20 March 2013


i. A late winter sickness hit me hard, as I had spent since new years trying to avoid the flu’s and influenzas that were seemingly out there in the mist.

There is a tiredness to political television, now that poly sci has become the elitist cheap version of the sit com. A hermaphrodite named Thom Hartman on some channel in the thousands--who else wishes to censer but the unnoticed praetorians, and the bribed…?-- was actionably trying to say that someone stole, Nixon, an election from LBJ. This was ‘Landslide Lyndon’ for you Caro Fans out there, and 1960 and west Virginia was not MENTIONED in the latest lists of grievances by liberal dirt bags. They speak of stolen elections often, but not to be a Jesuit, the elections were never theirs to be stolen, showing the verb you choose is often the key to the con. And such is what happens when Nixon MUST BE TAKEN OUT AGAIN AND BURNED IN EFFIGY, A PRACTICE EVEN GORE VIDAL HAD TO TIRE OF EVENTUALLY, AS IT WAS TO MERELY MAKE THE REST OF THE ROTTEN APPLES FEEL SO CHARMED AND GOOD. Lutherans, the Jesuits told me, infect everywhere. And this is what sanctimony looks like as not only new wars, ala drones, like Obama and his beloveds, must be a wholly owned subsidiary of the electric company, and funny, the warrior Princess Rachel has nothing much to say about Steubenville, Detroit is more her speed, even though that channel decided to be the guardians against Rape, you know, now that Clinton has become, like Marcus Agrippa, part of the history of Comedy. AS so sanctimony is where you can find it. Thank fully Seinfeld seems plays often, and a show starring the adorable Valerie Bertinelli is shown at night, as there is a reason the Romans swerved towards comedy, after all.

I knew I was slightly loopy as was watching Fox news, for reasons that I couldn’t really get, but was too weak to get up and turn the TV, and I saw the almost yellow submarine psychedelic trip, which is watching Brit Hume when one is burning up with fever. All I kept thinking as this strange star child 2001 creature was morphing before me was I hope when he finally does drop over dead that Brit is decent enough to leave that Hair To science. Oh, what hair,…!, I thought half awake, and me already so follicle challenged, to have hair as his, it was a mind of sight of Shangri La, with his secrets of shampooing like a dead sea scroll before me, only scrolls made of hair. To be so blessed, I thought, unsure what gibberish he was being paid to spout on camera, the hair made me wonder….

ii. The Roman newspapers had already chased Pope Himmler out of the anointed cage days ago, and were preparing dossiers as it as beings said to no matter who would win this last conclave, these old men had made a enemy in the Roman press as never really before, and  frankly there was stalk that a Italian pope would be returned to if only to allow the hectors of the roman fleet street, which predate fleet street some earned credit to allow then m to be less vicious towards a new pope than they already had been to the Hitler youth who had bumbled his walk across the Apian way.

I wasn’t so sure, but I can say I have said here once the popes as they had all those days ago in 1978, once we start hearing about the papacy and vacuous dramatis persona appearing in medieval Dante, popes whose thirty days regimes are eventual tickets punched to Distant bludgeoning, well, once their pope became the first pope since before Columbus to resign, I knew things were tough all over. This had a scent of the con job to it, and I wasn’t sure that they’d be smart enough, these old men, to return to Italay, as they had learned their last campaign as all dying armamentariums do,  from the Pollack and they think they have come upon with quite the trick of getting various ethic groups to wave flags, while old men try desperately not to allow everything to crumble again, when surround with that many ruins, makes one wonder if they are not as enchanted by the ruins as was Roman Bill, while being lectured to by Polish nudges.

