20 March 2012

THE BANK OF AMERICA.






March 15, 2012



1.Some cable station is running the Godfather of a loop, it seems, and Rudy isn't even in the race...The whole mispuka Coppolla and their golden doors is quite a strange artifact when seen by me now, its overkill Shakespearean Father dynamic of the sorts even a Dowdy can think through, its lush Last emperor Botticelli orange glows, its Detroit when chrome was thick devotion to the car as modern chariot, its cold war American consumerism, its misplaced Amacord Nino Rota carnival music over the necklaces...its all Italian in that worst Television commercialized I remember mama sort of way which I have tried to avoid, or at least do all more correctly since 1977, when I was a boy meant to be remade by it, by our Tookie, Francis, with his delusions of grandeur like our Sicily Brotherhood among the Jews.

2. I always admired both Studs Turkel and John Leonard  if for nothing else, having perhaps seen the outfit wasn't worthy of a Verdi approximation, they both were the first to be disquieted by its overture mentality and its misapplied artiness to what was a silly  bunch of thugs, with a panache of Virgil stickled to it, which again I am not as political minded as I preen, when I said that, thinking it was a compliment, made me persona non grata at Zoetrope and the lovers of movies amid the kegs and dregs, as to an American Plastic, if not Plastique astute user and fraud like FF, even he is smart enough to know that the word Virgil, unless in Dante and not even so much then, is Toxic to the land where Beowulf is art, literature, cartoon and video game. Since, now, after all, such is they have made Dante in our Koran scarifies by writ of the sacrament of dynamite world. I say with Roman Aplomb, to my Arab friends, as after all I took it on the chin for saying that the Arabs circumnavigated the earth in 800 BC, and then heard a man on John Batchelor admit that vessels have been found in Mesopotamia with Atlantic sea barnacles on their hulls, showing the mud always hides what the Greeks, Jews and their white trash in law Germans hope was burned away. Don't let the Saint Joan women and the Whitey of Boston politics pretend they admire the holy book of yours, they admire nothing, not even the little red book, and so, you'd be better off to forgo the riots, their admiration is as it always is with the stupid, is strictly defensive and utilitarian.

3. But, in 2000, still on a brother word processor, I took Coppolla at his word and since he has made such a show of proportions  and rationalization that the Godfather wasn't a ostentatious minstrel show, and so, instead of taking the Mafia drama to an even more sulfurous level, so deep and dark and dank that even its creators Score-easy and Francis Ford Crabapple were eventually made to feel as my father was, by their vulgar work some time before, I wrote a continuation of their ethos, called Roman Mythology. The Title was props, even an insult, as to good Sicilians like them, the word Roman, though an honorific as opposed  to the Jews and the white women who own them as dancing slaves, still reach towards it , as it did for a nice black woman who liked my work of Kemeter and Turan, the word is important as golden eagles, it still has a magic, as does the word Peckinpah, or Chayefsky.






The white trash like Obamalaa have always been torn between a hatred of the last Trojan's brood, the Romans, and too, a need for collecting every laurel they left in the soot, down to the word senator, or Diva or a tsunami of whirring other oak leaves the barbarism have been festooning upon their red heads since the great fires, and knowing this, I took, if I might, their precarious Godfather to a logical conclusion that the HBO crowd of Jews they did miss, proudly on purpose. In the screenplay, RM, was a criminal of the Italian worst kind, a Banker no less, is squaring debts with what I had been hearing about even then, bundling and packaging and  political influence, to destroy the local mob for no better treasons than it was Fun, along with a big black cousin of his, written for a Tony Syragusa or Ray Ray Lewis sort, --Michael Irvin shows up in Big Bertha as The Shah, --, as with Roman aplomb, the two boyish bankers show that the vileness of shotgun and deed are in fact, as have been since Manzoni, intertwined. And then, as events unfold towards October 12th, 2001-- and didn't that date end up different than we thought it would be when chosen by me in 1999--Hillary would be at the Patavium, NY sons of Italy, on Columbus day parade, and asking for money from Brutus, and as all this drama went on, he has taken a liking to a young Italian Girl named Clementine, this before that name was destroyed by all the Sundance creeps I had to deal with, who is the step daughter of a local thug named Phillip Macedonia, who like here in my little town, was after all Greek, or Sicilian, or as Roman haughty Brutus said, what after all is the difference...?

