02 October 2015


1. I watched as the blond biddy chomped away, growlingly, divaly, queen beamingly bitching, her hitting the air to make her lacklustre points, with gauntlet-ed white opera gloves in a blue and white suit that had been designed by wonderful Walter White. Seeing this in the feasts of the woman cartoon book, VunderFrau, like the beer, umlaut stained, as a waste on the woman whose Americanism blinded the immigrant Rosenberg, and which left me cold. So then, I asked him, WW,  to design a suit befitting Veronica, but no black and no overt flag, as that seemed too much to me to be playing to the tenth row, always out there in comic land.

In ways I merely stared there, really rather than listen to Denise, but was seeing Veronica coming to work. Here, she said to Mario, was the only place she felt at ease, as a family unused to her and a junior league mother racked with guilt about that old crow Mammy, well she felt more at aware here, away from the well off family, who frankly saw her barefoot charm as something best to be gotten out of her, shown mostly by the fact that she liked, even in the fall, to sleep under the big dipper, as if a voluptuous Snoopy who had come home, but in ways owned the place. Id rather not listened to prattling Denise, bitch Away, then watched Veronica, as she walked with verve and vitality towards this respite from the holler and its era of disease, and it wiping out as, she would have been caught up, but the fates who adore such as she had to save her for something more than to be some artist’s modella whore, or Worse of all things, a house wife. Is there anything worse than that…?, if so, I can’t imagine it.

She, I saw through the windows or those not cross crossed with lead spines, or clouded, walked with joy and vitality and a pep in hers step as we said in a previous day, as she crossed Broadway and tenth I coolly followed along  through the dirty windows, some gumbas and hacks, looking at her out of cabs, though she wasn’t dressed provocatively in yellow dress she seemed to mostly be in, did she have another…? I wondered, and she walked with a goddess like March, as  even the diuretic pigeons of the decalcifying city noticing her as if they were blue birds in one of those dreadful Pizney cartoons. Rose red had come to life, as I saw here, but had a first purchase of the famously bank of America familia money, bought a pair of ray bans which made her look a new Pier Angeli who had come looking to star in black and white silver nitrate films in this salty ebbing ending United artists, last golden age of great films.

2. She smiled with as if an electric neoned beam I could see from up here, the kind of woman Capote collected before the fall, the kind of girl as Saint Lucian’s school for boys would fall for before their dragooning mothers would out and end to the love affairs, as she was a Mediterranean, thus, close to Negro, and then, they’d all stand up at the local democratic party enclaves and hiss and spit about what non bigots they were.

She was the kind of woman that abortion was being accepted for, lest gals like this come home with half Italic scions for the sissies of skull and bones, but mostly they were aware of this glass cellar, an knew not to ever play in so sanitized and vicious a pool. The frequent attempts at equality, mostly  payees for by the USSR and snapped up by the local new Amsterdam Jews well I can attest, has caused a mixture of races and little brown grandchildren that have the teeth of the old Roses on edge, as their vain testaments to make sure their families were free of Poles, Dagos and Greeks has left them open to this, which serves them right.

She passed the Rexall drugs sign, in this sleepy Any Wednesday era Sunday in New Amsterdam afternoon, and then passed a billboard written on a script in iron that read Bloomingdale's on Fifth. And she walked closer to the building here, as Falsie queen here prattled on with a story that, to me, seemed to be a hidden attempt at exacerbating a lover’s quarrel. As she and Uberman were connected as the sixth grade mind at work in comics would agree to, as I knew by now she had been thrown in with Uberman, who was Shapiro’s bag man in all of this, cause of unsteadiness on a newsprint Olympus.

And whatever happened between these two lovers, it certainly wasn’t going to take my attention, as had the tragic story of the school killing between Veronica’s sister and that idiot who wore that inside out fedora as a fashion statement. I was by now waiting to hear the lovely girl tap tap tap against the metal steps of the almost desolated building. She was the future of this place, at least to me, and Denise was a dreary present in which everything as drowned in miss Clairol and spermicidal cream as way to always find the 3 martini dream of a button down, Madison venue life, that Marlyn Monroe, speaking of sickening Capote, had left us all with, more fraudulent by the nonce.

