AMERICAN DECAMERON.

DAY 2.

So, here I shall attempt as have before, when the Clintons were in the pink, as it Were of their perpetual youth, 1oo stories in 100 days, even if a limerick or a joke, as showing a devotion to the conscript fathers and italics long demeaned and punished for having seen the con and the jokes of Biden’s long ago, and never beguiling into it, as sharper and more ready and willing Bill Clinton seemed to use the whole cannon as a background, if not a theater scene. There was speaking much of Roman-ism then, before the Clinton's doth were made cowards after all.

I thought of doing it in a variation of something unseen by me, certainly not sued by me before, called Flash Writing or five hundred word screeds, but thought, I’ve been damned with the word screed and such before and why give into it now.

It is cold as I write this; it is mid march, the month devoted to the God of war and woodpeckers in old Rome. It was these last winter days in which, Ovid advised back when, to avoid marriages and banquets and even births, if it could be avoided, by abstaining nine months previous of sex, lest the baby be born into a month that even generals feared to set fire to leaves.

Still, I do think that perhaps as in Decamerons and Pentathlons and Politian’s cycle epics about a hundred years of the plebs and the peasants long before Gig Marquez, the father of magic liberalism, you know, if you're a woman and illiterate and never heard of Ariosto, or even Mother Superior Mario Como Jr,--see what I did there as comic hacks might say-- started legislaturing us, the man with Mario's face, if not infections. [I will watch the various fan dances of Guvner for life, Como, Prince Galiotto appears again, if not a Don Rodrigo, even a woman can see just by the gist I’ve never been a fan, unlike his fadder, who he apes and mimics in imperial pantomime, the end of all empires is the sonny boooys!

As he is again, an instantaneous exemplar, as in Manzoni, as in Dante, and all the other geniuses my pop and Mom ever read, who made Grappa out of the awful lemons of sour fate, the plagues that Italy has lived and died through before, as once again, a Natural indication is by the prince clowns, to be true to that first recollection of Coriolanus as anti Roman, Italic, satire.

He exists in a play in ancient pages held as closely as any fake wooden thorns from Arab traders sold crowns thereof, to Byzantine tellers, who were convinced in wall streets now a ruin that God is on the aside of economic growth, against the sorts of people who no too long ago, a rancid trash bag of a human colostomy bag was toasting with in toilet water or even worse, television water down Gin, in cups that the moneylenders now are starting to eschew, as are getting rid of plastic bags in favor of paper. Until, of course, enough calls from lobbyists tell us as they always do, that all the blond hags of television told us last week was, of course, wrong. Conditia always change “on the ground” when one is on a perpetual Spartan Sortie. Colbert too, Queen of clowns, we will keep our scoring eyes upon, as wonder if as I said getting a like from his mentor clown Jon Stewart, lets see if the empires change, but alas the farces and the end of clowns, stays the same.]

I did pick a hundred days in this attempt, where the word Essay originates, meaning a devotional going until I’d guess July First, the Roman feast of Kalends therein, and wonder if again, despite lazar beams and spinning plasma, if the apostolic sun I’ve mentioned before, like country mice, an anathema to an actual white woman's disdain, I wonder if yet again, as papers that held stories about Coriolanus remade as a horror movie, and that now show comic book Marvel quality reproductions of Tintoretto and Titian, I wonder, now in the cold of the ides of March, ironically, if again the Roman sun, or this weaker variation, may just burn the cooties off. Such has happened before.

It has, indeed, happened before, as the rags of tin pan alleys and times squares is sanitized long ago, have proven. I am again sad that something like this had to give the Italians Americans, I have called myself a Roman-American since art school to some lauding, as I recall as Ovid did, this is not a putting on of airs, anything close to Americana exceptionable, or being in a chosen people, or god knows, a master race. The idea of being Roman is something no mere DNA Swab can connect or collect or show, as early on, as read in the wintertime of Ovid, now With a screamingly applicable to all Negros at Bloomberg, ah for the golden age of his hard sell sonata commercials, but given the heads up by a praetorian guard who isn’t WHAT it sued to be, as Bond is dead if not a woman now, so the spies who came in for the gold have lost a certain suaveness which left long ago, when Sean became fat and no longer was he banging Ursula Andress and being shit out of silver cars. But then, who hasn’t become lame…?

Ovid is now come with a C added, ah SHYLOCK strikes again, again like that very Coriolanus, written for a comedy, and then made a tragic nothing in Willies barbarian stages, that the earliest Romans were made by a preamble of an Asylum, as the baseball manager said, you can look it up. But why would you…?

No, see Romulus, who got the brunet of Ovid's angers in the Festivals earlier this year, when parties in Westchester turned out to be charnel houses, and UN-Boccaccio in all respects, he, with new city and a buried brother who got grabby, the birds came out of the sky and Jove gave his approval to the old city. Hey as I said, getting attaboy for a first time in third grade, but which would bother some German -ic nuns not as they are found in jest of Giovanni, as in cut here, they didn’t like the fact that I didn’t much believe in any Jewish God, as like the Apaches I told, who admired me for it, I had my own Pleiades and didn’t need and wooden crosses. Or the nickels made out of it.

