12 December 2012
As I was in the garage and was preparing to go out and get some stuff for Christmas, a kind of enjoyable jaunt, which would incite the wrath of Jewey Hercules Jesus, who found an anger for Jews preparing to enjoy Passover, a self righteousness I found he didn't share by throwing any fits too close to Fort Antonia, while telling suddenly his followers that the problem, you see, was with themselves and not star Caesar. Ah, the first imperial JEW KISSING CAESAR’S ASS, starting a linage of blue noses praetorians unbroken from him to white washing fleabags today. While here I found an early thumb drive, applied here in a last spasm of going out around 2007, though I think it shall take hold now.
It didn't even look like the thumb drives now, it had a lipstick colouring, smelled like Dior, because it had come from my sisters Purse, and she had given it to me to save my work, rather than lose it again every time going to fat girl sites made me have to swipe my computer, or worse. It flipped over itself and would be packed into the old Emachines I had in the port in the front, and so, seeing It, almost strangely circumscribed, or like an art thief, which I like to act at anyway here in so decent and honourable and dissolving America, I flicked the thumb drive into my coolest pocket, less salty and without change to plink into any kettles, with a coin trick slight of hand I was quite good at once, and I went to the mass up that woods, and to the Macy's there, to buy an elderly mother a gift, as whatever Jesus, Savonarola, or the crew of soloists at MSNBC WOULD LIKE IT OR NOT, SATURNALIA COMES OUT OFFA BOX, as apposed to their beloved president who seems to pop out of a bag.
Once home, as the Mall seems rather empty and lethargic, the rich you see as have since Lorenzo are pulling the reigns on the economy lest talk of mandates go to Erkels head and he does something crazy like stand for something. But while there at a fast food place where I bought a breakfast while the Golden arches symbol of America was deserted and pretty wall mart girls stood abound as giant televisions boomed ahead with strange Peter Jackson like garishness, unnoticed, and certainly not bought. was deserted, I picked up a hand fill of salt packets and shoved them in my pocket. Now, why, not that I don’t have salt at home, or money for salt, but then that is the receding point of all empires isn’t it...?, but was more about getting it in packet form.
Since I was a boy, my father would tell me, --despite my cold dismissal of him, I was the apple of his eye and his beloved, tow which I gave a worse than mere adolescent, Feh,--that before going out, where the evil demons and bankers did dance through fire, as all in Italay keeps a decent whole, a sweet and romantic golden mean unseen and unthinkable to those red skins and women who see the universe as strictly good and decent, no, here there are no repercussions, and no one has read Gibbon, as empires of the largess can last forever, or until You’re foreclosed upon, now that’s a fall. And boring and cleaned is the spheres that Move, as Galileo said, much as are their own toilets, one was to have packed a small packet of salt in their cloths to ward off the evil eye. If this if source-ary would be seen as superstition to any Lutheran, it would be as would be the speed of light and the distance to the moon. I did by accident, as was waiting for a Charlie Rose show, as was pushed back because of Christmas doo-wop specials on pbs, see again in even feigning a distrust and dislike of Lutherans, that Jewey Jonnie, when daring to even preened himself capable of Jesuit thought, that the audience, gasped and murmured, their whooping howling American injun like, Germanic barbarous bellowing of acceptance was puled back, like the commerce is being now. And, with anger as one would get from the whooping cough mezzanine, who are most provably all Lutheran, and thus remember, their admiration is a curse, and the applause as a warning, as Plautus, someone else he’s never read, would know. Now, that was funny.
I see an Ameria in disarray, sensed even back when this thumb print was made. I could smell the decay and the destruction-ing in the air, as what makes Italian folktales so wonderful, the keystone of all fairy stories, if not literature as known to all from Walt to Willie to JRR. It is that unlike the sanitizers, in the trees of the woodlands of silver Giotto painted leaves, within the woods and the towers of Italianism fairy tales, it is not so much a horrid collection of Good and Bad, such Jewish delineation is beneath an Italian, when sharp, Clever as they’d call me at Copollas vineyard, a real to them slur, but alas, we don’t all wish to be admired by Lutherans, as does he, and so when I say something it isn’t usually so I can gain an acumen of likeminded, liking, admiring white women, like you Jews and blacks can think of nothing else.
It was a fulcrum around which my life started to spin to a energy making degree, being dismissed by the man who made the Sicilians, of all people, Romantic, a wholly disagreeable legacy if you ask me. I changed and became different after then, the equal opposite of what he and his ilk likes Scorese are hoping for, as they are given peanuts and a bunkhouse, that affection to which the niggers haven’t yet escaped not really, like political owned coons, until and unless they make sure, like niggers who’d dare speak of civilisation as acting white, that Italians are made demeaned by men of olive skin, puppets of the white mistresses they collect. But alas, as had happened scene the days of Diocletian, eventually the usurper finds out who was in control all along, as they always end up, like so many Marcus’s, so many Ohio state discharged coons, for the crime of gathering Pennines for things they own, as opposed to the socialists and communists of academe, who are making millions from ESPN without so much as a coin dropped in some niggers direction. Stereotypes are usually, I was warned, left on imperial roads sides without the dignity of a cross, just meandering around looking for anyone top remember like Maurice Clarette WHEN they were great. I look out for the Wendy’s, and the Lorna’s and Chloe’s and the Tawnies and the old time pets and the Danielle’s and the Rachel’s, not every fat white woman who drinks Port with her pig meat thinking herself a sophisticate. There is a madness out there taking hold, which begets a nation of the con as this, and don’t look so glum Ezra, what after all where you expecting but the art of the deal.