As in the film, alone on a Upstate day, at night, as the last summer of America as I called it with Prescience then, Brutus stands next to the Roman wall he has had stolen from a museum, as his biggest crime, the crime that would matter would be trafficking in Italian antiquities, that you hate anyway, sometimes giving them away or selling them to Italians who work for Copolla and must wash their souls. There, Brutus alone and unwinding, as 'The she', the everything girl, the thudnerbolt goddess, played in my minds moviola by the then immaculate Angelina Jolie, before the closeted golden boy made her a stepford starlet, he starts to sing under his breath, while futzing with his Baretta Gun. That's nice, a Jew movie broker named Jack Rosen told me, but then I was the one once told by another Jewish procurer, who told me to look into DIY everything back in 2003 as nobody would be caught dead making this, not the gonnifs he knew who kissed white trash ass all day--oh yes they are often above board and honest with Big Tony it is my gift. I think of those Jews who told me the truth when I am called anti Semitic for not giggling along with Jewry Jonnie as he rolls his eyes and etiquette's between apologies to dead racist Ghosts of the lefty Pantheon.

And Brutus, a banker's heir, without the sloppy overlay of Copolla who still tries to convince our white mezzanine that his cartoons was some sort of corrective on IBM, like 2001 was, usuries the true weapon of the new Judea, the fountain pen, to astutely and Romanly crush the proud, who as much as anything we always find out, are never much more than nigger's and Sicilians always are, paid jailhouse snitches. Ah But Brutus was a paragon of the American dream, and so, as he made sure he bought up the town of Pattavium New York, down to the local Italian American  club where Phillip, written for an even then spiralling out of control, but Brilliant, Tom Sizemore, very admired by me, was now paying rent to imperial Brutus, as crime does pay, after all, more than anyone would like to think. Simulus for everyone....!, but shrink Social Security, famine it, so people buy just enough crap so this nigger tap dances and hand jives to the rrright... So while so many were so laughing at their little sopranos game show puppetry farce, I smelt out what was the urine of the empire, as people like me have been doing from Juvenal to Pirandello, and I could sense  that this house of marked cards  now one which Obamalaa uses to play solitaire wasn't going to hold, as an Italian after all, I know the differed between the Romans and the dirty filthy Sicilians, unlike Copolla, or maybe not,  has always been of course the size of their crimes. The fact that Brutus to his own Roman name was seen as an anathema  to the white women who have built their church of middlebrow like Saloon.com  on the bones of those left in aids quilts, as opposed  to the laughter and good feelings felicity by fatso Gandolfini at that same time, told me all I needed to know, which, as Machiavelli said, is sometimes good enough. The fact that, like PECKINPAH, AND ONLY IN BLACK AND WHITE TEXT, could get that same reaction to Brutus that he got with his perfectly named Wild Bunch, down to Di Nero's Jewish handler that they give out as Virgil guides to the house nigger ethnics, saying to me that Italians don't fall in Love, well, what more needs be known in our Salons where yakking women race to the toilet lest a menstrual leakage be the ultimate bad taste  affront to myopic dithering faggots. Alas, that preordinated Jew acceptable imagery of Gandolofini at the Colossus of Jersey looking backwards, it was a insult to be sure, just not one they ever enacted to see fulfilled too well. I currently saw again the masterwork, 'Ride the high country', and am glad to know this perfect pike of filmmaking defeated the egrious 8 1/2, Italians the way you wish they were, as later to his own detriments the evil little Fellini would admit to the dandys of his white mezzanine it were all lies, and suddenly his name,, like Machiavelli became a prejoriotive , as white folks don't like being the butts of jokes, that what the Jewish guard is there for.

And to be fair say they say at GE Theatre, the scene which got some static even from well wishing and kind Jewish procurers was the scene called Savetti, in which as the new owner of the town, practically having foreclosed on the little Italay called Verona, in Pattavium, on Columbus day, Brutus is given a gala in his owner's tribute, which despite the word Triumph the once stoic Romans maybe aint that keen on. After he has killed a few American Indians who have come to this parade, as he noted as they never show up at cindo de mayo, having like Saturnalia incorporated that as their imperious and indigenous own, still, he is given a dinner, as Red Buttons would say, at which hopeful singer Clementine, whose name is some drafts is changed to Gina--more Italian the white woman think, you know, as opposed  to the feminine for the Roman name Clement which means mercy---eeeeeehhhhh--She is noted by the now sad and forlorn Brutus, she who sings with the five Corvares, a do wop group, and during the singing of Color my world by Chicago, he realizes that he, the ultimate human weapon, defender of the republic, champion of his race, art dealer Fens, is in love with this lovely woman, who when I wrote the original in 1999, was meant for a young actress named Angelina Jolie, as she was viewed through the bakery window by a lardy, beefy, growling Gumba- Jew named Harvey Fire-steiiine. That idea of perfect casting didn't go over well, not a bit...

