilliance at war, the early Islamics sued to sell to crusaders to finance their church when they were artifacts that were more Homage than anything else. Like the Moljiner hammer, which Jack Varney sent to Dore as a remnant of that lost time and hero, it said, fittingly enough, property of MGM  prop departments as was sued by Kirk Douglas IN SOME PIECE OF SHIT ABOUT Vikings. As in they were fake, but great  fakes, which is after all, an art in itself. The suit he wore started now to have its divine cotton rescue itself back to together s the uniformed star started to re asserts as unbroken a garment as it tied its every loose ripped ends back together and made a suit whole than it was. I must get back him, he thought to s the next Dorothy in the forever chapters of the best fantasy which has  been allegorical  and not not just Pizney falderal and white mans dreams since the age of Italic folktales. Here was our little John, dauntless and strong, egging and poised, as he was through muscle and in shirt restricted  himself as if busting ahead,  together into a super human that now Shelly or Kafka would have ever imagined as again, the Ubermench was nothing more than the ballyhoo of the Roman Gallanthomo, the great soldier remade as Mythical, the don Quixote nothing more than the couturier of Venice, as in our hundred years of Solitude,  which s the dreaded 20th century of Foxes and lairs, the roman boy had returned at least to himself if not the Kansas to which, like home base we all wish to return. He held out his hand, and dutifully the spriest came and handed on it though she seemed a bit unsure as he looked down to be a goliath who would survive any slingshots, and he could with a flick deviated the ancient alkali of woman and bumble bee which she was.

11. With a gentleness, not often seen by the horrid scope and science heroes of anvil, they actually  take a few pages out if each issue, you see,  when confronted by another to alwasy beat the snot out of whoever is accosted always in the sort of ,mistaken identity, which you would ahev thought would have been over by 1966. They, them, all looking when done in the dreary house style of Jake the snake, no, Capt here, he had a Neal Adams formatted style to him, as he summed up the kind of Comic God that that infinitely superior artist who’d move on to the commerce of cereal boxes and shoe ads, had seemed to make Captain Magnus one of his sketches come to life. Actually and no insult he was more like a Wayne Boring creature come to magnificent life, as it was Wayne boring who pretty much invented the American way of comic book and was as this is written working as a security guard at something sprung out of the mind of the true Buckminster, now called a strip mall, as who doesn’t know all his genius, like Bauhaus, will eventually become that which is cheapest to do, as the fountain head is always first come and first serve.

He took the small ephemeral creature with white tissue wings, who he could have quickly killed, why dos anyone kill, but she was nervous this flying solid gold count down of billboard songs  dancer made a woodland imp, and she bit her big lower lip frightened,  but landed on the massive palm, unsure what he’d do nest, always a Mitchem attribute which made him, as a hero, unparalleled. Recently, the film of Patton had been made,  and though it is unthinkable now without George C Scott, it was first offered to Mitchum. He, through wise guy, before that word became synonymous with idiot,  heavy, concise eyes, glassy eyes, and with lips in perpetual pout as he and some wise ass Italians always had, he took a look at the script and passed, saying, Naw, You need someone who cares, a now famous line. But Captain Magnus did care, as without caring a vendetta, as his people knew since time immemorial, was merely carnage and worthless if it didn’t have a shtickle of devoutness.

The more sullen and forthright and disgustingly decent Kirk Douglas and his buddy the more affable and big circus boy Burt Lancaster, they looked like hero well enough, but both were always so earnest and decent and lecturing they made one , at least Curtis when he watched the late show sick, as they ere sticks in the mud. With a surprise genteelness, the giant killer giant man, one must be a monster to destroy monsters, or better a saint, as he revivified the idea  of the comic hero in ways Shapiro and Leiber the Holland Dozier Holland of funnies could not.

12.As he had been freed now the earthly equivalent of an afternoon, though it seemed to be light here forever, perhaps some trick of the curvature of mars, Capt breathed in as much air as he could get from what was in the thin layer of torn bits of Martians astrosphere, and filed his generous lungs, He stood at the base of the tower which once held the mad Martian king, who Goddard was sure had sent his proto loopy roman kin to come to earth to save their red soldier capes, and Magnus looked through MATINEE IDOL SQUINTING EYES TO THE FLAG WHICH FLEW ATOP OT STILL. In the flag was his insignia, the yellow star, sued too much now by commie pinko’s and fat girls feigning radical chic ties between blind dates. He then like a man would, and taken away in latest films done of Uberman, in which he seemed to float like a queer joke, he flew as Dirk Decker, a cowboy star did in the adventures of captain Magnus, which had been a republic serial in 1940, in which dummies and trampolines were so implemented and used to simulate the concept of flight which, and not Uberman, he was the first to commit to in comics, as with a female sidekick, a bald scientist villain, and many other things that the heinous creeps at Fee Cee couldn’t even start to replicate after having destroyed the first one.

