09 May 2016

RAG COMIX EXERPT. MURDER WITH PEP.

Out of data until May 25th or so, I have journeyed to the local computer for rent at the Kmart complex and post here a chapter of a prose book based on my comics.I have done better than usual with women who Run their own magazines lately, as was informed my take on Samantha Beehive an her strange disposition to those geeks making wonder women seemed on point, and got extra credit for knowing who Virgil's lovely Amazon Camilla was. Sorry to the rats of the daily show journeying like apostles to Rome, but after free trade, your days are numbered. Still, this woman wasn't sure about opening her magazine to open pulp, as that word, like b movies, has been reverie trashed by Mongo Tarantino, and so once out on a lovely day, as my brother waits in the parking car, to post here a chapter in prose as was asked to submit something more than comics, a prose piece, as she wasn't sure I could make it more than just a Doc Savage like pulp fiction story of adventure. I Wish, i said back, as Oh Bitches, I can commenssse ...So here, as we travel the Flaminan way where an affable vulgar plutocrat is being nightly demeaned and broken on Fox, for plan B oligarchical wives, I know you are finished, better steal Apple coponants while you can Captain Nice, as It doesnt matter if Trump wins, if in fact he be better off losing and letting Hilly be the wicked witch seeing men to die in sand pits, as Vespasian has crossed the bridge, and just getting this far shows every Italian hates the sound of Greek.





6.

I stood there, dumbfounded in the cool night. Leaves began to fall from hidden trees, as I had thought the whole of the city of New Amsterdam, to over do things, was all covered over in imperial cements and highways of Mr. Robert Sallust, the traffic manager, by now. But, as it was in the first New Amsterdam, the trees had been turning, and the leaves of rusted color were beginning to collect in the canali. I stood there in a kind of awe, having never seen a girl this pretty anywhere outside of the Havana haunts in which I went with a Fact finding JFK, who was my friend then, in a more auspicious lifetime than I have now. I have given up a manner of sophistication for my pulp monies, I know, and so, I do manage to keep my RAG magazine petulance secret, lest the hoity fools at the New York Review of books find out that I am dealing in something worse to them than heroin.
Behind me came the man I was to meet here, and I was silently startled. Hey, Bookworm, a deep, bar atoned broken voice said to me...I turned and saw the man who I had admired not that long before this as a petty and bitter adulterant at St. Albans. I had seen him too as being a kind of ultimate image of American supremacy, and I, stupidly, had thought it would have been he who was the one to topple the solemn and bloated image of Uberman, as becoming the imagery of total American dominance. But, before the fall of America, before the listless and meandering egotism of the LBJ and Nixon administrations, and of their equally perverse and egocentric detractors, I found that the age of meaningless defeat had hit the red colored superhero first. I turned and saw there before me the image of a creaking, broken god, as if he were a Greek image, or a Roman statuary which had been found chipped by the irritating hatred of art from the barbarians. For all of our new found entitlements to Rome and to their history as a hegemony, it was a country here which was more like the Germans we had recently defeated than we were like the ancients. And now, standing there in front of me was the once invincible Capt. Magnus, who, like imperial images and heroes before, had fallen too had on their feet.
Capt. Magnus, I said, with almost a bit of sad awe...My Name is Alexander Pun, and I am the editor and publisher of the Mercury Comics. I had taken the name of the comics company, the ruined and abandoned Bang, and had used the name most liked by Orson Welles, who was to become a friend of mine, and I still, at this late hour, find him to be a master of reverence. I got the idea behind your call, old boy, I said to him, And, I am willing to play ball.
I knew; he said, That you would Alexander...He smiled. Your name is Dore Duvall,... Christ, man, he said with a laugh, I’ve seen you on the tonight show with Carson…

He was in bad shape, despite his proto- dominical state. If I have not described him, it is hard to go back so long for many ideas recalled so late, he was about six foot three, about 250 pounds, though, and a homeliness had taken hold of a still potent form. He had blue black hair, combed back like a pompadour, tres Studio Ninety, and a style often seen in ads for brill-cream.