iii.While ill, I stayed in bed and listened to all of this, as one could sense the edges and the polished corners being ruined of all of this, as I certainly wasn’t the only one who gets a scent in the winds from Rome, more or less open city. And dutifully, whoever the old men of this last politburo, had placed it out there that mother Italia would be paid off with a roman pontiff, fliers sent out, but one could sense that the Roman newsletters which has as much as anything been a treasure trove to Shakespeare, they knew narrative as well as anyone, weaned as they were by some pages of Virgil as Tennessee called literature, and it seemed that none was backing off now. Various cardinals of the Italian sea had backed away, not quite as famously as the cardinal from Camelot, but the word had come back from roman presses, that this would mean nothing to the mother country getting even, as the play was all as Ennius would say, and I heard that the Romans camps rather admired the fact the always preening and posturing England, took a pass this time, as I have said before it always did bother Cornelius Tacitus, exemplar of Italian letters, to see anyone as barbaric as a Englishmen try to recite  anything as winsome as Ovid. In the city synonymous with fall as well as any, these old men ignored the very brilliance of the street corners, if not the lovely Raphelean Madonna’s walking them since ancient times, as they try to keep their reeking boat afloat, as now frankly, all the virtuous old men start to appear to mirror the Andropov’s and the old prince lings fallen and falling here and there.

Iv.I heard the awful heinous thug of the radio, Imus in the mourning, our human toothpaste out of the tube, who made a point that the named sent out as a opening gambit by the priests, Milan’s’ own cardinal Scola, was unacceptable to this unfunny perpetual cancer vessel, by way of common cause with a vulgar ex playboy club comic Dick Gregory. The word itself was Italian enough to be poisonous to the ears of say Nathanial Hawthorne, who like later laughable scions of what is laughingly called English literature, hopes that you never heard of The Promessi Sposi, when having to read a dirge like the scarlet letter, showing one can make a historic novel out of that crew of chickens kept in the coops you had to begin with. This was strange coming from Imus, who when we last heard from him, was beginning ala Lou Dobbs to have his career saved by the Max Bear film called Fox news, whose he haw like daisy’s are professionally leg crossers, and who lounge Franzsettily with moonshine mcjugs lanqor on the imperial porch as Archie and grandpa give us the days news tween wittlin, --You met another and Fttttt yuou was gone. Last, we saw Imus he was on the porch with Goober talking about them kinky haired nappy sheened hos, so frankly his admiration and or diminution, like most anything American means nothing. And he’s sure they run it all anyway, no getting by him, as his making common cause with old house nigger Gregory was an exemplar of the America I was warned by priests to avoid and watch out for.

v.Ill, but not as ill as I was, I saw the glorious imagery of old Rome on television, which hands down trumps the Kmart imperia of Rand Paul and achita Mac Kane in its ice cream colored mausoleum place, wowing again no one makes a msueileium like the Romans did. And, too quickly for a conclave that had the stink of a con job to it, out came the new pope, Chance the gardener.

With a Vulcan’s awareness called humility, a dull man shockingly came out in vestments unfitted, with a cross that augured as it hung unkemptly to the right. This was an Italian alright, an Italian immigrant whished returned home to knock on that golden door for the years as he has been, our Pope Romney, trying to be pope now a good while. In garments all unfitting, Rome showed itself as still under occupation as it had been sideways since Constantine, whose church this was in ruins, down to the Fascist my mother pegged immediately, as a hutch of now suddenly lawyerly Jesuits had bitten off more of Bacchus bread, the center price of all Eucharist’s, than it could easily chew. When Ma heard in Italian that this pope was taking the name Francesco, that man for whom Mario Cuomo would adapt laws written in remembrance of more than any Jesuit hated Darwin and thus got the enmity of less than closet more than house fags of the dying republic of Regan, when she heard this word spoken it made her blanch, sick old lady she was, as she could as she said to me feel the effects of the panicking fiddling Orcas, again trying to scale that Roman wall he cannot seem to navigate as sexily as his legion could Tel Aviv.

vi. Ah but in books that tell the American and other truths better than any new York times on the spot, there is a book called Christ Stopped at Eboli, by Carlo Levi, an Italian intellectual used by the allies until Mussolini hung, and then his later works about the awful northern grace to Rome to make it industrial, the point of ww2, were awful, and the reworks were ignored of priests, he spoke of those sort of fascists who left Italay for—Buenos Aires.