This only bothered my father in the scenes that the priests knew I was smart, but he knew he told me mother, sadly, as a smart Italian, I had a target on me, that trash like Scorsese never much had, or would, until made a movie with an Italian movie queen daring to play a Jewish thief.

I remember the grass crowns of my great forefather Agricola as my father advised me, earliest émigrés, and the wooden and weedy Minerva, though Ovid said it as Italianate Flora, who was placed up as a rustic Goddess telling early on Jews and Arabs and Africans and other trash that a new city, and a new world had been invented, and from any thief that could get to the bend shores of the old man Tyber, automatic clemency was given, and eventually, this would be thrown in the acne of Tacitus, a conscript father , that somewhere, way back, grandpa stole and raped and murdered his way to a new life, a vita Nova. Liek the Bush family.

So, as Ovid would intone, to the great god Augustus, who to be fair didn’t hide, like Princes and Poets now, as screeched for his eagles, don t you forget those roots, dark and deep, like CBS closets. Those now opened up like graves in Dante lithographs. As Machiavelli, like well call him one of the italic patrons saints of this pamphlet, once said, when the Medici, his enemy, had taken hold of Italy and thought they were going to therefore rule or at least fix fees for the world, he said, don’t forget, the Medici, as these crime famines always do, were born Stable boys, and so, they’ll die that way.

When in his own fevered dream of dying Lorenzo was sweating and aching and fevered and on that gilded bed, he had a visitor named Savonarola, who told him, you really should have listened to that playwright, Larry, as the mad monk was ready to take hold of reins of horses eventually sued to carry his crucified and burned body away, as the people that the swells hate, well, there are always worse then them, as the man who poo pooed the handbook called The Prince, a pledge to unify Italy and thus vie with Spain and England now getting theirs, as both voted at the now dead EU Brussels cabal to not help Italy or Greece, back when, showing that Europe will never be unified as it wasn’t under Caesar, and now, turnabout is Fowl play, was back then, Medici, was left to die and leave Italy to a man so heinous only Glenn Back would cry at his remains to this day, his unmarked, unnoticed, grave.

In addition, according to legend, he, the priest who hated all that makes Italia Italy, spitting at the undesirables, even up to the point they placed him a pyre, and burned him up alive to the cheers of the rabble, he snapped his fingers, at the Magnificent one. Ah, But in all politics a week is an eternity, and there are no happy endings, the playwright knew that, it depends, as he said, where to say Curtain!. The snapping of the thumb and forefinger, which was an obscene gesture in the Romans, that the lover of bonfires liked to demean as he filled his own private apartments, in the dark, with, and when took those things from the rich as opposed to taking the threadbare art of the poor to burn, had again, crossed a line. One they always pass before notching. These were objects of art, when the monk was hurled out of power, were nationalized and early Roman art was returned to the Neapolitan king, where it sits to this day.

I feel empathy for them all, these Italians, after forty years of goofballs and thieves, while English fairies played them when serious, English queens and pansies as Roman heroes, as if, only did the grand first Smiley himself, Richard the lionhearted Welch drunkard seem made of similar sterner stuff, as he would play at Caesar and Ariosto as well as anyone, as he gave them a modicum of respect. As again, now suddenly, as Ma told me, stay true to the cult of the belladonnas, as blonds disappear at the first cough or the last dime. I am alerted by speak check that one mustn’t say Blonds, but ‘Blond haired persons‘. Well, not being Jewish and or, not having adored the type of sluts that old man Hef repacked Patty and other ethnic and dark haired with, after dark cocktailed waitresses looking women with, no sorry, in this return to the sequestration all Italians have been in over and over again, to so such a thing would be something that the brethren, not fans of the American cheesecake factory, would ever forgive me for, much less admire me a bit.

So I remember reading about the Flora, the clay and wooden and rustic Goddess that stood with the original manifestation of the eternal flame when Rome was still a set of Tuscan fields on the side of an unremarkable winding Italian river. I recall that anti-vanity art, a signal to all the chiselers and the put upon to get away from their masters jails anyway they could and get to the hills therein, and get a newest life and a newest fate.

And the rustic goddess made there, as art, or best art, as art always is. I think it was an earliest bit of the best sort of Propaganda, not h or caring or agreeing with what you think. And the dress they placed upon their most Pastoral image sadly made granite and placed in Ragtimey New York as what is at all American but the perversion of all which was Roman to begin with, all along along, was the tunic first king, I think named Titus, that the mad men Roman took down, who then asked to be allowed into that first of all senates.

She would be the italic goddess that no number of sophisticates, who are never there for such placements, could erase, as we always return to the goddess of the caryopsis and the crowns that have been made of wheat. SO NOW I SIT HERE AND SEND OUT CARTOONS WHICH HAVE DONE WELL OF Patrica Fairinelli the latest, or one of my boyhood, goddesses, or Joe DiMaggio, in Mort Drucker finery, as remember the goddess of the fields, and how asylum is in my very veins by now.As an Italian, as I did with AIDS, I can sequestrate for as long as they like, on my head.