He was true to a Roman name, with a smoldering manly look, and thick eyebrows, and a square jaw. He squinted allot, so I can't even really say what the color of his eyes were. and his mouth had thick Italic lips. He had great big hands, and he had a massive chest. He wore red from head to toe, and his cape was yellow. He wore yellow boots and there were two cuffs of gold along his wrists. He wore a suit whit no underpants, nor shorts, and his prick was noticeable to anyone who would glaze there. His legs were powerful, like a python attached to his torso on both sides, and he did look like a superhero should. But, atop this, he wore a scruffy rain coat, which he wore as anew cape atop his uniform, and he was unshaven, unkempt, and greasy hair did corkscrew from his widows peak. He smelled of gin and he seemed hunched over and unable to walk too straight. Behind him was a pretty woman, young, with similarly colored hair, but straight planks, not wavy as was Vundergirl, and she wore a straight edge of bangs across her eyes. She was small nosed and wide eyed, and round faced, and she wore a ragged cheerleader’s outfit under a similar tunic like coat. The thought came to me immediately for the name of my new comics concern. Rag comics. From the paper to the heroes, it was a nostalgic if not radical return to pulp fictions
He must have seen me gawking at a second pretty, dark, woman I had seen in a row. This is Dominica, he said, proudly, She is my woman...
Woman...? , I said askance seeing she was a Jewish American princess type from Riverside high. Despite the still prominent dominance of the Capt., I had to be snide. Is she a woman, I asked, which made him smile. I like em like that, Alexander-Dorey, the ex hero said, between pervert and husband, that's how I like em, boy, he announced. She came up to him and hugged the broken man, and a sheen of straight black hair flew up behind him as he tickled the responsive girl.
Hum, I said slightly insecure, DO I know you, miss...?
The pretty woman looked at me, with large blue inked eyes. My name is Dominica, I was a girlfriend in the comic books of Stanley comics, you know, I and some blond cunt named Greta were always supposed to fight over the red headed punk...of course I never much liked him, he is as queer as they come, but I got tired of having to always play the bitch, like it was written , still, it got me out of West Virginia. Those sons of bitches at Garland Comics, the cutie pies, they don't pay shit, you know...I just got tired of having to play this shit with them all of the time...that jack off with the crown hat, the red headed punk... the other mean rich kid, they are all perverts...then, Mooney he goes and beats the shit out of Jug ears because he made a pass at him...Well, the whole circumstance starts to fall apart...You know, they kept me around because not every one was so enamored of Greta ... But, when the comic books made me seventeen forever, they also made garter out of me, a , ...what do they calls it, ...she placed a pink, girlishly painted fingernail up to her nice red mouth, ...Oh, I can't recall it, but the comics wanted Greta and me, Dominique to look too alike...We weren’t supposed to be too close, and fight for Stanley, but too, we weren’t supposed to be enemies too much neither, it was all very confusing...
Uh huh, I said, totally lost. I had figured that the machine made people eternally youthful, in a Ponce Deleon sort of way, and she was quite the healthy, pretty girl, though not quite as va voomy was her equal, and sister, the newly found and minted by me, Vunder girl.
The busted hero, the new Achilles, took her around her waist, and she squealed with glee, long banged black hair snapping like a magic whip witch I shall make for V. And I had figured where their relationship had been taken. He was perpetually, olympianesquely thirty four, and she was seventeen, but, they seemed to actually enjoy the other, so, why not, I guessed. She did seem rather the debutante, and she was sophisticated, and I wondered why she gave up her good role as a teen queen to be at the arms of this man, who, just looking at him, was not the centurion which he once was, but there like a ancient relic was enough of the wall to like a tattered stained Da Vinci make out the lines of genius structure.



Murder A GO GO.

7. The dossier now sits on my cluttered with cartoons desk. I return to it here, in mid narrative, as if the Manzoni I have always admired, and to comics I bring the magic realism of the Italians. Norman Mailer thinks this beneath me, but again, who cares what the fat fuck thinks, as he lives out his Hemingway’s credo, bullies who took typing in junior high now think themselves heirs to dreaded Homer and that by war love, not me, and steals the idea for his next book from whoever has a hit. So, I read through the white papers assembled for me, on which the Xeroxed crumbing image in gray of a red letter moniker ‘Classified’ is still third generations seen in the cheap mimeographed like stapled pages. In our dying Impero, the xerography is our best college of cardinals re-reciting darning and illuminating scripts with newsprint Adrenalins, mostly unnoticed not far from the Hank Ketchem comics of the little rotten kid we all were, a lovely man well met whose American childhood is far superior to that sludge coming from dreaded Schultz, retyping work, mostly in triplicates never to be seen or read and shuffled, not by I myself, an anthema to their unseen corridors.

What I have found out is that Dominica was a lovely stock personaggio brunette catch all bitch in these comics, whose world I have entered, used as was her equally Latin named Veronica in the dogpatch that was Dagwood’s holler, as a symbol of the sort of simmering war bride sexuality all Klansman both hated and too, tasted. As it seemed all Klansman have and had secret Italian and or Negros wives outside of their self cleaning ovens houses. If, of course these weed covered Elites meting in the woods as do their queer sons ver made it to the american dream of the suburban life.