Even my sick old Ma, having heard these words, brilliantly and astutely waved this guy off, knowing his like and his sort all along, and having had family in that dreaded country of Argentina, now cued to be the newest peasants dancing with flags, while the centre didn’t hold, she knew of purges in that mother church. Pig men who have scuttled pontificates before on Charlie Rose were now saying cross purpose things, a first Jesuit could be somehow the kind pontiff, as never seen in 2000 years, who could cleanse the church. Ah, no sorry, perhaps an Italian Jesuit, but a southern American Jesuit is a secret word for Fascist, sorry, my Ma knows it, the priests I had a boy knew it and this curtain is still reaping the whirlwind from that broken tea cup and the dead pontiff whose bride was left to nowhere while a dumb Pollock made a off ramp to Reaganism, and used a church as a way to cement conservative policies. All these old men, yes even the Italian reformer Scola, such and anathema to the dumb nigger, don’t tell that house coon that a little tin soldier fascist high priest of the junta has been installed.

vii. Of course all your tricks of verbs, all your womanish games of inclusion and rancid by the pound tolerance all were ancient in Mother Rome, and they showed these tricks have been sued by the powerful for eons. As so now, a Jesuit for the first time appears, one who got his second bite at the apple, like john Palo 2 who couldn’t quite let that go,  and deal mead his way as they had lost their greatest role, the ones they think they were born to play, as old men found another old man hopeful of nothing more divine and denied than keeping their drivers and their elitism, and hoping their butlers didnt turn nolo contraere.

With use of a Jesuit, its seem the mother church saw itself as lawyered up, the Latin, or Ladin, soon enough to lose its Brother Sun Grace and return to a language of writs and compacts and cut loaves in half. If you have no idea, oh, what I know now about the snoortfull of trouble you have collected here when unneeded about a Jesuit made pontiff, we need only go back to our Buddy Roman Bill, Brother Bill, Georgetown Bill, independent Bill, Bawdy Bill, liar Bill, Toyshop Bill, who when he was cornered and said ‘what the meaning of the word Is, so an anathema to the white chicks and their niggers, well, I have heard that refrain since 1973. Again to sue Bill as the Pinocchio who will lead us through Italian literature like a Roman schoolbook I had as an Italian boy, when the seta opened up on the supreme court, and a man named Boyce wanted it desperately, as he always did, Bill, our Bill, is said to have said with Augustan Wit, that he, Bill, Machiavellian student supreme, was not putting anyone on the supreme court who could only write dissents. Heh. This is why no Jesuit should ever be pope, their encyclicals, they may not know yet, will be in letters all black. Boyce to show the brilliance of brother Bubba in whole, is now creating writs of amcitas to the idea of fagots becoming house wives and or being allowed in various woman’s rooms, as soldiers, or in ladies showers, as we cascade towards a decline and fall of Friar Fwank, and he shows us all how there is in fact a dignity to being Father Scalia.

Viii.But, my Ma, she did see this all coming, before even the ginning up of anti papal Roman newspapers, which are coming. The sooner that building of Michelangelo’s can become a mere museum, the better for New Turkey, Italia, all that will be, even those plodding dying Andropov’s unaware of the mistake they made while the crowd was chaining and blue Silverado flags somehow had been as in the park across the street from the white house, the night Ben Lauding died, had been dutifully handed out by a previously befuddled dying imperia. My Ma did know of the secret wars and the colleted names of FRANCISCANS, --yes Big Tony has augured as much, there were Brothers Of FRANCIS, WHICH I MENTIONED HERE A BIT AGO IN MY SOOTHSAYER CHARM, WARNING OF TROJAN HORSES, priests killed off by the spics, called communists by the juntas, by the Augustos, that priests have been making time with and for scene the previously mentioned Constantine, Man without Roman papers, back then, who had been collected under the right wing prince of this country which may call itself Latin.

But please, don’t call them Hispanic, as they assuredly are not. Quick someone alert twinkling Anderson, shimming with professional jealousy at the collected genius of Gian Lorenzo Bernini, images not quite as frozen as he is, after all the Italian could make stone at least seem like life in their brilliance at stone masonry in ways the shining Anderson is mere exemplar of the amberoid arts, that the Argentines are not in his Americanization grouping of these themes. And as my mother said, whose elderly face blanched when she heard the name taken was Francisco, Francis, that no Italian worth his salt since 1140 ad and the attempt of the church to destroy the man, did a pope take the mane Francis, as someday soon, our aphorist papa will be sated there on Pharonic seat, dripping in ermine and gold, and purple and silk, and he wont be in a grotto somewhere making small household gods of various saints, a dichotomy that Ma saw coming, as shrewd as she is, but a Cornelian juxtaposition no American cardinal of the electric company sees as anything they cant deal with, if not ignore completely. A man named for Borroni, the man of dignity and poverty and brother sun and sister moon, and whose only prayer had lest to do with 72 virgins, or cities of sky gold, or raptures, or how blessed all we Jews are by blood, than it had to do with being an instrument of grace, that man, or at least his name, will be amid the spectacle, and washed over by the circus of God. No Italian before this Pinochet era thug could bring himself to sit there and be so…Felliniesque--, another word sued for the damnation of people who you fear, unlike dutiful niggers, that know all the punch lines after all.