But Niggeralia, a word I censored not embayed of any love of the house pets of white women, sanctified and sanitised black trash, but the connection to Romans irked me to use, came to arching halt too, besides Rice, and fuming Valerie. Ur, it seems again, Erkel shall do his master voice bidding, and place another Republican white male as war Caesar, I guess out if tradition. And high pitched Jew trouble makers on the radio ouch about this, as that Hegel isn’t republican enough. Well who is for the administration …? Arrogance has its discontents. War and Fiancé, after the Roman Fisca, was signed over to the republicans years ago, soon enough someone on the payroll will call this brilliant, and some idiot woman will concur, but best laid plans…Though Bless him, in the golden silence, or showers that GE has paid for, as long faced women keep their mouths shut on demand, our buddy Dan Rather, said with usual Big D adroitness--, talk is cheap. Ah the credo of the Obomo age. My credo is,-- HOW BOUT THEM COWBOYS….!
[I do not mention those things that I do not wish to mention. I got this from Manzoni, the master Italian writer, who is unknown as thus will never be so honoured by having two bit white trash pompous and preening filmmakers and their trained starlets explaining his work is some latest Christmas movie with an eye for Oscars, also it means thankfully, he is mute to those low rent Cantors and Ebbs who wish to take his master work and make it a musical, and place in just enough toe tapping melody to the conversion scene as to make it acceptable to pig men like Frank Rich, slumming as a theatre arbiter again, when he isn’t doing his Clausewitz impression explaining it all to us, as if a rabbi or Mother angelica. America has reaped the whirl wind, as all is connected, as the politicos and step men of cable wish to preen a sense of austerity, virtue and dignitas, but are alas more hatchet men than they are centurions on any watch.
As Pig meat Sharpton, says that which he is allowed to say, for a sad second heard him trifling to connect a tragedy to teachers unions, always good to have a load mouthed nigger on the pad when its your children they are warehousing in gladiatorial schools, as if someone should be getting merit pay out of this. And to show we are doomed, monsignor Oreily, like a bell ringing priest is looking for bonfires, announced on his toxic spill of a show what and who is evil, by the transfusing he got in divinity school, or at least west 57th. He thinks he is a republican, as he demands punishment for all, our umbrella wielding Penguin, actually, as Manzoni reading would show, he is merely a Sadist. So, I wear the salt, I didn’t vote for anyone, I avoid the fall, I WANT no part of this morality play, as Bill Clinton scurries to be above it all and pox both houses, sorry fat man, you got away Scot free once, do not tempt fate, that was your biggest mistake.]
As again, I, Roman Antony was right, having recalled that last great Christmas of 1974 as the year the Jesuits started making me read Cornelius Tacitus, and it didn’t take until Saturnalia istlf for two faced Joint Erkie to show you what I have known all along. It is the Roman aphorism, never let a wolf into a church. The New Numa is a fraud, and a cunt, surrounded by frauds and cunts and I know, Roman me, that cant be good. It didn’t take until Sergilla yo see, that Susan be thrown aside, a black woman no less, say hello to Jesse Jackson junior in the drink, doll. Why who is more arrogant than those who have sold their soul, ah but is that cello music I hare playing…and am be sure the pawn ticket is kept here you can get it, kids…Romans hated Homer and hated the Greeks, as a Trojan horse, like the bluff is beneath them. The horse appears as we know it not so much in Homer, but in Virgil , who shows the detesting of the first Roman , Aeneas for the art of the swindle, again beneath a Roman, and thus though was lauded by mother fucking Greeks, when writing about boys and bumblebees, ribbon-ed as a good Roman among the lot, eventually if one is worthy of anything, they cant be Erkle or Ray Romano or the jug headed football wop Jew who made a point of trashing Connie Francis, as not white enough for his tastes as no less a grunt as Tony Bruno looks on in radio horrors knowing Connie Francis was another Italian girl raped for sport in the golden door. Did the wop know that,…?, does it matter…? But Virgil eventually writing a book he didnt want to write, Poetry in the thought process of Augustus’s as an imperial trinket, no different the Greeks, or Jews, and yet he couldn’t pull it off as inhumanly as do they, a book he didn’t want to write, not everyone is Ezra or smirking boys, who will be boys of the hissing Chorus at Texaco star theatre. He had to say, I have had enough of smiling alter boy queers tell me how brilliant Ulysses was, as even the gay poet was roman enough to think, fight like a man, not a eastern middle sea Semite. Stand or Fall, its what Erkle and his ilk fear, more than anything.
And sadly, as always happens, as Lucian said, the empire gets to the point where it places the cutlass in its own guts. the disasters, like endings to hobbit movies come in waves. In the never ended American old west even Christmas shopping has become a blood sport, so much for you noble and self loving niggers and white masters, its hard to keep up. But, for the third time since a woman at Four Swell Guys, Tarantino Inc., called my work 'unmitigated trash', a bit too Ebert for my tastes, but, still, it seems our lantern jawed hero finds another movie like Roman Mythology on his slate, without a Brutus around. A Jewish producer told me no less that a Killer can be a hit man, and Italian, but he cant be a stoic, a banker, liberate and certainly not all that stuff you have in there about falling in Love. He, as more attuned to his enemy audience than I was, said, it will bother too many people should I make this movie and show a mafia as vulgar as they are and a banker as a killer. But, he told me, he enjoyed it more than anything else he had to slog through that year, just before the fall. Did I ever tell my Vincent Pastore story, --? So, A Christmas movie about another lovable killer, how unlucky is that...? And the girl mentioned in the last essay was named Jennifer De Guzman, not Guttmann, a name I have used often as a pseudonym on poetry reportage and cashiers checks. It’s the least I think she’s owed.