As I take it in NSA briefs viable more to an ex Nazi like the old man, named Fox, yes, ‘Fox’, and less apparent to me as a writer of roman books and the occasional liberals screed too much for various news pickle merchants to bear, as I have seen the files now, Riverside drive high was a pretty abject normal high school, with abject normal high scholars, as they go, but one fall day, the 7 October in 1968, as the world was unraveling before us all, after my now infamy ABS TV go around with dreadful New Res Publica, I hate when these bigots use the Roman, queen editor Chancy F. Bugeyes, far away in America, a miscreant kid seen mostly as a jug eared slacker lackadaisical nudick finally, in our season of lent that that year was, took a fathers Smith and Wesson hand gun, and took it to school. Meeting with a bookish boy also often bullied, though I didn’t think that Alex Arvin, Jug-ears baptismal name was actually that bullied as much as he sortie of played wimpy in the pages I have reechoed from the Truman administration regents called the National Secrecy Administration, which I know isn’t its name but it should be.
As I take a look at the files and the manila envelopes, which old man Achenbach can amusingly get for me, I hear now with the salience of Richard Nixon, Ah My Nixon, how we will miss him when he is destroyed as hiss classical ilk must be, I was, and you out there may look this up, was the first to call him Shakespearean, a sad epithet by me when the rest of the rotten apples were a bit too gleeful for a RESPUBLICAN WHO AFTER STARTED THE HHS AND AFFIRITIVE ACTION, AND DID THINGS THAT DRUNKEN Teddy thought were his own family business. The kids all gathered that day far from the decay of America, as Nixon was being already derailed for having had the audacity for gaining almost forty percent of the negro vote, a sin above all others to the party who building seas of tenements to warehouse its darkie serfs. I see him already as 1970 epochs as an American Lear, since none of the white chicks wives who run America AS WIVES OF THE DUCHY, now nor their beloved house pool boys know who Turnus is. Or was. Or better will be this again, in world ever after, amen.

8. In these HAL SELECTRIC type written accounts, really they are almost Lucian in their lack of adornment, as who needs it, is what I say, this girl, Dominica, was true to her name as a kind of woppish jappish Salonika, sufartic damsel, to whom the Stanley’s of the world with tic tack toe hair and amusingly out of place bow ties who still drive jalopies. In the dossier, she exists with a kind of Dan DeCarlo pin up sexuality, a truly human and think inked and doe eyed sort, before Camelot shall MAKE ALL WOMEN A DOWER AND AWFUL RECREATION OF THE DISPICABLE MARYLYN, or if we are lucky, women shall be made if possible into fleet of Angie Dickinsons, who as he, the Boston blacker prince told me, was the classy broad that JFK and his rat pack trash friends liked more, but coulnt get it up for over her almost Grace Kelly like demeanor and sheen. The long haired italic girl, the sort distanced and suspicions of in hollers drawn by anti Kelly war lover fat faced soft handed fascist Capp, was made all the more potent as was Egyptian=roman Captain Magnus, or at least he said he was, I had a doubt, and I could sense her big eyed big lipped burgeoning ethic sexuality, which soon enough Miss Clairol and other makers of Cleopatra like henna will demean and detests lest prettiness became something that they cant get their cut.

He had escaped Shapiro’s dungeons at Mars, how this hack Jake the snake found this much power was unfathomable to me, but escape his prisoner did. That told me something, as perhaps his willingness to utilize nazi bells and such things for hs strange love of the Ubermensch was something that if not wary interest accruing JESUS would hate, then surely the Roman gods would have no part of ad it seemed if they had a champion as bedraggled as he was, CM was it, like Coke. Still, he had been through much, was a bit unshaven, a bit unkempt, a face scarred somewhat with a fight against that horrid fat boy Texans Golan, ah, the Tarzan of the Klansmen, who he summarily dispatched with Roman valor. This has frightened both Shapiro and his equal in Bonaventure California, the awful king of fantasy land, Arthur Pitney himself. I recall writing at CBS in television in New Amsterdam in the fifties, an early version of My favorite Martian, stolen from a play of mine, excreted of all its charm to be that detestable show, as my satire was turned into something brought to you from the kind folks who brought you laughs and hijinx at the ovens in a pow camp, camp, get it...anyway, as I go through these pages of thick dense notes.
In the ruins of Captain Magnus, I sensed a re calibration of that ETHOS, as if all was set right again. I See what has brought Dominica Doge, alliteration is comics best vice, I notice, as I am a pernicious among the Comic hacks, what brought this lovely straight haired, perfect toothed, girl to this spot in this alley. We were there in a midwinter, mid century, urban coolness, sketchily meeting there in the decaying New City, the last Rome, in the old city streets, behind the cigar stores and the Hoover vacuum cleaner joints, all whose cold war, golden aged signs were, like those painted in turn of this century’s ads for cocaine holding soft drinks, were chipping and already showed signs of rust. As all pointed towards the end of urban politics. 
We stood at this meeting of God and pin ups and fag, so American, so affected, as a chipping wall showed the reins and the remains of an ancient hieroglyph, a ruined placard of a now empty strew front filled with decaying washers and dryers of a lost America, as the store front called Bloombergehs, now dark and dusty, had a sign regretting and abandoned in destruction where the word Westinghouse could barely be made out.