3. When Captain Magnus finally got up from kneeling and up chucking and ruined and beaten at the Martian dusts, he was half completed, and tired and sore and broken, and he wiped his blue black hair back from his punctured and reddened and whipped skin. The fact that he had so black India Inked straight planks of thick hair, and such a brow, was not by bad aiming by the fates, as the human battery of sunlight he was made into by that meeting with the Star man, his godfather fairy, the black of his hair allowed as it did for Italians and Arabs and Jews for time immemorial through a Darwinian exercise, the ability to soak up the divine sun. It had allowed them, as he, to store as much sunlight from the Martians sky walker sky god Sun. So now for the next time in millennia,  Catha, the boy who rode the white gold chariot across the sky, gave the boy man sunlight as he could get, as the yellow bracelets he wore, a remnant of the great  Curmudgeon CC Gimbals, who worked on his ancestors strips, and these sleeves were protectors of his almost Popeye like forearms  too, soaked up the stilted, rounding, almost bright light of the forth planet.

Now he walked with torn cape and torn chest insignia, a recalling of the signage all centurions wore on burnished chest plates of yore, with the pretty purple shinning sprite next to him as she as if a be smitten Bea, took a joy in being and alighted about and around her beloved Roman God who wore so convincingly royal, or was it blood, Caesars red. Even the hair on his hands sopped up the sunlight to regalia him with solar power, as he walked less tired and less at wits end than before, but, she kept along an anti Tippy toe, an anti fairy, against and buttressed from those as you’d see in those awful Pizney drawings, or that heinous doll given to girls to learn their place as math hating boy mad whores, and so, Bea the butterfly girl kept up with him and felt a certain joy at all of this. They walked along the crashed path, playfully she spun and caned and flicked about him a creature of an Ovidian knight time eons before the midsummer’s of the Elizabethan age, as he could feel his soaring, growing, as if eating spinach in Segar, almost cartoonist made,  musculature gaining in the vitamin d energized blood he had been remade as, and given unto, when the felled Starman hit the earth, when he did, and decided to get somehow away from the adventures he had tired of.

She laughed, and burst with joy this close to her beloved, as she adored him so, again put here by conniving Anvil commix group as they vain gloriously called themselves, he was no less a mischief loving, dark Browed Mitchum, in a world of weirdos and pansies, sissy’s and chumps, goofballs and ninnies he was a return to the laconic, tired, listless, fitful and yet lazy, honest and yet shady, marker cared reader through tired droopy eyes, that Magnus was to her. She laughed and he was glad to have seen her, his fiat moneyed, baby doll protectoress, as theirs could have been a sacred attitude by him being found or kept alone on, Mars. The Roman planet in whole and parts, stolen and hidden from the usa and its beer drinking cheater hordes,  waters and springs not here, necessarily, but the water of rivers under-did, which rapids and whooshed arises from  the red planate in photos seen by Brezhnev quickly called Classified, or at least the Russian word for such, AS FRANKLY THE DEATH OF COMMUNIST RUSSIA WAS PRETTY MUCH IN THE FACT THEY NEVER STOPPED BEING ORTHODOX, at enlisted in its worsted parts, which was most of it all.

As he would have to stay here, the short haired dancer sprite said to him, until the cocoon he lived within and survived within had to completely reassign itself to him, something’s seen mostly in the gorgeous art deco monstrosities of Fletcher Hanks, lest he be torn apart trying to traverse the escape that the star wizard had eagerly tapered about until he had as all men do, tired of the centurions creed, although some never mouth it to begin with.

4. You’re a heck of a man, Bee said in best Olive Oil Admiring of the sailor mahn, as she spun her white wasp wings about , frantically and blue birdisteically, to keep her afloat in the light Martian air. Thank you, he said, not realizing yet that she had saved him as she had by twanging her magic Twanger as she had, but he had a good idea, that she was behind his freedom. I must get home, Doll, he said, making her swoon, she loved him now so very much, but all, as in tales such as this , if she would break the magic spell,  had she made herself anything other than his guardian, Mother Gaea would have been quite the angered den mother of her and the other woodland friary woman.