ix. But Ma is a witch and a saint, and she can sense when the winds of her goddess signora Fortuna have spun and termed against the boys of destiny, easily this church’s shadow implication in the death of her beloved Cardinal Luciano Albano shall always be a mark of Cain, and no amount of sanctimony or Dutch cleanser, as she says, will get that red mark off of them. That moment she told me, is coming when the assorted day trippers and the bemused Romans, having made their centurions of more of a grafter sort of the selling of chackies and themselves to various barbarian ladies, will look up and they shall make note, now these, she said mirroring Montale’s Satan, who she is sure may or may not be in the gaze of this ax man they had insulted the tomb of JPI and made this cut throat and this state hachetman a pope, Pope Cheech, she calls him as if a low end button man, she shall warn both Satan and the earthen together as she feels the ability and the presumption to lecture all and both, Know this now, she warns the black and the red, the divine and the venial,  she warns all who will hear this—to God above and to Satan she warns, who she said she saw dimming in the streets: The Hour has come.

x. During this week of puss and circumstance, though Ma was as usual pertinent and wise, as thirty six hours into the Pontificate, the Vatican had to send out plumbers and or firemen to another sprung leak and or put out these brush fires unsure of having happened or about to happen, as recently as Moon day. No, ‘there is no Proof’, this is as romantic jurists Jesuits get,--whose been so warning of that…?, at the dirty war involved wayward Italian cardinal of immigrations to the happy hunting ground of various Euro fascists since Carlo Levi’s books. No Proof…, uh, Jesuit cachet at its best.

That’s my Verb, and Im sticking too it. Ah I almost feel sorry for this church and what its about to go through, as believe me, you’ll tire of it all, as did Roman Tony, too. Still, I feel their effect upon me, to the point that even a comic book made of a strong man in blue can be seen as a Jesuit allied agenda, even a Superman cartoon can be so infected with the devotion of men now dead and gone for seeming eons, as making a Hercules cartoon and doing it as I did as a moral imperative seemingly is off putting to various Comics Reporters, who like their cartoons to be less –intense. As now even Francis Ford Coopolla seems to be reciting my very words back, about how making movies neednt be a going Concern, and to fuck the Jingoas and the wise guys, I am the one who made it a moral devotion to return in book not only to the Romans, for which the house wops name their kids, but to the Etruscans  no less, who somehow even liberals who made a point of their love of noble savagery liked to pretend didn’t exist. 

xi.The church as I said, Lawyered up and that’s the story we are sticking to, for now, as the leaking Lena proved not quite as endurable as its architect. A decaying church went to a man two years OLDER than the pope now befuddle dandy ruin, and in the Castillo at lake Como, --will a Lucia be there or are they all handmaidens now to various old white queens like Vanessa who look about Rome as a vacation from cloudy wet London, to where the sun and sonnies are…as again the church finds itself as mute as were too the Paulo and Francesca, serenely though only 84 lines in the Inferno, was named the Italian love story per excellence, -fuck you Romeo!-, THE land of the Renzos and Lucia’s as it waylays has been. But, you could do worse than issuing big Roman Tony here as your peculiar Virgil for this particular hell, as I guessed that Benedict was going to be ala Tyberius, pushed out, hating Saturnalia in fact makes you seem more Nazi than just you were, and said as much, and say now, as lasted nigger BARRY FINDS THE ROMAN RULES OF WARFARE IMMUTABLE, AND HIS WORST NUMBERS COME FROM GE inc, THAT I TAKE IT IS Cardinal Imult dropped the handkerchief, --well you could do worse than listen to me.