Again, I return to the files kept on almost all by a overbearing, overreaching, J Edger and the anti Nixon cable of his petty merry men so willingly and unknowingly taken up by the weathermen of the happy media, revealing again the killer fag is something that was born with Hadrian, but alas didn’t die with him. In tense pages of terse teletype like dusty white papers held by already fossilizing and impressing paper clips, as I see, this boy man Jug ears, a kid who was again seen as a loiter and as the sloth, wore a hat of the sorts one sees in the dead ends kids and lil rascals of my youth, a lot, a depression era accustomed called a Crown, or better, a hat found in the garbage, tuned inside out like would be seen in these Halloween radio shows called the tales of unexplained, or my beloved Odin playing the Shade, a first comic pulp hero before Mort Grossbergher destroyed comics forever at FEE CEE, as in these Stanley Sanders comic books, all was in a perpetual depression when these creations were made. In which a bloated detestable man who owns trash, and not the good kind, like Mud and VC horror comics thinks he invented and owns like satire, those shows called the unexplained and such, and on this cap, remade and reclaimed as is the American way, one would add cheap found or penny pins, usually let go from now foreclosed homes where such merits and legions of honor once prized had to be pawned to buy a sack of potatoes to feed the family.

So why this was still a fashion here, in golden age booming America, …? I had no idea, as America in its race to out do Rome as suckers empire, likes to portend that the days when white men were all communists are over, as they were nudged by a Mussolini admiring Roosevelt family are over, and now we all drown in florescent lights, Char broiled stakes and the works of the Westinghouse corporation, which is alone, sadly, in realizing that not only television entertainment but news can be best when sanctified if not collected and read and distilled in fact, by a conglomerate of toaster ovens and b52 bombers.

Dominica was seemingly ignored and or dismissed and or demeaned by A., but alas he was smitten, only a Capote wouldn’t know, and held within himself, as all nerds do, had a heart of gold under those loose fitting cotton sleeved shirts with letters that meant nothing on them. He seemed to wear and S on purple long sleeve-ed shirts a lot, though there was no s in his name, nor the letter of his high school,. And as a certain love of death started to take hold of America, it seeped into the wells, no, better, septic tanks undersigning the soil of the empire, down to sleepy Far Rock-away and New Rochelle, only a few years before a comic writers Valhalla, no Parnassus’s , no Florence or Camelot days, with a Stan Laurel look-alike, and his perfect leggy wife in Capri pants hosing her mod desires, as one saw on television for the first time a married couple at Carl Reiners beck and call, who it seemed actually fucked, standards and practices demanded two beds or not.
A. or JugEar'S, came to school one day, blew the silver bun head off a lesbian teacher, named for a fairy tale monster again DiDio had the perfect ear for such American cadence, and too, the principal was shot, a fat bloated little man of the sorts one would see in Nemo newsprint dream nights, playing usually the banker as archetype, and as innocent of coming gloom kids ran out and scurried about. A fat bloated football king of campus named Bull was beaten sense less by this madman uncorked accomplice Pluto, to the point that he, this math whiz, dislodged his own arm, broke his own glasses with the force of his blows. This caused as a gathering storm had taken hold of Riverside HS, caused Bull, I take it named what else, Gary, uhhhhhhh, to laugh in mid hemorrhaging, and domino, this caused Pluto to fire a shotgun into his hated enemy’s fat porcine guts, at so close range that the back fire, caused a slingshot effect to through the diminutive effeminate boy, into the school wall, where he broke his back and lost out on a afternoon of fun fun fun. Down one accomplice, the crown wearing, hamburger eating whimpy of our Seger less universe took over, as Pluto lie dying, he had no time for any of that, and started blowing these children away.

He raped and sodomized Greta Gooner, the blond hussy one, with a fist and a copy of Amazing tales kept as an epitome in his coat, which his ilk was want to read. A suburban vista was starting then to creek and groan with the fissures of comfort and of underground rivers it covered and pretended unlike the southerners thought to marinade in such sexual squalor were not there. The place smelled, it says here, in the usual turgid loving prose of the local Daily News, of gun powder and the faint smell of ball point ink, a new space age application by our faradism at big Space, which cause writing to be done, perchance faster than it should, but that’s just me. With Freudian-ism abounding and inflaming, pun intended, JE had the boys strip to their fruit of the looms, the American man’s briefs, as his new fangled ideal of violent rampage at the school, was a natural extenuation of recent men in towers in Texas as not having been scene before that , what is to me, divining line of American life, when David Jansen was caught in the fugitive, as before that point was one America and after sadly another. And I am the only person to have seen and calibrated this in this way. The boys of Sarnoff love violence, whether in Cambodia or Selma, it makes the mens feel like such Hemingway, poets of the kill, detached enough from the broken jaws and Viet Cong to feel themselves in a perpetuated London where their Virgil, Edward R, still floats as Caesar above Phillipi, a dower sunken eyed man who unlike them had no degree in journalism, or anything but speech and drama, as it turns out our CBS saint was convinced that what was said was never as important as he beats between untactful words, Good Luck, indeed.

