JULY IS THE MOST IMPERIAL MONTH.

 

19 JULY 2024.

Isn't it a shame when in the middle of your threadbare and moth eaten attempt at reviving Pericles, that the Italian women strike back, and the end of the Inferno shows up. These girls of Italy... I do love it when corrupt old popes are literally at each others throats. Now again, sortieing to the convalescence bed he has always been at, Biden says he wont go. Hmnnn, Tis what Caesar thought. And Caesar was a Rhodes scholar, so supersize spaghetti Bidey, as id remember when you said I was in the imperial toilet because an important bill was up at the rostrum too. Despite or because of overfed women calling people who sent sons to perpetual wars Nazis, when I was a kid, Juvenal's like Norman Lear and Mad magazine said anyone who was against Busing was a closet Klansman. Maybe they were right...

Alas a wise career move to be bed ridden while your opponent is alive and vital after a bullet, but you are dodging a strange word check, amid your virus, which is funny coming from someone who says on cmon man, look and anyway, yea anyways indeed. The gods of comedy and tragedy were doing extra work, like the dogcarts to get Biden to go full out Yosemite Sam, and allow the elephant to sue him as a human shield to kill the mouse, as there was real aspect to the deathbed never far from him, and again it is always heartening to have your messiah be convalescing so once again, sometimes the decorum is thrust upon to you, as since I was a kid, the other party always kept their yaps shut when the opposite party had a convention, but then what party is Biden even IN, WHAT INDEED IS THE OTHER PARTY. Always nice when in the midst of your own dark ages, imagine sorry,Petrarch having the audacity to with blond Beatrice from the De Sade family, to say such a thing as if anyone may recall roman soot with so many n*88ers and Yid always bleating out their perpetual Requiems for themselves, like the ides of March as pop told me, haven't yet gone, in your crappy attempt to do another of your costume parties as plays, to do with Pericles , that the Inferno with zombie popes would come true, and attach the stage, just as I had set when as ma said, I shuffled the cards.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GiP1Q5ZTVsU

The brightness of July was stunning though the room seemed just black. There, laid out before me was a Californian dreaming, Hotel California ice cream colored Costello of some later Generalissimo racing and railing against latter day Zorro s. There as she was again I noted first of a computers screen and then as alive as anything in the magic realism of the later Italians, or maybe even the first pre Greek snowmen of that palace. HERE WAS THE SYBIL. Her Miss Kitty like get up of the plannedemic that seemingly didn't much work was reproached , the hat with stuffed birds and fruits and worthy of granny on the old Sylvester the Cat cartoons was gone and her hair in a Veronica Lake like way was almost a semi sweet chocolate sepia brown, dark and rich, the way we Jist schoolboys like ion those goddesses wed dream of holding hands more than anything else. A greatest soliloquies by Belzer in Homicide life of the street better than any mere birds on a unanimous wire.

Pretty as I'd ever seen her, ageless as anyone, a perfect permeation even a retaliation and a revenge against all those Italian women who were left to die at old folks homes in one time glorious Ann Maria land.

She laid back somewhat in the expansive expensive poll at this sun streaked colony of some rich and letcher A doge, who wanted to top keep it that ways, and since Trimalchio knew to lay it all on thick lest any rabble cut his overfed throat, which for her, many men would and the erst were queer as a nun told me when I was a boy. She lounged there, in red as a fire engine form fitting once piece, that sexiest of swimsuits that has ever been, and two perfect and beefy and massive and yet taught and immaculate legs, a best part of her I think, were dipping playfully in the over blue waters of this yesterdays , what I believe is called, a forever pool. She mindlessly, artlessly, thumbed through a magazine called Colliers somehow, and Truman was on the cover a blurb for his woman's magazine life and children on their birthdays. Sybil mindlessly filliped through the relic of the age she was more suited in and at THAN WHAT Gore Vidal called THIS ANOREXIC AGE. He alas called us the age of Kleenex, but now I recall my pop and ma as having been against in Our republic rime and the bricks are missed. She moved withe the dangerous implied grace of a python, maybe the viper god itself, and kept a strangely cfm settled pimped shoes foot dancing along the chorale waters.

