10 May 2013


1. I have never felt so much a dereliction, even a desecration of Duty as I have the past few years, Obama the imagined and the Rachel Maddow dancers making sure that the the American public was dammed and decayed, while of course the drones went merrily, hummingly, brokenly along.

I see where the Boston Bomber is alas buried, but in redder state Virginia, as his very copse was somehow polluting the blue testimonies state where the holy sea of Chappaquiddick, was, where the noble white folks live, far afoul of the holy family of Gore’s, but then, As these things have happening to always blow up ironically in the face of these sanctimonious, as Machiavelli warned of, after all, the Boston Bomber is buried in Virginia, but then so is Son O’  God comics himself, sweet prince himself, Arthur of the always grasping needing Irishmen Brahman, JFK. Of course this was done quietly, in Obamanation we slip our corpsmen into holes when no one is looking, lest anyone recall when this whole thing began as an anti war sentiment, showing that Pogo Was right, and Clean Gene was if not on the wrong horse, tide in the wrong directions.

Your first mistake, in this attempt at False flag patriotism, was the round robin of Jews gleefully making up shit like Yetta Bloomberg, suddenly all sorts of intell coming from a man with no throat,  alas Tiberius at the lake. Second biggest mistake in this era of paranoia was too much Inky Dinky Puttie put put put, and the Czar who literally looks like the riddler and his black stare of death was too much for lamebrains, who still recalling when Moscow delenda est, well, the KGB corporal was a bit much as his own people now raise up against him, as what happens when one is seen too closely to Obama. No good deed goes unpunished.

2. The past few weeks have made me as sad as I have ever been about my choices or lack thereof in life, as strangely, we are getting the replica of salo one would expect when Fox and MissNBC get their talking heads from the same choir. But then I know all I need to know when some drone called Catiline a foolish demagogue, a word the lefties break out of their belle jar, like their love deep down of war when they as the Italian phrase goes hold the whip, the center fight of all politics. I feel bad as a unmade Jesuit, having turedn my back as much’s anything on the brothers, even my own father, a deep seeded cowardice more than some hipsterism I put on as the center piece of this effect. As I note where does America go for truth anymore, Rodger Mudd, and the boys when I was a kid, are gone, now so much as mere shadows on a Paddy Chayefsky satire, that like all satires was closer to the truth than anyone pretending they spoke the truth.

I feel bad as an unmade Jesuit, in that isn’t it funny right at the precise moment that there seemed to be a moratorium on the death penalty, not important to me, as an Italian, I knew even if caught at anything, we can always plead down to the hellish but living death which is being dropped into venial Arizona. At that perceive moment thought, Fox and now even and tactility the Erkle's collected at liberal television, a wholly owned subsidiary of the war inc, don’t let laughing lesbians fool you, seemed to make a effect of Prosecutorial televising, really, one Trapea after the next as our bloated pig of Justice, Nance, click and clacks in stiletto heels down the hallways of the damned, sure she had to get what she is convinced of as justice and her own show on secondary cable channels. Now it is in her latest posing and midnight ride, another woman found in Madam’s web, or dragnet, this woman Jodi, who committed the greatest crime, raising a hand at a mannish sleazball, unspoken of killing the anal king, some hair gelled Kardashian in law looking closet boy, please don’t make me cry for GEE QUE over here, I have seen the hair product boys of the closeted since a boy, and never thought they would ever become a victim of the imperious chore, and boys there of, but Nancy 'The milk train doesn’t stop here any more' Grace, who learned her Law from cut ins and fade outs from Hee haw, knows no bounds nor shame, not grace even as she snarls at the camera ala Lucy. And now, the peanut gallery of closeted everything’s, as Capote and the nuns referred to the white trash and the Negros they enslaved, all cry for guillotines, which make the rest of us feel ever so cleaned and holy, if not like taking a line out of Unkie Shumah, rather than Machiavelli, being admired for one vices isn’t so much a symbol of evil as it is just shamrt Business.