All were bound and gagged, as the police, men seen best and known of best in Hamma Barbaro cartoons as the bloated cartoonist fascists who speak so quaintly of Mudder Macry, today they were all outdid, unsure what to do as these little dickens weren’t even colored, for if they were ,as that black board jungle was quickly unraveling into Boston squeaking bussing riots in good and wholesome and catholic and racists precincts, the doors would have been blown out. But the cop in Charge, MacCulksy, figures, was just standing there, with a early version of a SWAT team, where we are all headed, CBS films about Miranda as created by well meaning Greek cops from the mind of Abby Mann a mere fairy tale after all. THE COPS LOUNGED ABOUT, KNOWING FROM THE FLED THIS WASN’T AN INCURION OF NEGROS INTO SUBURBAN AMERICA, NOT YET, so were thus defanged, and were hoping to see one of the perpetrators come to the window, as a sniper would shoot, and if he kept the body count under a hundred , hell, in these days of the cops still being affable comic images, a whole mess of car fifty four Fred Gwynne‘s, they give this Irish drunkard a medal.
But soon enough, this teary story and speaking of Gertie being abused in her inner sanctum of the guarded semi blond snatch was a screeching siren call that got out to the ears in the walls, if not the local boards, and by nighttime, the worthless FBI, it is worthless as there is a codicil in the constitution to not allow for domestic spying, or national police, but the Kennedy’s themselves said that would be given up soon enough, the Irish are perpetual hicks and paranoids that there are always more -ish coming up after them, and as has been since the Quadrennial hill once violence seeps into the sub urba and not the tenements, well, something assuredly must be done. No one recalls that dead Kennedy saint Robert was senator Malarkey’s first chair, speaking of Ed Murrow, it was a pact between RFK and Payly himself which caused the cyclops cameras to train on Jewish hack Roy Cohen, a second chair forever slimed by upper east side liberals unfazed by broken eggs, and leave commie fearing Irish princes out of view, after all. And so the case was taken over by the NSA and the other alphabet soup organizations who aren’t your brother from UNCLE, no, no sly slick solo artist silencer gun toting seer sucker operatives here, and their shows wouldn’t be as comic, and that even Jack Webb cant do business with these people, as they are practically bitches. Perhaps Mel brooks has perfected the type more in being and getting Smart.

9. But, the unrequited love JE's had for Dominica was not to be denied. Ah, springtime love, puppy love infections, why this story reads like Romeo and Juliet, but with burp guns and hollow points dum dums. She was left half clothed, was D., a sign of undying respect, I would suppose. Juggy left her in a long white slip and underwear which both hid and accentuated her burgeoning second generational, figure. She was tied to a half desk of the study hall sort, which I have never liked, as they reveal far too much of the privates of young teens already in a mixed up way, to each other, I am a born nun, and she was tied with lithe arms behind her sweated torso by Arvin, it says here , of an expensive scarf of her own, that she wore around her neck, such as pretty girls of her kind oft do.
As the dead BMOC's mangled brains had painted the walls and their already aging posters of mod with it ness, the blue eyed brunette, an image they love to demean and recoiled and yet all the harpies and Valkyries of the Styx of Burbank can not ever reach the importance thereof, she sat there as black coated Jug ears ranted and raved about all the perceived slights, these homilies including the Nazis of the space program, the TVA bringing a GE manipulation of the grid, ala dimwit Reagan, and mostly of his being belittled by first dead queer alter boy Stanley, a true first love in the boys room, all of which probably were true, as men do not as in the Augustan history, use fake names to lie, or more important they do not elicit murder because of a whim that wasn’t somehow engaged in the real world.
He saw that the statuary cops were a quiet proto fascistic Pompey in the circuit fields by the school, which by now had become a kind of killing field, a south Asian contribution to world culture like say sesame sauce, this old school was now a charnel house, a sacrifice to the American god of commerce and cliques. Was he to rape the pretty brunette, our , my, last real question in this, as it would make sense somehow shed go from long nosed Jarears to even a dilapidated and defeated but gathering strength Magnus, as even a bit unkempt, Shapiro and Leiber, the Holland Dozier Holland of comics, it appeared, had no idea with whom, they were dealing. Somehow, in this red suited man , he was an hair not to Uberman , nor the tragic comic love comics heroes of Jerry, no, he was a hero returning to the age of the pups, like old Doc Savage, the Phantom, and even Popeye and the superhero who was the Santa Clause of the old coca cola posters at x mas time. I had to read on, as I Romanesque and like Manzoni, recount the story in this palimpsest way, as must get the file according to Dracy, back to the national archives were they shall recall this as the money moment the American empire went off the rails and murder came to the suburbs of Tacahoe.