You know, I said, breaking the ice as had an inkling she never did or gad to, It is not just that body of yours that effects me, Sybil, I mean I said, There is something of Paolo Milanos idea of moral imperative to how I feel about you. Id, You are a BASILE FRACTURED FAIRY TALE, an Italian, a Boccasale, he was as a cartoonist put through more hell that Oppenheimer, Kalki in Quaker oats hat serial killers ever got. not Vargas pin up come to glamorous life. She smiled, she had her share I noted, of people, that were angered she didn't give out gynecological exams on her various social media footprints. IT, I SAID, ..YOU ARE SOMETHING INDEED, A BEATRICE OF Instagram snapshots. She looked down almost shyly demurred, or at least I guess some inner cortex reading of third eye fanatso wished it would be so. OH, I know, I said to the divine creature before me somehow, I'VE GOTTEN MANY OF THOSE Venus-Ess of you accepted into art magazines. She looked down with her massive eyes, they engaged me and were strangely beguiling , but sad and dangerous too, and recalled in me a deer in a park which made me wince. I know, she said, taking a bon bon of some sort or maybe some kind of canopy off a silver plate of her sugerdaddy's, or whomever owned this villa palazzo here in which she was greater accompaniment.

She took a ornate fork and discrete;y scratched at some sort of fish like more like a TROITO MAN SCRATOO, as ma called it, especially at Christmas time, though we didn't do the seven fish shit as that was for gangsters she assured me when I was a boy, more THAN ANYTHING REAL. Its Salmon, she said, Would you like to try...? I begged off. Her massive Hershey kiss eyes flashed at me, with just a touch of Mildred Pierce malice all women should show if not a typical Susie cream cheese. Oh, I love when men make their Muse, she said, Woman too...Its sooooo Italian. I , she said, Used that as a credo of mine at one of these sights, she said, but I hadn't seen that as don't get or try to get Only fans. She strutted to sing. I'll always be the queen of pain, ill always be the queen of pain....Id take it, I said, I wouldn't mind. But, I added, hen I look at you it inst just my dick that hurts, Dollie, I WAS MORE CHEEKY THAN ID LIKE, BUT WHAT THE HELL, When I look at you, I said, I think of my father having a letter from Yale saying that I was related to the Roman general Julius-like Oppenheimer- Agricola, and his congresses on the drunkards,...If I just wanted to jack off, is aid, There is always Denise Melani...SHE LIPPED SMILED AND AFFIXED THE LAUREL ON HER WAVES OF ITALIANATE ARABESQUE HAIR.

On real life, A STRANGE ADMISSION TO SAY, my brother drives us past the long road within the woods towards Pittsburgh mills though once there, I did not get out at Micheal's and buy a replacement ream of 12 x 18 sulphite , or even cheaper sketchbook paper to replace the some I had that an open glue bottle Left atop it as placed captions on to be sent cartoons dropped all night and ruined almost all of them. While going up the incline of trees and empty road , my brother, I have alas never ;earned to drive a whit, a use the poor man as a kind of chauffeur though means a lot more to me than that, as have been chauffeur about and around by various girls like PEGGY, WITH WHOM I HAD MET THE YOUNG MISTER CLINTON AS HE WAS WINKING AT ITALIAN HOSTESSES IN HIS 90S PRIME. An there he was in the silver leaves, on the doors of heavy and hell, and Allegheny county where TRUMP HAS OPENED A 12 POINT LEAD. , the ruing magazine contender, old Nick, in a threadbare mantel covered in various assuages and stains, unbowed despite its unraveling quaintness, blowing kisses just to be clever, Legs and the man, the granddaddy of all daddies, bloated, but strangely healthy, too healthy as Stuffing-envelopes would say ans hasn't this sold coots intent getting even tried sooooo hard to get even with all the cool kids in their revenge of Fredo. He stood in crayola, Technicolor brilliance, Lucy and Viv deftness and Kodachrome there off the ways of the poolside where his inamorata sat so elegantly and prefect, as thought of how it bother some creep that my cartoons were all of her and Mindy Farrar and Dominique St. Croix and OF COURSE, Patty F., as if Italian women were just to be housemaids and their domestics and feed them and their half breeds, and I give him back what he deserved, and said, be care when it happened, that Biden and the erst of the viaduct rapist had tempted signora Fortuna enough. Then within weeks, ah the debate, more important to a Roman republic than to Percales, and the democrats small and large d, get what they all deserve from their four and 20 vultures baked into a pie.

