21 July 2008


As proud as I am of my hurling bullshit right aback at the Warren Ellis--ses-- es and Francis Ford Coppollas of the world,--really, they have too many men with pale faggy girlie arms and who wear dirty captain America T- shirts who think they are Chaucer--, and as I wear the distaste of me by fat Hillary dykebots with the honor of a ribbon on a dress blue uniform, or even as the red blood plume feathers of a roman centurion which were meant to mirror the woodpecker Mars began life as, I am also quite proud of other gentler moments of approval and of being admired ALMOST as much.

I have some hand written notes sent to me, that are held in a folder with old untouched pencil drawings of many unfinished vunder-pow-miss annie-ubergirls. Yes, all, all with massive Tits and tucheses , dears, ...am I being too much like Paul Mooney when I wince at white woman and fags who detest cartoon big titties...I wonder...? One is from a publisher who called my work, the most enjoyable he had seen all year. One is from a directorial sort who thought my story of poor madman footsoldier Lucius, by me, was superior to that "Im Shapparticusss' Kirk Douglass shit, or as I like to call it, One flew over the Eagle's nest. Please, The Romans raped the Umbrian farm girls mercilessly and them ripped fetuses out of the poor girl's stomaches...that To Tell The Truth , MY name is Sparticus goulash isnt going to trip them up. You know, like, how the Jews did to the Canaanites and all...

Also, a few years ago, a black woman scholar sent me a note that she had read a novella in the RM collection I sent her ad for her collections of myths, a story called THE GODS OF WARS, and that was about the flood as seen by ancient Italians, and, the avian birth of Mars. She told me in a note she would love to read my work, buy my work and keep my work, but as she was starting a publishing house for coloreds, and was looking for any folktales non-white, she didn't think she could sell my work. She had been looking for different Folktales from various civilizations and had to admit that the shit she got was very much in the shit one gets from Jews and Injuns and Negroes and others, so decent and so cleansed it made her ill. But mine was true to the name Roman, she said, in that strange compliment Jews and Niggers never understand, and how she liked it immensely. A White woman--of course Italian, I later sent it to made a point that I was an idiot and had kept on misspelling Minerva, all the way through. [As seen above , the bronze aged name of the goddess and her bitchy, cutie pie attitude was forged by Tyrranians as Menvra, literally man-egg, and later Turks distorted it all into their Anatolian greeky jewy syrian bullshit.As usual. ]

But, this lady black scholar scholar liked it and me, amazingly for some one denounced by the wop princes of Brooklyn as a fascist, but, this was 2004, and the age of the Sopranos, you know, as if that somehow shorthandedly explained it all. But she was kind to me and I hated the gumba sopranos more then than her, for merely telling a strange truth of things. And she was a scholar with a Harvard background in African history not some peanut eating, pork chop guzzling, white woman hunting, afro sheen, soul train, bullshit artist like Kordell West.

I feel a waining of the energies that I used to put into things, to get such accolades from people, as I am becoming somnambulant now in trying to write like a white broad. I took out parts of 'Statius and Tarentino', re- seen in the last two posts, and I felt bad about it, and wonder what will be worse, if it is after all I have done to it , not accepted and not published, or if... if it will be...?

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20 July 2008



[Why the Italians wrote of gods and monsters while grinning miscopying, supposed angel to ear hearing geniuses with brays like asses, wrote of barbers. Italians would see enough hagiography of barbers.]

I recall the day that scene in Julius Cesar, where Cassius hears the clock strike twelve...what....?, was discussed and disgusting to a balding, portly, glasses wearing priest in pitch black, and who I am resembling more in many ways each day, down to the thinning hair, named Father Ginnocchi, in his always completely fatigued way. He did note that the sweet, farcical practice of Ovid's time was put into a scene of imperial murderers, but not in the scene of the balcony of the teenager Juliette of Verona, where it would belong. But this just showed the priest what a scumbag Shakespeare really was. Sometimes, I think it would be better for me if I didn't know that, like say Gandolfini probably doesn't , nor Scorsese either...It may be keeping me from my italic-american destiny of shilling credit cards or begging for oafish, soul- deadening parts off Broadway.