So, was America to create yet another Kitty Genovese that was not only a Perpetuas to show the love of violence of the Indian badlands and barbaric swamps called America, but was she to be Latest squaw to be thrown into a volcano rim, as the Incas had done, showing America despite the Italic name, would always be closer to the stone monuments of noblest savages more than anything else…?
Would he, I wonder as silently read on, knowing she was alive and mod and a basic sophisticated Italic girl Virginia slims ad before me in the alleyway, and in better shape than her beloved Captain M, so I know somehow Juggy didn’t kill her, although now, as I MARINADE WITHIN THE PAGES OF COMICS AND FIND THE COSMIC COMICS SO BELOVED BY MY FOUND AND ALERTED TO AND BELOVED ITALIC GENIUS John Hepsa, as I go spinning into world never heard of as lived a comfortable life in Rome, life on a roman street, I asked, is she the ghost of that dead girl from the school housed rocked, is she even alive anymore, …? Or is she a four color ghost I see before me, as I must as not quite as inventive of things as Hepsa, who sees the moon was closer once, which we now know as true, is operable that its all true, or its all a lie,…it is all to Machiavellian and Dantean for a patrician from the middle of America to ever see and figure out, so I merely read and recite this book left of crime statistics and police journals about the attack on riverside high that day, unsure exactly of everything, though thankfully like poor mans Hepsa, Dos Passos don’t require a answer at least not right away. Thankfully about John from gloomy, unromantic, agrarian Turin, still being more Italian then he was Hispanic, with no tethers, as no need for any dogma to neither scratch into nor reclaim the one already there.
Recently and cagily, a man, an operator named Marquez makes much of his use of italic magic realism, found like gracious ladies as a Roman correspondent as Greg Peck did, to show he too can steal from the ancients and even Octavio Paz, and then say its all Hemingway. To show preening and silliness is like mosquitoes and VD worse down meccihoco way. A cycle of solitude…?, shit that’s almost how long it took me to get through that damned thing. Hespa won’t be getting any Viking praises or dynamite makers prizes, as they sued his intelligence against him, but as I take it, I , like the pig judgers at Stockholm, keep getting letters to review Marquez’s book and do for this hippie and this plagiarist what I did for Dawn Powell in the unread but therefore substantial and potent Ny review of literature. As Marquez keeps sending me comp copies of his shit about love in the time of the united fruit company, which I have then tossed like Santayana, and have finally sent back, telling him, I know not only where the spiders but where the scorpions make their feathered nests. He keeps sending them, pushy, he is his own act as if a Chinese magician, as subtlety has never been a Cuban attribute. He keeps inferring that the United States has no name because it’s not some lyrical Spanish name festooned on American shores for some generalissimo like Bolivar he has made hagiography for. Uhhhhhhhysssh.

Back to the bloody study hall. So, would he rape Dommie, the beloved gal…?, Italic Princess to the family with ties to the family that made the bank of America…? As he did so horribly her blond stand in, or for that matter her soppy rich friend, whose red hair was now redder than ever and floated in clumps off a scull shattered by small arms fire...? Were indeed as the dreaded Eldredge Clever Speaking to even more dreadful Bill Bug-eyes say, that Americas cheery pie had come home to roost, but then, no one expects poetry from an arsonist. Would newly minted Romeo wild buncher high school hero take his boyish virginal, well as virginal as a serial rapist can be, and can make that point if need be, his dick , like Suetonius the vulgar is My greatest vice, and preen it into the still agile, stylish, mod, fascinating, bitch, beloved, girl...? Would He,…?, I wondered, as I read this clipped rat a tat tat report as if Pirot by Agatha, who as I write this is a broad who got seemingly weirder and weirder. How the clerk who wrote this knew this all, I cant be sure, alight as I am sure as her being a brunette, and seeing their beloved Kotex goddess Grettie lied on the floor shot to death with her tits and privates splayed out as they were, they must have, good cops, thought she was involved in some queer sideways turned Bonny and Clyde escapade childishly gone mad and kurplock as Ed Norton would say.