Oh, she was no Virgin, god knows, this isn’t the works of Grimm’s, who took the works of the show makers and the babblers of Italy and made them sexless and dull. No, she had her share of boys or men, other warlocks, male sprites, doges, kings, princes as  she used her sexuality as a weapon at times to get even with vulgar men in a way in which cardinals or rabbis thought they were immune and why they paid Florentine indulgences between rapes. She had had them all, none like this monstrous centurion, gods knew, and with males sprouts, as in all of action it was through such copulation that all living things are born, including fairy centaurs and Satyrs and such creatures, a bestiary demeaned by boring English minds, as usual, no matter what Arthur Pizney said, but rules were rules.And she thought,  she lost her heart to this massive boy made man, though she yearned and  longed to know what that giant Prick behind Red corduroy pants and suit felt like within and about her, should she berate the magic seal, they would both be destroyed, as did Romans take vestals and centurions who were caught coupling. As back then, and still in ways, they would be thrown into pits and showered with cement until they were made human fossils, now seen all over the place  in old mother Italy, from where she had come. She admired the man, and had to get some sort of pleasure just by being with him, in that sort of sweeter and yet sad, way that the italics call literature.

5. He walked now a good mile from the plumes of the Vesuvius made there confounding and terrorizing the watchmen of the night sky in Los Alamos, as the paranoia of empire cause smaller clerk men to see all metre of threats in the night excepting,  of course,  the ones that are possibly real. But by Martian noon, the weakest sun high in the Panned sky, making the world here shine with a red worthy of a Spartan cape, they had come to the edge of Cryse. It was the name of the plains here, made by long gone glaciates in the Martian foreverness, now gone but a small white cap to the planet, as it was called the sea of Gold. So, don’t think the Ussr commies haven’t sent drones to find out of that name was true, as they search mightily for enough money to keep their surveillance state afloat. On Mars, the days, father from the sun can be indiscriminately long for the season of poles and shifting and angles there of  which may have devastated the war planet back when Jack was its warlord king, three thousand years ago, as implied by books that the Greeks, those original imperial hacks, burned as mere apostasy, but which men called  as a name Naevicus kept alive, and Ariosto too, inventing something referred to now as science fiction.

 He had by now ironically veered back away from the centre of Cryse, which he now made a black smoke and immense flames Temple to Vulcan, worthy of death of a Roman scientist or thinker or poet, all were once intertwined, a mount which now existed, which would have drowned a thousand Pompeys. The flitting purple dressed organism with bangs ,she flew about in circles as her sprightly body as intoned and intertwined with his in ways both sweet and dangerous, but a lover of the Roman hero as was she, she had to make sure she never made herself big enough to be with the massive man, lest she go down in history as a kind of Delilah more akin to the woman hating epistles and screeds of Jews ,as every woman in Italy if pretty enough has  more of a Delilah in her than those sad girls and haggard marginalizing yentas of the similar and yet diametrically opposed Middle race. Delilah is a goddess in some parts, which the Italians at least never  much give into making into an archetype as the Jews had. You have to stay here on Barsoom, she said, cueing the name from the yellowed books she and her literate magical ilk adored, read by many a boy in thieved pre Imperial days of forced decency and civility as they call it, way before our Caesar FDR decided to , despite being called a communist, gave the military the America it had hoped to get its hands on for decades, and now could own, openly,  as Roosevelt had gathered together all the trash on the same said en gave them payments as a Caesar would.

They walked, again he in a kind of physical shininess, and they made it past the remnants of the face, an ancient monument,  looking out over and into the night sky that they had mapped when the earth was still full of creatures  who lived mostly in the dew of grass, after the last dragon lizard king fell to earth after the meteor had struck and would make them all museum pieces literately.