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12 July 2008


Before the reconstruction of Ironman as My Girl Friday, and even before the Iron Giant, which had that signature Pixar sticky sickeningly sweet pepto bismol pink colored crap holding it together, I made, in a suspicious of me art school, a instillation called The Iron man.

Above is the cover of a comics variation of that eight page 22 by 36 paneled instillation, which cemented my reputations in art school of being a man- boy who would do anything except draw the marvel way. In the giant pages, in a kind of roman e clef, a boy man named Googy -as in Tony plus Goon , plus the architecture of a missing America I loved, became the wearer of a suit of iron armor. The suit is made by a wizard who plays in dirt all day called Profondo, and pretty brunette shows up, later.

This was like the fable of the roman suit, Bradamente, used by Calvino, but with a few more killing sprees in it. One two page spread was a massacre, in which the awful art of Jackson Pollock was taken by me, copied and brought to kinko's, were every spatter and tear was remade as red as blood. To me at least this time, Pollock's shit looked actually better, but then, that is just blood adoring roman me. This was seen as apostasy by the middle brows, but Ciotti thought it was gallant, heroic art, as he called it. Perhaps , like girl editors who bitch on blogs, he had seen one too many real comic Iron men, or merry marvel Ironmen, so mine was delightfully, if a bit bloodied, new. And like Bradamente, I think recalling Italian Folktales, eventually a girl , an ice queen--no mean joke, the story even in the Pete Townsend brilliant adaptations held an ice queen--ironically sets the hidden iron heart of Googy selflessly aflame , ect ect...

I thought of it again, and went and found it, as emblazoned upon the steel of the supposedly bleeding Iron- marionette, was the Horacio exclamation Carpe Diem, or seize or pulck or grab hold of, or take the day, meaning life. I thought of it as some white trash broad in a important magazine --too important for an essay about Captain Marvel or any other "Comics strip"--was trashing that and other opus Horatia lines of verve, most nobly and too disquieting for this lefty bitch, that its is sweet to die for ones country. Oh, you white trash scum have become pacifists I see, since the destruction of civilization and of Rome, how nice...

Well, hell, doll, I have been rejected more than not, and don't much care about it, as if I did, care what the marvellettes thought of my work, I would have broken down and blandly used a ruler years ago. The fact that Captain Marvel isn't serious enough for you, and your magazine of sudden disquiet about the god head nigger queen, Dido Obama--how have I missed THAT ANALOGY all this time? ,... is about par for this exclusive, self adoring, satire eschewing golf course called America. And, though you have been retaught well by Lucas to disparage and destroy all things "Empire", a favorite word of this middle brow cunt, -like say Al Quida...? --The breadth of your stupidity or your meanness is staggering.

I had Coldplay thrown in my face as some kind of American thinking. Shit, hun, I am too hep for cold play even at forty , hun, they are the winger of our sadly hilarious time, and as for your ideal against Horace, the line is, doll, It is sweet to die for ones country, BUT IT IS ALL THE SWEETER TO LIVE FOR IT, AND SWEETEST OF ALL IS TO DRINK, SO LETS HAVE A TOAST. Or, I recall words taught to me by suspicious of white trash America Priests telling me, to that effect, stolen by Shakespeare for the Kiss me Kate scene in The Shrew. The point of the line is live and enjoy while we are alive, and before empire crushes us, lets drink to life, and it is a Italian esprit which can be seen in everything from Virgil to Tony Bennett to Here's to Life by the great blues singer Joe Williams. I didn't care that this white trash bitch didn't like my work, but, suddenly I felt myself again, like the captain marvel of the piece, remade as a rosy cheeked defender of the dying republic, even empire, now maybe, just a defender against the mandrakes of barbarism. Her purposeful misstating and self righteously quoting part of Horace showed me who they were and what I was.

And, I was again as I always irrevocably was, what I was called even dismissively in art school by the Clevengers and the green haired creeps who saw art as a means to being published in an even then dead heavy metal, I find that I keep saying, incessantly, that, I AM THE IRONMAN.

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