Leaving the SOI hall, he walks through foreclosed upon Pattavium, --I am the Auger, what more must I say to convince you...?--he sees an older gentleman from his youth as his father Augustus has been making an American dream business from long shore man to owner of a small SANDL to the Empire Bank now owned by he, as he bought it from Mellon, as they divested their nearby Granite bank here in 2000. This is Salvetti, a man at wits end who like as many as 5000 others was packed in jail so a house fag closet everything named J Edger could preen he was actually law and order which of course as has been since Caesar, the faggots never are, they are just repressive, see SANCTORUM. And Salvetti the name of an actual man, who was in jail from 1974 until 2004, comes back to Laurentium, sorry, Patavium, the Roman names abound!-- his life ruined in our Scosrese game of minstrelsy, and in the Tony- Verse, he went at the Irish Whitey who culled him, an innocent man, there while their own button men were unmolested, and Salvetti blows his brains out on the Buffalo rail road tracks. Then, after having written this all, I saw a man who had been placed in jail like Salvetti, for thirty years, as the Hurricane winds of co ed justice never blow for them, came back to Newark and did just that , blew the brains out of a mobster who lived his spilt level Medici hood, and I can only hope somewhere along the line someone had heard of My own 'lil RM' and it gave them a reaction to it, as your Jason Strathem movies have taught the white trash how to pretend they are bad asses. Once in querying as I have stopped now, I sent the idea of BIG BERTHA as a serialized fiction to printed in the pages of a new magazine then out looking for true crimes, Capotes crush on us all, called Mob Candy Magazine. The editor reading my query, was moved to answer, never with a check, but more bullshit as I have hit the rotten tooth with such as he, and he asked me, what kind of an Italian I was. This coming from a wop mob hanger on who shuffles on command  without even Roman ironical title like Obamaluch. I am, I re: back in one line, showing I can be pithy if in is in my interest, The Roman Kind. That word still leaves the Medusa flagged--can you imagine-- thugs as Speechless. 

4. The anti hero who is Brutus though, eventually gets away with everything, as he tells Phillip Macedonia, who cant play tough guy with the Bank, Banker Brutus not so much as gangster emeritus, but instead, our true Sheriff, and that his life has been ruined by a man wielding not a Glock, a pimps gun, but as always, a fountain pen. So, once Brutus is shot, the only thing Phillip can think of doing, and survives, every Mafia clan is the gang who couldn't shoot straight, as they are deemed to be, he returns to his ancestral home, my mothers city of Regium, Italy, from where he shall return to Pattavium and fuck them, all over. Like Newt. But even I couldn't have come up with tarp, as even I, a Roman at heart, couldn't conceive of the bald facedenss of Jews and Irishmen, as there should at least be a pretense of capitalism here and yes, you can lose your shirt, or at least your Mink, as to do this raid on and of the Fisca, recreated a strata of Passavante as I warned even then. So this is why we must have Obama at least for the foreseeable future, because as Brutus tells Phillip when he knows the Greek is doomed, This is America, ...only the poor are criminals. A line I pilfered ironically from Petronius, who may or may not have been joking, not did it matter which is why the Romans make the black and white ever so noble and decent clowns and white women itch.

This is why the Godfather played on a loop as it is, is rather quaint. You see, in Dodd- Frank, the bill cobbled by our war and boy loving Democrats--there is no escape from Devils Island--they, passsingly, as I heard on John Batchelor, capped the statute of limitations for the financial crimes of the new millennium century at--SEVEN YEARS FROM WHEN THEY HAPPENED. WOW! Even Brutus Ballerina had to escape to his fathers ancestor home, a lovely intermezzo that Puzo like me stole from Virgil as a lovely aside and wayward romance from the dread white wasp Diane Keaton and her swelling Carmine Copolla signature music each time she came as Astronaut wifely into the scenes as the kind of woman Al Pachino is susposta to like, as even Copoola, he recalls Beatrice, the Beatrice, The She, the Her, the Juliet that white girls dispense with, she of the thunderbolt, of the love affair they wish to never have happen as they sell their asses worse than silly romantic moon loving queers as our Danny Savagely pied pipers the wifely queers to and at and among the shit, and shit for all and shit for everyone, as Beatrice, the Beatrice which even the worst, well, perhaps not the worst, Gangland wop must think of ruminate forever, keep in their heart of hearts as I do dearest desirable dippy and dangerous and devoted to Lesley, always there as Saint-whore witch goddess, bitch goddess, to make it palatable to his Episcopal wife and who see their hanging on closeted wife beater wearing gumbas Jews, from Canal street to The Vineyard where the men of the people, somewhere out there, if were lucky, do holiday, as Beatrice must, --she was in the blew up car, as even Copolla knew that Much.

