04 April 2013






OH, GOD OF BATTLE…


It seems today I went to face book and find that I am again banished from the kingdom for thirty days. You think by now the precepts of Zoid would realize I’m not tailoring my verbiage to the needs and wants and taste of white women, a continuation of why I avoided that conceit in 1985 when I turned away from the chance to publish my book about my maternal grandfather, a fascist era cop, and the story that unraveled his life. Alas, I wasn’t about to ‘dingy’ up my grandfather, never met, as the chosen couldn’t have a fascist be too much of a hero, I was told you know, as opposed to the Jews killed by the politburo archipelago, later in Gorky Park, almost a note for note retelling of my book without the historical reasons, and thankfully to the household Jews about heroic Aryans, fuck ups or not. I don’t really care, as 212 people came to read my post xiii over one day in the end of march, which might be the real reason for censorship, as opposed to the post about Gore Vidal left out of Harvey’s FROM ACADEMY AWARDS NIGHT, that was three days then thirty I guess when the Pope was dissed, welcome to the dark ages, but if Sejanus teaches us anything, it is that sanctimony is fungible, and goes in both directions perceptually. I don’t really care about the student union of the web, which is face book as after all avoided Georgetown so the commons at drop outs from Harvard leave me cold, but is a easy way to keep in touch with buddies and business acquaintances, which frankly I stayed in better touch with by email, so there is a lesion always to be learned, as the Jesuit said. Like how the pope I despise now, grabbed a retardo child out of the Roman sea, and started to fondle him like a Cyrus, shameless, and too me heinously, but it made Megan’s cry showing this Jesuit has the dark arts of his creed down pat, but lacks a decency of the Jesuits you let die, something else I shall not forget as white women make their sanctimonious pies. And sanctimony sells over as the four letter queer network has gone over time about poor sweetheart bball players who had actually been yelled at, heavens forbid, and I wonder as Greenberg made his peons about gay slurs, you are a gay slur, Felix, with that Oaf who plays Nelson the bully next to you, and I thought more time was given to this than to a gal who was raped by the ND backfield and killed herself rather than be called names by the head high priest at the NAACP, seeing another rapist needing racial dispensation. Mercy rules do abound for the alpha males, a trick of nausia as never learned by sideline Negros and Jews who think the Stockholm syndrome is genetic. All night, on fan, people who recall being hurled into lockers by such sweethearts were actually saying 'boo hoo', literally I head a Chicago goon for a moment say 'Boo Hoo', ow!-and trashing the team, recalling in me a great Homicide: life on the streets, when some dweeb went off and shot the kid who was named mister basketball, a dream we all have nursed within the killing of five year olds which come seemingly on cue. Finally on broadband, I look up films on you tube of delightful Wendy in a purple swimsuit, her modesty is beguiling, and Orson Welles, who when speaking of chimes at midnight can make even Shakespeare seem wondrous in ways that our friend sir Larry, who harlequin face and overarching hammiest delivery is loved by me to the point he, and not Harry Lime Orson, is the figure of KEMETER in my mind, whose Henry the V was excruciating, can not. And there, if I may quickly say, if we all may quickly say anything, there was father Gore, who I adore, and with Charlie Rose, a bishop of the middlebrow who I don’t dislike, and Gore said, with usual aplomb, after making a great post stroke like mean and vicious imitation of the previously named Quee--Bill Bugeyes, Gore said that he knew as a handsome young man that the new York times, and no one else was going to tell him what to say. A Dying man he was here, but still steely with Juvenal wit and Petronius charms, our AC was in full Roman after the fall glory. Seeing him after finally seeing a first Game of thrones on a free hbo weekend, I realized it was the Franciscans like him, who taught me well, and how I did better knightly stuff as a ten year old under their auspices and the credos. As in fifth grade I write a take on Tasso, and the knightly creed and the romantic thought, hated by white women and effeminates, who are mute when the drones start buzzing, which as the priests told me is never so palpable and lovely and romantic as it is in anti war Virgil, who shows every wound and every muddy boot. They call that irony. But that first book about the holy grail began with a three page invocation to Mars, no less, as the priest, which told me always, whatever it is, respect the Shit. A moment of green laurel.




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