The report says that the girl, she the only one left, the last pin up standing on a war wall as I had seen in the great Trojan war called the Second, she watercolor blued eyed and crying, sweating and blood spattered, looked up at the crown wearing dead end kid gone mad, and did nothing more than that.Finally, Dan Decarlo like all Italian geniuses had met the murdering quarrelsome Borgia's who kept them all in all from being carvers of cookoo clocks, 

Her blood shot teary eyes were seen by Alvin, wait, was it Alvin...?, I must look backwards, always the sign of an engrossing narrative, as Ulysses S Grant and his Cesarean prose has had its effect on American letters by no less than his editor, the awful con man Mark Twain, whose love of seeing himself as superior to all Europeans was as virulent as the mans Ophiuchus hatred of bay Jesus something he hid from school mams, whose barefoot boys life on that ole mahn river he wished to make our Aeneid. That constantly calculating southern gentlemen though, never figured on as black power movement ever daring as they have started, to demand that Huck Finn be verboten in ways interestingly mien kamph never ever is. There was a towel from gym class was used as a gag to keep her quiet, though what shed say God only knows. At this point of carnage, this Germanic festival to a Germanic god we have all become penitents to since the Reich became our own, the boy leader of the two man gang now down to one, amid the boys in underwear who had come over to the side of the boy-chick creepy angel of destruction in his cause of getting even, and the lipsticked gals left motionless, and the fake Gucci purses and the comics and the copies of Sports Illustrated with Tarkington on them as a gloomy championship less Viking, and the globe that had fittingly came crashing to the tiled floor where it stamped in half, as the reports says, ironically, is it really ironically...?, snapped into bits like a department store Christmas ball, right at the middle of America, whisking a kind of hemisphere none would like to remake the Spanish map.
What would he do, I asked now, unaware of this sortie at all, as its dearest Truuumannnnnn and even Norman Mailer, who are called by the echelons sons scribes, and who love crime in a way I do not, or at last, as the Senator said, know that the difference between Romans and Sicilians is the size of their crimes. And thus write accordingly seeing Julian the apostate or Germanicus as better mafia figures than any done by my friend Victor Putzo, now hoping to be a screenwriter of potboilers and leave comic pimps behind. Fools Write, he tells me, but gangsters die. What shall he do, this schoolyard Capone, maybe worse than that as Charley Manson recently has shown an empire so eagerly and willingly going off the rails, I wondered, as Looked over the copies, and seen an alarmingly confidence that can only happen in truth and in bad pulps, the convergence of paralleled liens as Mussolini said, and it came here in a shabby old Germans office dank with old comics and Hama Barbaro thick inked cartoons on the wall, Above pulp book reading receptionist Veronica in the outer office, is pinned to the wall a Jackie Gleason remade as a Cro-Magnon, a joyful scoundrel Silvers as at wits end tabby, and Wally Cox, commedia dell arte librarian as the perfect voice for a not only talking but flying Superego Dog. Ah it’s a golden age Collodis little wooden punk never conceived of. These pictures of Gale Tiber’s black Viking, as at it seems to me, hang from the Sunday Inquirer, with other upa savant guard cartoons, all yellowed and faded like a poor mans Uffizi, filled with papers and folders, and too still had the smell of industrial ink and pages. 

 

Here the office of All Star, whose old Mercury logo bust I have put Walter White on to get down on cold press. He is a Bernini of comics, which is saying much, as the rest are motley Caravaggio’s, some, like Shapiro, that hack who lays it on thick, not even that much.

10. He went to the desk seated girl, on this dreadful suburbia day near Yonkers, lost in Nyack, picked her up bodily, with a strength the beanpole may have not had until now, or hid under those previously mentioned shirts all along. The girls long silken black hair was unkempt, tinted with red splotches as would be seen on Capotes dreadful masterpiece of marketing, In Cold Excerpts, and fell behind her pretty, what could be described by women, as a peach colored face, with giant eyes sparkling with bits of red from all the blood.
The crown wearer now, in more ways than one, it is as they say a dead giveaway when one wishes to wear a crown, even of fedora, stood there with a black coat I believe worn by men in Marlboro cigarette ads, called, I think, A dustier. It is a cape of suede, like a day coons skin hat for those poor saps who feel themselves surrounded by the asphalt jungle an the mausoleums of modernity, and who itch to return to the cowboys ethic that still faintly pulses in America.
As it as ethic is seen by the aging films of aging actor John Wayne, ascetically a damn good actor when placed in books written by great writers who understand this ethic, like Charles Portis, an ethic seen in the films of John Ford, or in the beer happy care of Dandy Don Meredith, is a last cowboy among the thugs and the closet everything’s of the football league. He held her up by the throat, it say here as I still Manzoni for a mess of Post clippings, as the sullen Jug ears is shown in almost periwinkle blackened and white dots set on the page, in lurid newspaper limbo, he takes she, the beauteous girl, and droops her in almost naked crumbling before him.
He has been waiting for such, I editorially add. With her crumpled to the floor, he take this she by her pretty, again light peach they’d call her, chin, and looks discretely at her according to debriefing done to and by her. He kisses her sweetly on the cheek, again as a woman might say, and feels her face with black gloved hands that reek of sanqiuine and posing, and recrimination, and defeat, although Stanley Stallworth is dead and a boy named Jimmy Van Gleason, a Bob hope type and foil for this nudnik, never heard of by me, was let loose a first not to die, so again we know the trick is too always say what one means, and don’t pout on airs as again a woman might Aesop us. They’d be no fan of either victim brunette or victimizer of the bleeding Greta here, God knows, not even in rust belt dagoy New Amsterdam state, upstate, but still, like a éclat artists or soldier, Juggy didn’t do this for any o dem, as de kingfish would say, and with that kiss takes his leave of half dressed her, the her that all men dream of, and cant quite get through the usual ways of expanse accounts and furs, and with his guns blazing, Arvin then smashes through the plate glass ppg windows of the old school. The final act of boyhood, through a glass sharply.
In a war clarion call, a last member of the mass of the flies lord, the last alter boy of the last mass before a sullen and gloomy Lucifer alit on the banks of the Tyber, re-scaling through at a black mass, a black site, a black penitent into the black vespers, into a dusk, as a mad man unrepentant to the unromantic hordes now drinking Sudso or washing collars with Budweiser, or is it reversed,?…
He took off , hurtling through a thousand cuts, through shards of mangled glass, where he was made a bloody pulp by a thsound Spartans, doing their cue as if a chorus, all at once aiming their guns at the miscreant, immediately found guilty by these imperial monitors as he being without a hall pass. Half naked she, as some boys, they will die as such, boys, hooted and hollered as all suburban lunkheads now in America all think themselves Brando on a bike, Dominica, as if tall unbroken, walking, goddess, walked indeed out and over to her well off parents, and stood at the sirens and paddy wagons, who covered her with an army like blanket, collected and used by the local patrol from surplus. Minerva survived.