The bankers are now fronting and floating bad campaigns with the money Tyberius gave them, well, have to have this nigger tap dance for at least three more years, as he hasn't looked into this crime once, as I predicted a good blowhard like Michael Moore, who is perpetually lecturing the sub urba, like Sanctorum is there not to know when to speak, but when to shut up, and his anger amazingly like his precious Occupy crap Diaspora once Saturnalia came up in the city, and the tinsel Replaced all anger, as you cant tell the truth, especially in one of these Julian leap years.







5. All this shows I was prescient with Brutus, but they must have someone, Greek Jew money Wizard Sorsos admits either Obama or Romney is fine, anyone who will keep the bankers and their draperies from the perp walk, as the left shall wake up should it not be a gonniff like Obamalaa as Imperator, and they will demand justice, until the two timing two faced Pattavium Senator Gonniff Shmuah says knock it qwff guys, cummon, were serious dis tiome, -- whereas  now, the 99 percent, --did I mention the Passavante kids...?,  now they are quite pleased that GM is doing well, green shoots for all, what's good for the drone army is good for GE and thus America, we bring good things to take, must be quite or like fatso Mike Moore , or at least be at the red carpet,  laughing. They must keep mommas boy in pace to do nothing, he again is paid for his stillness and his lack of actions, and all the rest is a paratenzsa, as you can call this nigger anything but a democrat. At that he gets his back up. Once the seven year itch is done, then, they will dispose of Onmabala. And perhaps pay off the Italians, whose Columbus day they invade, with a imitative wop like Mario Cuomo Jr, as the great and powerful Obama is cast asides as the Hershey bar whore he always was. The script I wrote didn't last on Zoetrope for five days, and yet I saw something coming all the mob daughters and  killer fruits and jeepper creepers bullshit didn't even know there was a horizon in the far distance much less what was gaining on us all.

And in an contemporaneous posting of the time, called Roman Beer, I said that in the grasping of the Fisca, where we get the word, as barbaric words like Tree and Ax and brick don't do it when airs are being placed up, like Tyberius had, that Obamaluch had made a class of Passavante, or worse had given free reigns to them, but who listens to me. You see, in 2000 or So, I was waiting to catch the Penn state game at night, and so was sitting there watching the NBC nightly news I think, and I heard that Batavia New York was the foreclosure capital of America, and it, the name Batavia, like Saint Francis and anything else too Italian was fair game in the tower of Shearer, or at least the cell of Shearer in the tower of Murdoch. Now, I thought, why would Batavia New York, punch line as it be, be the number one foreclosure capital of the world...and it dawned on me,...why not where the niggers and the filth are...? Oh, well, cause one doesn't foreclose upon a slum or a barrio, as Tyberius could tell you, those are merely raised to the ground when the nigger filth, or Roman sludge has made the pipes burst. Again, sorry, but despite niggers on GE theatre, race is nothing, as Hillary proved and still does. It donned on me, Jesuit stipend but still a little slow on the uplink, foreclosure as a weapon --against who, niggers, or no, they are keen intellects as the Roman filth always is, to a point and know their barely warm place  to sleep will always be sacrosanct unless Dollar Bill Clinton needs to sign a welfare reform bill to keep the mantle, and then as usual, all debts are off. I knew it as I watched Pens State, in an America before house faggots could drive Joe Paterno into the grave despite, or because, he was called by John Thompson the most important racial coach in NCAA history, because unlike movies about Texas tech and movies starting the dread Denzel, the idea that State College Pennsylvania had to be desegregated is something laughing Jews don't like to talk about. 