The Doge looked at me, with a defeated smart alecks Jesuit vulgarian, but not underwire wink. He showed me a watch on his writs. So, ROMAN NUMERATED , HE SAID, AND THEN SMASHED IT ON THE FLOOR WITH HIS SANDLED FOOT. I, HE SAID, Stomp my foot and all the graves give up their Roman soldiers, as they always have. Like Trump, he said, I beat everything. AM , HE SAID, curs-ed WITH GOOD FORTUNE. I knew myself that that day the dead had come forth, not making even MOURNING Joe pr George Will, gives a good god damn, or a lump of coal, that the old man who looked at his watch, as the dead were paraded before him that it was over, sorry, negro queen and Nora at the cyclops, you cant make chicken salad out of Builtin Joe Biden, he said with a sinister laugh, This is why May Berry never was as iconic with Ken Berry as it was with Don Knots. And I thought I was too Vendetta minded, I said, as he as half in the darkness of a burnt sienna , no lets call it Tuscan Red as opposed to Indian anything, from the crayola box I still have from when ma went early on is what I always said would be Biden's death march as opposed to Roman y Triomfi. There he stood, now that and he was a Romano triumph alas copulas script for Patton that caused my boyhood masculine hero Bob Mitch-em to say, ah fuck, U NEED SOMEONE WHO CAN PLAY THIS who cares, YOU NEED George Scott, you need someone who cares and gives a shit...i cant do this crap, I don't care. I DIDN'T NEED BUSING, the brethren adored me, so it isn't personal. As opposed to some.

As we drove, there against a hillside of weeds was at fist sight thought, a mangled carcass, and I was shivered thinking what I had saw, but looked back and giant sad, ungalssed, eyes showed a kind of roadside taxidermy, as a massive I think they are called four point elk , garbage on the median strip. It was no mere dear, this buck, the symbol of Italy coiner on coins before Julian's tarted the sacrilege of human beings on Italian coins, he was crumpled on the short railings by the road, eyes looking dour from a bleeding and broken body that was consecrated in a sad and mean unremeptive aspect of some kind of zodiac sign. Oh my Gosh..., I SAID, THOUGH MY SHARPER BROTHER DID NOT LOOK BACK AT THE CARCASS there left on the speeding road. Fucking shame, he said, HERE ASSHOLES speed like demons up and down this road, even when it rains, absolute morons, he said. i only saw it for a second, like the mental hypno coin experiments sued by mad men like Della Famina and George Washington Wallace, i think Johnny said his name was back when. I WAS taken aback, as the stagnate weal of fur and flesh was left there. Inst I said, Someone going to come and ...What...?, he said, Give Mister Moose a burial ...please, kiddo, he said, HERE-LL LEAVE IT THERE hoping some hillbilly makes stew out of it. I tried not to gulp a breath until we had passed the trees and the funeral mound of the uncaring elk, sad I thought, that some asshole took out the kind of animal that I had only seen in Penna woods as dead, with giant chocolate eyes looking at the lack of traffic and splinted antlers that were intertwined somehow by somebody with the tall weeds that the incessant rains of Bide's metricate had left the summer with, as some of the leave so this Gustavo Dore set of nautura had been so over weathered by rains that some have ascribed to the Microsoft queer, to the point at one of his and their many conclaves he has had to tractably say he is not like SIMON BAR SINISTER, Lex Luther is out of the question, he is on a stack of bibles , not seeding the clouds, the King Nerd must say between Indulgences, or causing GHuy Marx as in Green Acres to do a in-jun rain dance. Hello dere...

Still it was bewilderingly sad to have seen even in the side of my vision, and I wondred why none gave Bullwinkle at least some due.

We descend to two sitting popes, --Billy the kid is sitting this one out, I'm sire his requiem for either will be heart remaindering, ...Strange dear, but true dear, that Id fall for you dearrrrrrr...eating each other alive. Sad and destined that Barry the fairy would eventfully get even for all those toilet jokes when he walked away, cause something important had to be voted on. And true to form, the Newark-er--BOY DO THEY HATE THAT, —does a strangle hit piece , as I said, when you are a shovel everything as said, does look like a grave if not a hole, on Niccolo Machiavelli AS THERE must be some way that the overfed, marching fat chicks meeting for briefing at the chicken delight, the angels of the Mattina could seem sanctimonious after having voted for a segregationist, WHO DOENST KNOW WHEN TO LEAVE. Did they even know or care that Niccolo, whose Selected Discourses was roman Billy's sixth favorite book, no mere Prince for him, ….hand me my copy of Pastoral Poems, Raven dear,...was tortured by the Medici, speaking of bad dinner guests , over Titus Livy, and yet who knew that Lorenzo wearing of German Armour would not end well. Like this as the great Al Brooks would say.

