THE AMERICAN SCHEME.

 

 

 

 

 

The redacted and censored variation of Wop Like me part 4. Haven’t felt well enough to closely follow things, but kept up the original clip up until could link to zoetrope in filial pride that I had at least been devoted enough to the dead priests to not slink away from the boiler room vineyard swamp which is Coppola’s dump.

 

I awoke , not feeling wonderfully, but had a lucid dream in which a saint-goddess who looked immeasurably like a certain Italic starlet came to me amid the weeds and the dead trees and warned me to excise the images of the godfather out of my opus,  no matter the intention. In a monks robe, the black unfunny comic who thinks he is doing such avante guard work in the charnel, minstrel house was running around catering like a goggly eyed buffoon,  which aside white robed angelic Turan girl to say, You see….!, as I irritably fell through the floor. A bit out of it, still will replied and reciprocate to all who have added me graciously. A tooth pain has caused me to miss an Italian American picnic where I wished to get some views, and too am in the process of missing the full moon I wished to get and sued a cartoon place holder in my film. I for one have gagged on sanctimony and euphuism, and their amazing floating N word, which like all in America, sometimes matters and sometimes doesn’t. I just take warmth in how the white trash starched Martin Scorsese when he actually dared say and Italian master of film deserved credit for that given to Cecile B Demented and Dw Griffith for their Klan movies. I am beyond shock.

 

I received a Google alert from a gaggle of Gonniffs, alerting me that I must cease and desist the sue of any Godfather imageries in my hardly for profit film essay Wop Like me. AH, finally a victory, as I am the first man in America to stop at least a moonset second of the Coppola insult of his Livien gangsters on our sensibilities. I take whatever I can get. No big Whoop, as Audrey my yenta consigliore would say in brookleynsese charm, I don’t really want my work polluted by that shit anyway, and of course, as a Jesuit student know the ins and outs of the res publics greasy law’s probably better than boys from Columbia do, the layyyyers as the delightful Michael Savage calls them. Unlike other radio yids Sage Mike  knows the score and isn’t as willing to wave the flag, as is sunken eyed Levin and others always willing to play out their lamebrain songbook.

 

 

 

But on those days when Martin Luther Queen, as he was sneeringly called by RFK, before the transfiguration or the martyrdom, whatever,  is sanctified and justified and beatified again, --oh lawdeee, when we reach dah nort star Emiline, and be almost a human as dee white women’s on cable television, hun…?, I like to always recall  Sacco and Vanzetti, who unlike many a nigger was killed by  the state—I know I am  overdoing for effect—and wasnt killed by a throng of rednecks who might included a future democratic senator in love with viaducts and or bug eyed closet queens of national reviews. I saw, as MSNBC gives us wall to wall coverage of a nigeralia in death throws as the news mounts up with miscreants who were not cast  by Coppolla for their blue eyes, as white alderman and union thugs stand at the almost laughable Romans parodies of mausoleums that seem to be all scaffolded earlier than they should have been, all unable and unhallowed to decay into the sadness of Roman vistas, and thus spiritually dogged and ponied, like Arabs structures. I recall my own saints and don’t need yours. I would have thought that per chance word should have went forth among the noble savages to keep the feast day of MLK pretend as was he, white as sheets, and as mistresses, and that perchance the bludgeoning could have been kept to a moratorium minimum. AH, no such luck. Now we mist be lectured about what is racial by fat women with blond corn rows, as black as you is allowed to git in Obama’s nightmare, with English Mike Douglas’s who lose their whopping audience to duck dynasty reruns, and on Cable, they lecture us fresh from listening to tapped into burners given to rape victims and royalty maids. You think your lie was the nigger shit, which is why Rachel and that crowd hits on inclemently, Let Roman Tony teach you the score, it was never the niggers ghost con, it was the pacifist shit, the anti Bush shot, which I knew was over when Bob Gates kept the role of Imperial Caesar, look it up again I am right, and now even the American fools catch on and he as Dido slips into a pagan hell, him without the decency to keep his yap shut. A old veteran killed by roaming black dogs…? This close to the feast of the black Madonna …? Oh its isn’t racial dears, and you know so, my alleyways all go back to Rome, and thus can recall when Romans asked with anger, you mean Sulla had his vengeful dogs kill a old man senator who marched with CATO the aged at Cumae, …? Oh that can’t stand, and Sulla might have to go…ask Copolla about the Sicilian law of the 1000^th man.

 

I looked for some public domain images of your precious Godfather, as I was told by Flavia I can make art out of bic pens and Typing paper if need be, never was I a Grumbacher needing whore. And I saw entreatingly that there was a scene in the godfather reburied from even the Saga, later made by Copolla, sadly starting to believe his own tripe. In this cue, which may or may not by sued, I resented now being told I must remove things after downloaded supposed rights  to get some sort of ability to use what is in the public domain—oh dere is dat Nord star beloved by Cyrus and Rufus alike, but might say a sore feh to all of it anyway, as can always do what need be done. In this Gordon Willis scheme, Michael returns to the golden door, and with a shotgun gun kills the Fabrizio who killed the Greek looking girl who was played by a Neapolitan girl—do get  this fat pig a history book please !...In this recanted scenes, Mickey kills, the only time he does for himself in the movie, and as I am well versed in Jesuits training I could guess materially that this minstrel  show in that scene had jumped a unhallowed turnstile, alas a man gaining revenge for an abused Italian wife was something they didn’t need in their burning Iagos of now. As was watching Old Christine when and rinsed by mouth out  with salt and looked up and saw the full moon shinning through a tattered plastic shade I keep meaning to replace. At this late hours, I went and grabbed the camera, and ran outside in night shirt and underwear, and with a mouth still stinging from the salt and in a late august coolness, took the shoot of the moon as it broke through want had been obsessive late summer showers all day. The film that begins with words said by Brutus, basically kill em all and let Jove sort it out--ends with a dialog of Puck and Oberon, as I as an Italian wished to show that always no matter the jersey barriers consecrated return to the Oviddian arcadia, as the Jesuit and my father wished. You remember Ovid don’t you, as various Italians operators try like Marco polo to always get back to mother China, and have set their gaze on the once fun and affable and delightful Hong Kong movie to ruin that too, Ovid was the one who said empire is another word for having no where left to turn. I have been called clever by the best minstrel show operators you have ever made.