And then, that night of the Penn state game in that December, no fooling, Lesley called me with her hang ups, in more ways than one, and then, it all came together,... Patavium, Brutus, Gina, sons of Italy, the whole Mispucka of Roman tragedy. And when I saw Lady Pollozzi show up, as the first woman, Catholic and Italian to be speaker, and acidly none of the above, I knew what was up. In RM, at the Columbus day Parade, a blond haired, pants suited wearing, senator from the Empire state of mind comes by Brutus table, and he gives her an envelope full of bundled foreclosures cash, this 2003-4, but little did I know back benchers and low level leg breaker Jews, still smarting from Madam President in ova's disdained, were doing this in this Second city to a degree which made Hillary alas look noble. Newt had to go the moment he ferreted too many filthy angry souls to the polls. Ah but, kids, after Cattiline was dead, there were three weeks of rioting of the filth in Roman slums, to the point the welfare state was born, there are always some who make Newt and Cattiline look positively Romantic, and one cant stay in GE tower forever, though Larry would just adore it and man the barricades as he spoke of the filth so delightfully. And Cicero was vengefully placed in a treason trial, if not worse, for not gracing to have shown enough 'give' to his Republican horse shit. Can do, can do, He said that the horse can do...Requiem for Tinhorns.

In 2000, still up late at night catching the public affairs dull programming politics was, like Jesuit class McLaughlin before GE brought good things to bribery and gave us passavante television where the human spittoon Matthews now calls My Cousin Ricky heroic, and Obama is as Spartan warrior, even gayer than Frank Miller, I saw Ben Wattenburg, a Jewish intellectual. And he asked why was it Italian Americans were unlike his own race, the other trash and the Germans and all the others who came to the new coliseums and the golden door and became pimps first as they all do, why did the Italian have to be stuck there. Then, a producer girl at Dreamworks, or, Zoetrope with cash on hand, who tole me she was an Italian, though blond, told me that Spielberg was at the Palms I think they call it and when Bride of Frankenstein and all the low rent Sopranos came in an acted like it was Raos, or worse, and he made a point of walking out, no fan was he of them. I saw suddenly the affection for the sopranos wane at that very moment, in the imperial yeshiva high school of Hollywood, and always liked Steven more for it. And there was a scene in the first draft, like my toy stories, hard and cold and sarcastic and mean, but sweet too, as at the Roman walls in the yard he has made himself, Brutus, sat at a porch swing in Patavium stillness in a Buffalo new York night, is swimming and dizzy with admiration for the brunette -- a word deemed verboten by Word, by the way--, girl in a white and gold dress, as opposed his black suit and purple tie, my every Jesuit trickster artlessness was as exspoed as my cock, both full out in love, and Brutus starts to sing to himself among the crickets,... Oh my darling, oh my darling oh my darling, Clementine....A Jewish producer named Jack Roseman found this jarring, a level of humanity not seen in the usual gangster crap. Why Clementine, he asked...?, well, when I was five or so my dad and me stayed up and we  watched My darling Clementine, in an America where John Ford was still Virgil, before we got the sorts of Movie Roger Ebert calls Vomitoriums, as we live out our imperial creed.

The Month of Mars, which started with a marathon of Godfather, by its middle had a marathon over days too, of Harry Potter, which I could be a bitch and call a bigger marring of the patria. Poor little Hippogriff, she has fallen so far from them Ariostian  Moonlit nights, but then haven't we all...? Its all here, books that wrote themselves, writing in blood, stolen all, walls which turn on whispered kisses, its all basically Ovid without an Italian spring  thaw's warmth. I never really watch this, but too tired to find the remote, see a parallel between Tom Riddle, the star if you'd ask me, and Kemeter, but again, foolish English school marms cant get too close to the Tuscan's Lucifer, he who no ice can hold, who always retains a sympathy among men, when he says that God is a prick, if not not the number four. And I spent the month reading Calvino, Cosmicomics, and his misplaced masterwork, which shows what would happen if the ideals of magic realism could be saved to their golden italic roots, and taken away from the spics and their harsh vinegar. One hundred years of human fertilizer. On the third of March, I announced that I could sense a Clinton vendetta campaign, a purge at its beginning, at which I am scoffed at. By March 11th, CBS news, of course, in the tank for no one, annotated that Dido is fallen again to 41 percent, the copula of the Milvian bridge under which he stays. And now, Rachel dearest thinks there may be a rich man component to the dread Romeny campaign, and now I think, perhaps it wasn't Romeny, but Obama who was the sucker not given, like us all, like Romulus the gate emperor who let the gate crash, an even Break. Or, God knows 5.579 percent interest, compounded daily, or at least Free Checking. 

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