NOW ITS #PASSTHETORCH as I was alerted, now ragingly passse, by liberal email, AND SUDDENLY THERE IS MORE MONEY ALLIED AGAINST THIS OLD COOT THAN HE HAS ON HAND. But, as a Charon at the Stygian banks, collecting money off eyes if he must, he wont go like ELSIE though I said the Clntons were planning a third act for him somewhere between the Rope by Titus Plautus, the rope by Alfred Hitchcock, as a funny thing happen on the way to the last hurrah. Really Kelly girls at the New Yorker you should have gotten me to write that before you published more garbage in your Saul Strindberg less rag, as I told an admiring gal, I remember, like Johnny Cash, everything...HE ASSURES FATES AND THE MOON ITSELF, BY GOLLY, DAMMIT AND SHUNUFF, BUT HE PROMISES, ALWAYS A BRIGHT NOTE, HELL GET BACK TO CAMPAIGNING OF WHATEVER HE CAN DO LIKE IT, NEXT WEEK,WHEN THE SHOWBOATS COMES TO TOWN. My brother, sharper than I, he SAID WHEN HEARD OF A MASKERS COVID, AT LEAST LIVE YOUR LIES, AND GET THE OLD COOT A MASK IN MID SHUFFLE, HES HIGH AS A KITE, SORRY ANDERSON, AND HIS UNRAVELING AND NEED A WARM PLACE TO SLEEP. But do give us the word count, as anything even close to politics is against @morningjoe 's religion, as one time pretty amid in a row even with Keith Olbermann and now with Lana Lang cutting but not bleeding, she decries that old coot Bdiey, played by Elaine Stritch so ably in Sondheim, that 33 and third percent of white women are feeling the carnival of fools.

Once when asked by a Medici cardinal, like Imult say, to be gotten and gotten gold, the Italians were doing this shit when you white devils still lived in trees, What Sur Machiavelli is evil, the cardinal asked, thinking the ultimate shyster- comedy writer would spin some seventy word sentence that was inscrutable., Looking down a face the new Yorker made look like a monkey we must find our sanctimony wherever we can Hillary ,much less vendetta, he said simply as the jisusts said, only a idiot has to lie and lie badly, anyway, look, pal, buddy, anyway, Evil he said, is a dimwit who wishes to be adored for his vices. End of quote, see just like the ghost of Caesar, you really should say Quote before you say that, but I'm shocked hes still awake at this our. Call all this Monica's revenge, girls, and really you should have allowed me and not some f&g or Kelley girl to write about the patron saint of Jesuits, all garnets all black, as I can think of better third acts to have had than old coot Bidy, as the old master is shown as true again, as I warned @stevencolbert, the true believer is the second rat off the ship. Watch though as George will gets more of a sharp Petra than he and everybody's cousin Jojo saw coming. SHAZAM! There egos the lunchy and weedys and tweedy and theatergoer goes sanctimonious @sharrodbrown after days and days of paddling. In the words of dear @rachelmaddow, Machiavelli,...? you wish. Pass the torch...? I think you mean the drones. Bye Bob. Ill take a swig for you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7a0PAT0eGw

STAY TUNED, at this bat channel...