Xii. That Syrian Grocer who put on Being There faces and stood amazingly too small for his close up is going to reap the whirlwind for this one, I can sense the Curiae, a bunch of stupid men unaware that all roads to Buenos Aires lead to as Ma said, the raped nuns that Uncle Severius told us of in a city just off the world cup then picture it , 1978, and I a little gorgeous boy playing with the die of the italic strong circus man, Dannunzio’s Red caped strong man,  in ways no one had since before Uncle Stan, perhaps back to Jerry and Joe, and an old man with strange pan italic looks gave me a small key chain of a busty woman in t shirt and midrift and sunglasses holding a global like soccer ball, as if it was as a giant’s testicular. My dad took it out of my hands, and looked at the overly sexualized plastic woman chain, which held a giants white ball reading ARGENTINE 77, and frowned that this old man would give me such a thing as a boy, but waved it off and handed it back to me. He shook his head at these italics who had left the patria for reason unclear and not the same as his, and he went outside and stared to smoke his Popeye pipe I had given to him from a Popeye toy I had as a boy. And Severio told us of the purges happening for this soccer tournament, and that whole city block were set ablase, with the poor in it, and where was Jorge-sorry Francesco,-golly the edit of a pope thanking that italic name as such it has become, made Ma, her even with a  fever wince and shudder,--you ;look up what cardinal Evita had to do with all of that, again providing the roman aphorism that the time is the curse, in all directions, back and forth. And what this installation of this ambition to a grievous fault thug needed to make his ascension almost Romulus, Was a white horse racing madly through the ancient Roman streets.

Xiii. During the week, I saw Boston Charley, who I had taken swipes at, but had to grudgingly admire for his obit about our mutual hero Father Gore, whose no longer in the Romae of our dreams, and what he could have written on this , no,…? And Boston Charley spoke of what was needed, not a black left handed lesbian leftist hemorfrodite, anyone so even touched by Roman inculcation  knows the ge shtick for what it really worth and useless. We need a John The XXIII, he said out of nowhere, I am just sure not pleasing to the channel that allows Reagan to be the ghost father of its always in common sense liberalism. This was touching. John the twenty third is dead; his idea is dead, crippled by a house Pollock, Mao to a dying politburo, as they recently are so often degenerate, old men who are there to save their crumbling seats. It is coming out now that our green grocer wanted to take the name Pius, don’t they all in the Augustan historicity, another book of required reading, except to lesbians white fetish herstory dirt bags heard wailing between the Saturday games, and their nigger studies goons. Ah but that would have brought up one too many thirteen’s on this Roman spring March day, --but thirteen is the number, all Jesuits worth their salt know, is sacred to Saint Anthony, another name too shining and important for a mere high priest to Augusto, a man it is now said who helped cul de sac uppity and upper-class spics, is there any worse sort…?, To steal children from wretched poor woman and handed them to rich daughters, like our new Francis was, Anthony was too like Francis, a name unsullied by clergies of red and black. John the XXIII is gone, as I dizzily go back to bed, unable to eat with relish, the best part of life, his whole sense of being is gone, the old men and their Pollock won that battle of the teacups, and now this aged fascist can try to make himself appear to be John, or John Paul, and I say here they didn’t need this headache that Ma saw before any of you, and the curiae didn’t need with the swirling winds as there was no need to hear of dirty wars and hidden names and pits into which not only socialists but Franciscan monks were sent by men with pimpish epilates. John the XXIII is officially Missing, until further notice.

PS-This pope is laying it on real think, but as Ma said, the devil covers your eyes and makes you think you're hid. Now suddenly the Pope Cheech thinks Roman criminals and convicts and his blessing them are a fascist perfect situation, but it shall not last. The bloated Irish thugs like Donahue of the catholic league think everyone saying anything about this pope is a left wing hoodlum, no, their on his side as long as he lets them with full mouths obviate, sorry Pontificate, I love Latin roots, in more ways than one, about their pets the poor. This wont stand, I the auger, warn. Happy Easter from the Borgia Papacy. Or at least Pinochet's. Yes, fuck your fox news pope and President,  fuck women priests and gay marriage I can smell a fascist at 1000 paces. 







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