She couldn’t suppress a smile, knowing that the burgeoning vendetta in her beloveds  mind was now added to and matched for some reason by the Roman writer Dore, who she had come to admire for his love of warding off the vile eye another thing as so many Gaius and Perpetua  Brought TO Christ’s table, whatever he would like it or not, as Paul again knew to always go where the power leis, and to Jews and Greeks, despite it all, that always means Romans and never means slaves. Look it up.- Ed. No, she said, gingerly, this anti Tippytoe, this Beatrice of the vines, Fox is gone, replaced  by Dore Duvall. The name immediately means something to the boy hero as he had read Brutus, as a kid, and saw Dore often being bitchy and wonderfully so, acerbic,  on the David Susskind show when hitting PBS on the uvf dial by accident on Sunday afternoons.

Ill get you home, she told him and buzzed by his face,  her immense in most ways, especially to her,  light peach south side Italian cheek and gave it a slight peck, as she had to by now. Ill get you home, big man, she said with a slight goofiness about her which as beguiling, No matter what.

He now stood there shimmering, as if a Roman antiquity that Moma despite any bullshit, will always buy in the black market from whatever Sultans or pimps, radicals or rich Agnelli are willing to haggle, and that their art thieves always on the lookout for. The selling of which as much’s Sulimans actual brilliance at war, the early Islamics sued to sell to crusaders to finance their church when they were artifacts that were more Homage than anything else. Like the Moljiner hammer, which Jack Varney sent to Dore as a remnant of that lost time and hero, it said, fittingly enough, property of MGM  prop departments as was sued by Kirk Douglas IN SOME PIECE OF SHIT ABOUT Vikings. As in they were fake, but great  fakes, which is after all, an art in itself. The suit he wore started now to have its divine cotton rescue itself back to together s the uniformed star started to re asserts as unbroken a garment as it tied its every loose ripped ends back together and made a suit whole than it was. I must get back him, he thought to s the next Dorothy in the forever chapters of the best fantasy which has  been allegorical  and not not just Pizney falderal and white mans dreams since the age of Italic folktales. Here was our little John, dauntless and strong, egging and poised, as he was through muscle and in shirt restricted  himself as if busting ahead,  together into a super human that now Shelly or Kafka would have ever imagined as again, the Ubermench was nothing more than the ballyhoo of the Roman Gallanthomo, the great soldier remade as Mythical, the don Quixote nothing more than the couturier of Venice, as in our hundred years of Solitude,  which s the dreaded 20th century of Foxes and lairs, the roman boy had returned at least to himself if not the Kansas to which, like home base we all wish to return. He held out his hand, and dutifully the spriest came and handed on it though she seemed a bit unsure as he looked down to be a goliath who would survive any slingshots, and he could with a flick deviated the ancient alkali of woman and bumble bee which she was.

11. With a gentleness, not often seen by the horrid scope and science heroes of anvil, they actually  take a few pages out if each issue, you see,  when confronted by another to alwasy beat the snot out of whoever is accosted always in the sort of ,mistaken identity, which you would ahev thought would have been over by 1966. They, them, all looking when done in the dreary house style of Jake the snake, no, Capt here, he had a Neal Adams formatted style to him, as he summed up the kind of Comic God that that infinitely superior artist who’d move on to the commerce of cereal boxes and shoe ads, had seemed to make Captain Magnus one of his sketches come to life. Actually and no insult he was more like a Wayne Boring creature come to magnificent life, as it was Wayne boring who pretty much invented the American way of comic book and was as this is written working as a security guard at something sprung out of the mind of the true Buckminster, now called a strip mall, as who doesn’t know all his genius, like Bauhaus, will eventually become that which is cheapest to do, as the fountain head is always first come and first serve.