And now, no less a television city monster than Baba O'reilly wishes to somehow do some slight of hand for us all, and the supposedly conservative television outlet is pushing for the making of any gun crime a federal offense, no less, meaning that someone could be sent to a maximum security prison, now as privatized as war, at Statesville for kicking over a gas station, no twelve angry men here, or only angry without a Fonda as the unmanned Juror 8. We passed the liberal Jews of playhouse ninety, the ones who invented Marty, long ago, and now have nothing but the ones who fulfilled their American dream by having cousin Jonnie come out and pay lip service to then liberal ethics, all the while making sure that enough war hawk Republicans like Mac Kane were sufficiently given bribes enough to administer one Arab war after the next, the six day variety something only the sons of Passover allowed themselves as we fester at the walls of illuim, or Bactria as the case may be. Now, Deputy Fife wishes for every gun crime to be a federal offence, like the jokes, but such is decline and fall, something one would expect from on the pad Sister Of saffo like Rachel. You know, common sense and for the Folks. Ah but if fifth grade taught me anything, it is that all imperialists and epically fascists are hiding something, one can not be a fascist at easy in come se come sah Italy, the land of live and let live and who cares, one can not really be the sort of blacked shirted thug ala O'reilley, unless one is a closet queer or a drug addict or both. See Shumah above. This entails the Italians own dark arts and slight of hand, if not basis of all farce, one must not believe their own lies, but must be devoted to them, much like the catholic priests who as I had as a boy, had Jesus on the wall, but Virgil in their bookshelves and Ovid in their hearts. 

3. Speaking of which it was nice to see our Buddy Roman Bill appear all Kemeter like, out of the soot of the Obama administration , AND I MEAN SOOT, fires have been attracted to Our Darius as now men lose their lives and errant just destroyed in the much more baloney Anthony Weiner way. I found it a telling mark of Bill’s Roman art, Roman art works in the fall of America, that the day before The Benghazi hearing, still a farce to Rachel and anyone else who wonders why more time was taken about Arabs having under wear packed on their heads than you new heroes Seals dying, our hero Roman Bill made sure he was on the record to signora Fortuna or the dead Jesuits spinning from the empyrean to do the work of Father Janus, that yucycukycuk, Hillary being mentioned as a future president…, its almost laughable to him. Nice to see you back, bubba, again you are too hip for the room, especially this coven. But Benghazi despite the term farce sued by talking points on GE theater, it wont go away, I speak fluent Byzantine. Bill will make sure of that, as it recalls in us all excitedly how that Lucretia does bring a shit storm resounding her like a reverse Beatrice, this time surrounded by daemons and Jew layers affidavits and writs of nolo contrere, like a Streisand, and too, her demander was irritating to the praetorians of state. What does it matter...?,  isn’t a credo to go to war with, one unless one is merely providers of material, who bill by the drone, and the hour to no real end. Her saying that this didn’t matter bothered the same Jews who are still suspicious of her as kisser of Arafat’s wife, secrete terrorist lover, dreaming of being lion of the desert romantic in ways the bag man Bamboo never was, so watch for this to get bigger and for praetorian to suddenly demand and wonder what is truth, always a bad day in new or old Rome. Plautus, a favorite of Master Clinton calls this foreshadowing, and was like Terence a master at roman books that make Greek shit look like insufferable droning. There is a  reason that Bill Bennett’s book of virtues, despite the Romantic Title, was stock full of Greek thought, and one can always guess what that is.

I am the Romantic in ways that bothers the white trash cunts and effeminate men of Engelterra, who preen a fidelity to Carthagfe I note, now that Europe has avoided the great black master Hannibal, as it had, subsuming Romans as it bulwark again, and see it is called the Roman fight there a holocaust, a loaded word, meaning the dead were more important by definition than Turkish Armenians or Italics at Sabinopolis. I think the true Roman Holocaust, I might say, just Being an Italian and all, and not a good white woman, was Veii, a city three times older than Carthage, like say Thuga…oh you didn’t know about burnish bronze, old man…? See, in fact, not in fact available at Ancient Romance, as was three years back, taken out by an editor as a bummer, so now I know where your sympatici  do on your siding scales really abide. Tell this English faggot what Veii was someone, as I was about to leave such a message, but revise I must get over this concept of pagination's, as it does me no good.