He ran down the broken martial wall, and with a spring as he recalled seeing it done by that actor who he had met at a local comic shop when Curtis was a boy, he sprang upwards sousing the ground as a launching pad, and he flew up into the aria, as his predicator had and he would again, with arms making a sign of strength,  a flex almost, and he spun around with saffron cape snapping and flying behind him, again sopping up the powerful unfiltered sunshine. And he as if a Michelangelo sepia pencil lead sketch, it now come to life and reason, or perchance the old yellow paper of study guides for Captain Magnus made by the Fleishman Brothers and the old con man held onto as if a Magna Carta by the deflated Pizney, the Captain flew and hovered, flew and stood, zoomed and hung in the airs there. As from here, he could see the curvature of this planet, as it spun towards into the indigo images of the reflected sun, which frankly armed him as more powerful. And all through this, the sprite, as a stowaway who stood on the shoulder of the man, though she could fly herself, she squealed with glee and slapped her hands together with joy that the man had come back to town, or at least to wherever this was.

As he landed, he gently let her go as she buzzed about him, and dutifully and smitten. She floated in mid airs.

He blew a gust of Martian breath at the lovely sprite, causing her to close her eyes in sexual rapture, as she spun backwards into the tunnels of space and time, into Magna like steals of black lines made by fascist sized tipped markers that expel a thick smelly line. She fell backwards naked, as if a dolly is often undressed in ways by little girls who are given such  toys as children, and she wheeled backwards into the backlash as her dress had turned back into the Lilacs from which it was originally sewn, and she went backwards in a circle into the tunnels that creaks and crosses the creation and space, as only starting to be guessed at, to the black energy that keeps the universe sewn tighter,  which was only truly known of as there by geniuses like Giordano Bruno and of course, the salty comic genius, Fletcher Hanks. He stood there as a red figure in the coming Martian dusk, sure that somehow the pretty little girl of the weeds and the vineyards would somehow allow him to finally get home.

12 September 2015


After finessing pages cleared to be submitted, when somehow blindsided by comics hacks on perpetual parade, I sent them in to various sites I had been doing well with and accepted into only to get a frigid silence, and not even a whiff of diminishment or distaste. Ah, I take it I have been banished from the comic kingdom, or ghetto, its doesn’t matter, both are acceptable, and both tell the truth. Not caring about distance from the kiss less hacks of comic land, where like Stan lee they think all truth is something that can be found on the late late show, I could care less, though prepackaged these pages as have done since twelve to send off to whatever comics lands I can find, thrown off to anyone who like me is tired of the American ethos of a love of dark ages. As I have said before have been legit in my tiredness of the bed wetter assassin cradlers since twenty, when I first and best thought I was too old for the sissies of pulp, made all the worse by thinking their watercolor image palate made everything look hip.

But, as usually when dealing for some reasons with the comics twerps, there is a underground of comic hacks worthy of a black web, the writes which they all are sue the brightly colored images from Hanna Barbara to hide and mask their true insinuations, nightmares and fears, and so, again my computer as broken apart by caught viruses which seem you’d think by now Id know attach themselves to the lovers of death called the comic hacks and you’d think I would leave such dumps be, as even in emails telling me to go to bleeding cool from some, as if, I somehow had a hp catch a cold, a nd it was ruined. Not that windows ten wasnt already a dagger it saw before it, as that and a DVD app, and photo apps not include in the free pace leaving much of my work mute as a starving Roman, downloaded caused a friction that left it useless, and this time, a quick restoration process, as it didn’t in Victorian England, didn’t work, and may have put things worse. So, without a funnel to the modern Delphi, I went upstairs into the attic into a pizzel maker Christmas box and found an old compact computer that has been lying there since at least when Nicky Tricky Sabin had yet to leave the dolphins that cold December night. I took it and cleaned it of my sisters imatched inquiries as she found she had been placed on a suckers list making me file that idea away for a rom com a bit more vicious and vituperative  than anything Sandra Bullock has ever done, story of my life as have been told I can be funny or I can be touching, but I cant be both. I took the lap top, not a fan thereof, anyway, and it works well enough since I got rid of the strange pictures the pleading I match, erectile dysfunction, on the make, dufuseses sent my sister, who were all looking, trolling, for a desperate broad, and downloaded my own stuff. But a cord and battery was gone, and works too, and all my stuff had been unrevealed since ten came out, so had to go to staples, the closest store that doesn’t have it but can order one, life on the ponderosa,  here amusingly enough I actually this time found what I needed, and put this haphazard computer together. But it took about 200 bucks all together to buy a new battery and works so I could read my stuff, something unable to do in windows ten which who knew they’d go Stromboli, that’s allowed as jewed down is not, and cheap out and make people get a free system and then nickel and dime them for cash needed app, showing the ethics, if Cresses is alive.