He took the small ephemeral creature with white tissue wings, who he could have quickly killed, why dos anyone kill, but she was nervous this flying solid gold count down of billboard songs  dancer made a woodland imp, and she bit her big lower lip frightened,  but landed on the massive palm, unsure what he’d do nest, always a Mitchem attribute which made him, as a hero, unparalleled. Recently, the film of Patton had been made,  and though it is unthinkable now without George C Scott, it was first offered to Mitchum. He, through wise guy, before that word became synonymous with idiot,  heavy, concise eyes, glassy eyes, and with lips in perpetual pout as he and some wise ass Italians always had, he took a look at the script and passed, saying, Naw, You need someone who cares, a now famous line. But Captain Magnus did care, as without caring a vendetta, as his people knew since time immemorial, was merely carnage and worthless if it didn’t have a shtickle of devoutness.

The more sullen and forthright and disgustingly decent Kirk Douglas and his buddy the more affable and big circus boy Burt Lancaster, they looked like hero well enough, but both were always so earnest and decent and lecturing they made one , at least Curtis when he watched the late show sick, as they ere sticks in the mud. With a surprise genteelness, the giant killer giant man, one must be a monster to destroy monsters, or better a saint, as he revivified the idea  of the comic hero in ways Shapiro and Leiber the Holland Dozier Holland of funnies could not.

12.As he had been freed now the earthly equivalent of an afternoon, though it seemed to be light here forever, perhaps some trick of the curvature of mars, Capt breathed in as much air as he could get from what was in the thin layer of torn bits of Martians astrosphere, and filed his generous lungs, He stood at the base of the tower which once held the mad Martian king, who Goddard was sure had sent his proto loopy roman kin to come to earth to save their red soldier capes, and Magnus looked through MATINEE IDOL SQUINTING EYES TO THE FLAG WHICH FLEW ATOP OT STILL. In the flag was his insignia, the yellow star, sued too much now by commie pinko’s and fat girls feigning radical chic ties between blind dates. He then like a man would, and taken away in latest films done of Uberman, in which he seemed to float like a queer joke, he flew as Dirk Decker, a cowboy star did in the adventures of captain Magnus, which had been a republic serial in 1940, in which dummies and trampolines were so implemented and used to simulate the concept of flight which, and not Uberman, he was the first to commit to in comics, as with a female sidekick, a bald scientist villain, and many other things that the heinous creeps at Fee Cee couldn’t even start to replicate after having destroyed the first one.

He ran down the broken martial wall, and with a spring as he recalled seeing it done by that actor who he had met at a local comic shop when Curtis was a boy, he sprang upwards sousing the ground as a launching pad, and he flew up into the aria, as his predicator had and he would again, with arms making a sign of strength,  a flex almost, and he spun around with saffron cape snapping and flying behind him, again sopping up the powerful unfiltered sunshine. And he as if a Michelangelo sepia pencil lead sketch, it now come to life and reason, or perchance the old yellow paper of study guides for Captain Magnus made by the Fleishman Brothers and the old con man held onto as if a Magna Carta by the deflated Pizney, the Captain flew and hovered, flew and stood, zoomed and hung in the airs there. As from here, he could see the curvature of this planet, as it spun towards into the indigo images of the reflected sun, which frankly armed him as more powerful. And all through this, the sprite, as a stowaway who stood on the shoulder of the man, though she could fly herself, she squealed with glee and slapped her hands together with joy that the man had come back to town, or at least to wherever this was.

As he landed, he gently let her go as she buzzed about him, and dutifully and smitten. She floated in mid airs.

He blew a gust of Martian breath at the lovely sprite, causing her to close her eyes in sexual rapture, as she spun backwards into the tunnels of space and time, into Magna like steals of black lines made by fascist sized tipped markers that expel a thick smelly line. She fell backwards naked, as if a dolly is often undressed in ways by little girls who are given such  toys as children, and she wheeled backwards into the backlash as her dress had turned back into the Lilacs from which it was originally sewn, and she went backwards in a circle into the tunnels that creaks and crosses the creation and space, as only starting to be guessed at, to the black energy that keeps the universe sewn tighter,  which was only truly known of as there by geniuses like Giordano Bruno and of course, the salty comic genius, Fletcher Hanks. He stood there as a red figure in the coming Martian dusk, sure that somehow the pretty little girl of the weeds and the vineyards would somehow allow him to finally get home.


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