Enter --Plautus!

4. And late at night, Instead of hearing any more about the perils of Hillary, she really picked up nothing from the master, I watched espn and a documentary they did about Bo Jackson. I found this touching, and giving into my already burning fevers of nostalgia, and Bo was a superman of the early days, and was a human elk, running like an anthropomorphosis creature on the early Etruscan fairy tales found by me, and which I wished to make my Betrothed and my Italian faubula. Bo was a Roman statuary, like the Hercules found and tagged and cataloged in new Judah now, a Hercules of a man, who yet had the grace and speed of usual prima donna running back, ala Barry and Gayle, but with the gravure and heart of Emmett and Jim Brown, a combination not much seen. I loved Bo, as he was A Raider, like the word snetaor that menat somnething once, and an antisepsis to the awful stealers and their polish hills of sanctimony when the Cowboys were falling part, and it is now said, the venial Pete Roselle went out his way to make sure Cowboy and raider trades were vacated, showing the seeds if the spy gate that would come later, but which those of us who read North Dallas forty had an inkling. On the show a house fag named Greenberg spoke, almost decently and without much of his green eye shade act, free of the Nance act that Nathan Lane has never brought himself to, in how Bo is a creature of having to have been seen, like Roman centuria who were known and are known now only by the banners that have been found of appointed frescos of  herculean men in rubble, as to this day we still place  up silk banners to champions, no less than does curiously Jerry Jones, to recall the feats of glory done by men lost to echoes now not even reverberating amid the broken walls of imperial ruin.

Uh, gosh, I thought of this as not a image to see as I am racked with guilt to and of the men who died alone and unnoticed, while perhaps Rachel was telling others in the cafeteria at Oxford what a liberal she was before the undergraduate mixer. Was Old CS still alive then, acting as if a guide to the Italians genius, at least better than was dismissive and yet plagiarizing Tolkien. It was new years 1982 when I got that letter back telling me I was being reread and reevaluated by the gatekeepers when there was still agate at Harper Collins about what would become Big Bertha, I have still have yet to leave my teen years, somewhat like Archie, alone, as I keep going back to find any sheared of that lost civilisation of an America I cant recognize anymore.

I recall wondering what this had in store for me, as one of her last acts for and to me, my beloved and disappearing sister bought me a gold edged diary to recall and remember any trip to her beloved new York I would take, which would never come, like so much else I never did or completed or attempted. Bo now gleamed on the LCD screen, a screen whose colour has always been off putting to cathode use to me, but I recalled these nights of the Human Gazelle as he strode heroically and blazingly, a symptom of Al Davis dark Machiavellian genius, in ways that his rival Hershel never deemed willing to ever much do, I more like Herschel, why I hate him, sadly too gifted to not take it for granted, unwilling like Bo to know anything about anything, and not even like Walker to be about at least for a paycheck as he always mercenarily was. How could the Cowboys gifted with this some kind of monster not had been given a resurgence, now seven or so years away, --why as I knew then, because Tom Landry knew there were certain things that the American  Buffalo Hershel would not and could not do. Like say Block-- allowing a journey man named Steve Puller to be side swiped as she stood there, oh don’t tell me –I saw it live, Hrershellll--Hoisehalll, you don’t know diddley, and which was why the always keen and Giucciardini cool and clever and agronomist like and southern lawyer Jimmie Johnson knew Hershel, when he was asked to block for Playmaker Michael and didn’t, had to Go and fast, quickly as there was this boy in Florida who would run through fire, ohm they all call me Speedo but my real name is Emmett Smith,….So, Bo here was a misty recollection of a lost ages, especially, as it came concurrently with a thug named Ortiz who was putting on a assault on DiMaggio’s hitting streak, this after we knew he was with the A-Roid, one of Big Antinee’s supplement junkies. 