11. I sit dumbstruck by this tragedy. I am strangely moved, though I am a homosexual, and thus given to the romanticism of the ancient days and forays called by fairy Mania, who whispers sweet nothings of wanton rampage in one’s ear. And she will preen and poke for one to always take a last stand, as one must if not watching the clock to die a bureaucrat, to become and get even as there is, after all, nothing else. So now, alive she is, I take it, and not a ghost she stood before me at that alley way behind the theater, in the soot and gloom of late fall, early winter.
And I was humbled by the fact that in an America so shamelessly and willingly becoming an age if not of Aquarius, but a water carrying brother who places floradie in all the jugs, that someone could strangely enough be this mad, as the head shops are there and the weed consumed and the white whine drunken by house wives and all is done to make sure all are without care, much less without a racing inferno in one heart. And I was shook he let her go, again this read after the initial meeting, all is in flux as John would say, and that he took her place as the last victim, leaving her be, whooshing into a depth of vision and of soul that again is anathema to the as seen on TV juicer buying women. They, who would all in unison, ask what he had seen in pretty Dominica that wasn’t in the Greta, she who they and their hubbys, they all accepted, would be with the sorts of men they screed at, or silently wished to fuck, or love, or worse, those they didn’t care. I PLACE THE FILES BACK, THE SIZE OF THE BOOK OF THE COUTURIER AND AS SUCCINCT IN OUR LUMINOUS AND MEANINGLESS WORLD OF LETTERS, BACK INTO A FRAYED MANILA ENVELOPE, AS HAVE SEEN SOMETHING I FELT I NEEDED TO KNOW. It is like what Romeo and Juliet might have been if it was written by the same vital man who write Titus Andronicus, but then as so much English, became a queen of middlebrows and grammar catchers and sanitized and silly and pompous, like Art Pizney had. This was what Romeo and Juliet might have read like in the original Latin, or Tuscan before reduced to what white women think of poetics, cleansed of all shit, as priests who perpetually and for good reason must clean their hands with black soap.
Veronica, Dear… I say, as she sits gleaming pretty at her old wooden desk, a fan is on though, it seems late in the year for this, yet to make the connection between the two sisters, but aware of something, I’d like, I say more gentle than usual as am given to bellowing a lot as whip this place unto a post bank ruptured state, If you gave this back to a supercop fellow named Dracy when he stops by …
She smiles and nods, as is a perfect secretary I think, a perfect model for Frankie and the rest, a perfect woman, I think. Book me four seats for Turin, on the next TWA flight, sweets, I said, knowing what I had to do next, and get to the Alps before Shapiro, as if he’d even connect it all, but Liber might. Thanks doll, I say, doing my best Mickey Spillane, as we worthy of our salt dream of it, and of being as vital as Mike Hammer. She asks, giant yellowed Tuscan goddess eyes sparkling even in this dingy dump, Turin …?, she asks, as she towers over the small plastic toys replacing metal men and toys with plastic trash at this cheap point, Is that in Ohio…?, she sweetly asks. My face freezes with terror. Turin is in Italy, I told her shutting the thumbed tragedy pages in Selectric type, Just ask the hostesses at TWA, Veronica,I say, Oh, but Ohio…?, I ask, Perish the thought, dear…


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