07/21/24 09:09:44 AM

A world wide internet disruption occurred late at night, a day and half ago, and immediacy to show how beloved he is, everyone thought this was the acting presidents way of ...what even JESUIT TRAINED ME WASN'T SURE WHAT THAT COULD ACCOMPLISH, BUT TO MAKE PEOPLE FEEL BADDER THAN THEY ALREADY DID. WHICH FOR A SADIST, ...but he is without without the niece and without the word play, priests even told me, as I was a boy, that De Sade was a brilliant writer, and somehow saying that botched the gatekeepers of the woke-ness, which as the auger warn here is different when its believed in and not the fig leaves of segregationist, Weekly American standard and smirking Jews as fascists, ... who were woke just long enough to read their dire polling numbers and that they bode bad in Westernmost county Pa, from where I left, and soon enough commercials for German named hair henna and Archie Bunker would stuff the television cities of the fruited plains. But, one constant refined from those jowl, having to have a prescient Roy Shieder on the hospital bed as the chorus line sang around him, was that along with word counts, amazingly, and that Biden would as worst Chautauqua meetings, sunday go to meeting tenet, worst Elmer Gantry ever, unlike Satan as a hooded revivalist, one shouldn't be so undertakers in their come hither charms, not in politics, was that some peon for IT WAS MISSED. BIG TALK WHEN THEY START SPEAKING OF TAMMANY HALL AS SOME HAVE ABOUT THE way suddenly the democratization party has become a papal conclave with black balls readied for everybody. They think but Gordon Gecko in Sacramento and the always scheming, the Greens-burgh Tribune review assured me so, emceeing Joshie Shapiro who, alas and alack, always seems to have been juts fallen forwards from a medieval passion play. My Downloading of the LYNEX OS, took up along with Elton John as the pinball wizard took most my time, so cant do as thought I'd might, in that id keep a daily disgrace like newspaper comics strip aspect to the end of B'dey, which all in all ,might be better anyway, as think as writing about Machiavelli and Bill Clinton we are stuck with Stuffing-envelopes, as a Lucius, doenst know from which end to swing the hatchet this time. Circuitry, as you all death watch the old coot and wish to replace him without and pass over as it were the black woman he put there for no better reason than to show to be president he and Gummadi Gilda would so, say, be seen with anyone, although APLENTY REPORTED BEFORE HIS FEET WERE SHOT OFF BY A TOO STUPID TO BE DIABOLICAL PRESIDENCY, that he will not give his benediction to Kammilla with a K, a death scene in waiting, showing at least Sonny Hostile and the viewing nags that again, window dressing means nothing when the department store closes with giant Pittsburgh padlocks of decay. Unity...? Machiavellian heal themselves.

The incessant rains showers of the spring, which again Bill gates, Ralph Phillips without the charms, says he had nothing to do with , maybe it was uncle Martin with his magic finger from the room over the spaceships garage, have made a canopy of the greenest I can recall it ever being here, with the caveat that I spent a good amount of that time as the boy in the tower, scribbling out one masterwork after another only to tear them all away. So now I found myself at that Gustavo Dore sheet of lithograph and hand painted page of the inferno that things went haywire to in the mist of their play of Pericles, with, of course, Rob Reiner as the bloated coward king, who the Italians, like CORIOLANUS , GOT TO AND CLOWNED UP FIRST, as has there ever really been a democratic argument since Busing that Joe Biden hasn't hollowed out like a cheap and kid disappointing Easter rabbit.

We, by we I mean not some strange unpropitious mischief that the f*gs doth do now, they sued to write sad war sonnets to Turn-us and painted masterworks of genesis on to plaster of Paris walls and ceilings, but now in Biden's d student detention hall, well, a rising flood downs all alley cats. Here the overhang avenue dome of greenery, not quite mountain, is shuffling and spinning in the winds, with mired scapegrace than the queen of crime bills , whose comb over and cap teethed charm as he spoke of the animals of the hood, it always pandered upon for whom his bell tolled , it was never for thee unless one was a Dixiecrat like him. The tooth merchant he was, with a smile my ma told me to avoid anyone who had it, buying time they always are, she warned me, and amazing how somehow he survived that famous Marc Antony, an affectation this white house never deserved, when he spoke so sincerely over the torn apart corpse of liberalism more than any the era of big gummit from Pogo loving southern Captain Marvel Juniors down to the black spit curls ever much could.

HERE AT THE endless Sherwood, here at the place where the Allegheny could go into the Cymbeline woods at any time, I saw a wreathed old sign, an anachronism and out of place that said SHAPIRO'S TRANSYLVANIA. The lime and holly colored leaves of the midsummer's trees glissandi in the high Julian sunshine, and only the wrangle of the trees could be heard. Then there, in front of a weather beaten old signage of Mickey Mouse in his now finally in the public domain, --f yew Sonny and your whorehouse gypsy as a defamation wife—black and white and chopped and weathered and beaten by a myriad of rain storms and then heated by the apostolic sun, the little rat smiled his frozen smile, and was chugging a womanly curved green glass coke bottle , as they alas like beer companies never understood the first rile of Jerry Della Femina, or Gorge Washington Wallace, or any of the other mad men that a channel that didn't take commercials could demean until one downturn after the next meat that pay television, and lectures from Vizier Anderson fresh from the La Cote Basque where Mummy is buried, was more than anyone could bear, and alas they were the first cord to be sliced. Ere at that sign amid the trees was the her Highness of them all, the living Boccasale, the living Vargas pin up herself, W., in what I believe is called a Dorothy L amour like Sarong, a large brimmed straw hat and shoes worthy of the Leonardo who invited the torture device called the high heel. Sure are a witch, I said, not in some accusatory , or Anglican or white man ways, What is going on, dear woman, I said, hat is this madness...?