Bo, who had I learned the familial name Vincent, --how perfect this creature had a roman named and not a misspelling of Dante, as niggers need not give dignity to anyone as long as they Vote Quimby or at least Shumah, was a recollection of better tries, by me, and of a better earth than the woeful one seen now. By the by, who called this land an archipelago of Torture Castillo’s years back…? Like Bo, I know stuff too. I know Manzoni, and again as I said to a white woman, the Jesuits arbiter of bad taste, I love Italy certainly of Kemeter and Turan , the blond farcical demon, shades of Yakoob, still flying there somewhere in the Vatican library that collects the ash every word of Tuscan thought unburned in its archivio, and I love Italy of the supreme tyrant, the Innominato, who espouses too on Bill Clinton’s favourite books to Maureen’s dismay if she even knows who he is, and I adore Italy as there is where the conversion scenes are dogma, if not canonical, not here. Here the torture Castillo’s that the allergic to Evil Manzoni could not bring himself to, unlike the equally brilliant Leopardi to describe or in Salo, shown, still, here they are hidden within the McDonalds streets until broken upon and in comes Mary Poppins herself Anderson Pooper to stand amid the brat eaters and twinkle amid the turnpikes towards shaker heights. Like his hero Temp, Obamaluch, he Para-shoots in and candy man can cus, he sprinkles it with love and makes the world taste good, as his emotions spurting at the lenses, alike a gay porno cum, or spittle when Jewry Jonnie interviews Newt.

Bo is a recollection to me of the similar time, the early nineties when I was hep enough to catch Seinfeld with Maria before any of you, --she is a genius at pop culture I cannot be, and met the Lovely Gracie herself Leslie, both I thought similar in stature, as she and Bo were akin to my drawings come to life. I am a sucker for the Italianate, in man and woman and both mirrored this and tugged at my perpetual apprenticeship heartstrings. Like the Pinocchio ethic that goes back to Ovid, like King Kong, Freud and almost everything else, they were living embodiments of my arts, in the same way I was attracted to Bill Clinton as If he had jumped fully formed off my long winded Italian folktales, the Machiavelli with a smile, the smirker with a  knife, the highway man per excellence. This wasn’t the day for it, but after I had seen Bo, I was out of paper, at least good paper at elast Paper, that I wanted to use, and being ill, have allowed my Brother to go on various sojourns for me, lest I actually have to place on pants again, as have been in shorts all day for a while. He was asked by me to go to a local store and buy a Card Stock, but a particular kind, with some grab to it, as the four reams of hp copy paper I have seem to be wanting to me and my previously described arts. I thought he was calling when I answered the phone, watching Seinfeld again I am knee deep in nostalgia as the disease It was meant to be, and I heard on the other line the shy bitchy cool if not cold but slightly warm breathy silence of the ice queen herself. I hate to answer the phone if its her-- as I feel I have given in or am losing a point to her, --so much for a strike for mental heath. But today I was not in the mood, as it seemed to go on a while, for her, is quick on her overacted trigger finger, and I almost told her to go back to her stinking suburban life, whatever kids she had, whatever life she led, as this road back to Laurentium, to this day seen as the Italians Eldorado, well It was closed for repairs. My ability to make her feel less like the hurried housewife she wished all along to become, my open road back to where the spiders built their nests, back to the catalos of crossed destinies more than the torture Castillo’s of Anderson Copper, well, Hun, leave me alone and lessa me pace, as Ma would say, and I, shlub in her own definition of me, has started to tire of the wonder girl with the roman coin colored eyes of Tuscan saffron, like eyes I had not seen outside of my own woodworking novellas. I have to keep this line open, doll, I SAID, AND CLICKED OFF, sad that I had to but I knew that my brother was calling soon enough to make sure that what I had chicken scratched out on a slip of paper, --card stock--, but with some tooth, was what the clerk had given him,  instead of the construction paper white he had bought, as he is never sure what the hell I am talking about.