But because I had to do this and race about back and forth to staples who since Romney has and knows nothing, we don’t sell windows 7 I was told, wait what…?, and we never sold it, so there, but try office max an affable black gent said in almost whisper, as they have nothing ten computable. Oooohgnnnnnnphhha as pop said, but went here and there and in three days biblically put a box tougher to get on to modern Delphi and be on line, as we all must be. Why I hurried so is a mystery now, as in fact the September 10th deadline for these cartoons has come and gone without a notice, but still I must place this here as to show Warren and the Marvellettes I am invictus, or at least unbowed, and that again, there is decency to the Roman grease pencil, as graffito is after all, history of those men you ignore or shame, and I must make the Jesuits proud, at least a little bit. Silence met the work acceptable only weeks ago, but then does anyone ever look at this shit here before I hand something back in…? The quiet was Welcome relief. But the money spent to put this ad hoc box back together, meant that I was tapped, again, as have been all summer as an enclose of my own money is down to ones and fives again, and don’t feel like doing anything for money again. I wanted to go to the Pittsburgh comic con, but alas could not. Though when I said this, my brother who would have to drive me, said don’t be scared of seeing these comic creeps, Tony, don’t back down because those hacks and ninnies are there, or those comic queers, what is this, these sissies becoming elites now…?, they decide who can speak and where you can go, what are they bad asses now because no one is there to hurl them into lockers…? my brother was viably upset that I might have been intimated, which frankly I really isn’t, but just don’t have the cash or want him to spend it. I have the money he said, Ill pay for us to go if you’d want. No I said, I know he hates those sort more than I, though is more affable than Ill ever be, but I thought was tired out after a week of this back and forth and though as making a portfolio as an ultimate fuck you to the arrested development crowd, didn’t go.

I had to call a girl I knew, Queen Victoria, who is coming back from Paramus to be here, who noted to meet with me, and called her and sadly found myself walking away from the cute girl again, which serves me right. She will, if she even comes, will get a autograph from Lou Ferrigno for me, as she knows the story about how the dismissal of him and Stallone as uberman so imposed me as a kid that the idea of the body builder Italian superman was born, hence Roman Conan, no not that one, an antithesis to my beloved cc beck, but filial piety on display. In this I predicted the later image supermen and atomic wonder men, but again, I got there with much more panache and warmth. Though cant get a response from the comic hacks, really this is low level and the smell of sulfur if not sweat makes me ill, I do have an opening from a pulpish publisher for Rag, as the original Mario Puzo like paperback I envisioned, and have several floppies which holds it all, but pages in apache and brother wp, but i should get even by returning to words.

I watched the game on Thursday, though a fan on neither team, and turned it immediately when saw the con was on with how the black coach, like the black quarterback  before him, was devastated by the medusa of football, so vouched for by bathroom boys and Jews and house coons. As even Mud bone couldn’t stop googol eyeing long enough to ask the always seeing jealousy  everywhere in everything,  Kornehiser around him, always willing to come to Bellicheat’s defense, as it protects Tribesman Kraft, don’t think that isn’t involved, but Mudbone couldn’t make his fat lips curl to ask when clicking off dynasties for whom this wasn’t done, ah the names Landry and Americas team wasn’t mentioned, cause again, niggers are born con men and that was hitting too close to home. Lets ask if Landry was cheating, you know, between Billy Graham missions, shall we…? So again, I cant stand anything Roman when it becomes this Greek, and since calculation is only a half note from conniving, that

only a half note from cheating, and thus do rei mi, I said enough, and turned it off to some movie, as find your bad versions of Rome have bored even me, but then I know all the punch lines. But, this was spoken of all night, as he was warned by low rent, babblers, oh finally the threadbare bothers even Franciscan me, yow!,  one doesn’t want to look like a sore loser, the credo of cheats and bag men since Isaiah, or is it icarus...who cares. the coach finds his one honest moment as unheard, he is the latest  black victim of mister mind, Tom Terrific and Sharon the football circus owner, but I couldn’t care, but was glad to see it continue, as once you carry water, get ready for the dislocations to start, Marius barefoot Roman Clinton shaper than all the swells were, said with his usual wit, and this was a best f off in week needing them to all teach all step men who unromantically thought they just wanted to blood sports to start and begin, that Bellicheck like the Clintons would only stop when their act got stale, boring and repetitive to the circus land. Id say like Gore they’ll only stop with embalming fluid, but it will end long before that. As if that meant anything, as if, I Roman Antony , who saw that occupy and the tea party would have their revenge against ninny lipless wonder Barry, as if I, who saw the Clintons becoming the duke and duchess of Syracuse, he ends up strangling her over a scalped beautiful Italian woman he has destroyed for madam power-hungry, oh its all so Roman, but not quite, I made them not ready for Boccaccio players, back when lesbians were making fat jokes about a Jewish girl who didn’t matter, as though I didn’t know that just playing the games couldn’t indeed make everything worse.