She smiled demurely and fluttered her massive Italian eyelashes. I was taken with how much she resembles a penthouse girl I adored as a young man, a showering pet goddess as we Romans and not Jews are given to having—i guess when one straiten to hide in Sellers as opposed to ROMAN MARCHES, the goddess is beneath the sanctimony of self righteous cowards. She said, as if reading my thoughts, as I bet her mummy taught her well how to living within that frame of hers, See, she said, 40,000 people didn't die at Masada. That was a show when i was a teen utilitarian the great Peter O'Toole to Anglicize general Silva, which none of you have there at the armimentarium, you have mourning Joe seeing it all go away as a , usual for a woman, blowhard braggart big mouth wife calls the dared and dydin Biden as the one between he and the first black Praetor who was actually “Historic”, to which usual the cousin juts glad to get any blond at all to suck his dick, had top be taken a back, but not so much that LUCRETIA STARTED TO notice the cut of the pool boys jib. This year the dons of Hollywood such as they are left, in the worst summer since Klintion Spillsbury, and without an AIRPLANE! To save them, they went back to Truman and his swans, the effect no good as CNN calcimined to removed the queen mum of Anderson, you know the one who didn't recognize his own father in that Esquire suicide note, and ironically and befittingly, they placed a whole lot of scenes and meanderings down streets that didn't happen and didn't exist, when the story had enough oomph on its own. In Cold Cash.

A last bulletin from the Daily Dirt, we miss you Wally, I thought for the data, was that on NEWSY, that with the backdrop of a Costello it is said I reviled and instinctively disdained as a boy in Ma's arms, that the artists at the maniacal kingdom had decried this dreadfulness summers since Leslie Nielsen dead panned his way to a second act, they, at Disney, alas again, were going on stroke. I've told my Disney story before and their aversion not too long before being awoken to the idea of a Basile somewhat fractured fairy tale, and the idea of an Italian princess in stone soup received them as their strangely to my boyish eyes was to them beyond the pale, sadistic and not Americana if i recall what they said, too unlike their usual work, nice enough was I , and I turned it to Scooby Doo and the ironic too, as nostalgia is after all a mental disorder at heart, where they met up with , as they did Jonathan Winters and Don Knots cone, Sonny and Cher were with those meddling kids as we had made a midsummer evening of pork chops like Ma used to make, that no one who tasted them anywhere I brought them had anything like them before. I MEAN, WHAT ELSE COULD HAPPEN TODAY THAT WAS WORTH NOTING...?

07/22/24

10:41:38 AM

THIS JUST IN...

On this date in midsummer as it always seems to happen, at 1:45 pm, a nondescript nameless time, no Gary Copperish high noon for him, like Nixon who again was born to play this Shakespearean part and Biden was just an understudy who got lucky, or worse, he relinquished the presidency such as it is of the Untied states, as the ceremonial pens that they tried to corral uncle Bill with, some of the same people by the way. Still ass-hurt by the way he was sued by the Glen Gerry Glen Ross figures who have bumbled his way along the appointee ways of life and empire all along, Speaker Johnson, almost having given up his trope sash over a mars mercerizing that had to be on that clock, or watch of old coots Biden, and still hasn't been fulfilled, there egos dear-born, he damned that BIDDEN SHOW SOME DECORUM, TOO ROMAN...?, AND MERELY LEAVE IMMEDIATELY, BUT THEN, OUT DAMNED VAUDEVILLIAN cant in good coincides go and be a chicken operative as Fred Mertz had to do in a selling out to a television black rocked selling out to Robert Moses love of the car and the causeway that Lucy, speaking of olden days, never much bought into, she was a lover of Broadway, like Ann Marie, and its collected Zeros to the end.

It was said to me, by a brother coming back in to the living room after a day of ho hum to me British golf that he rather liked more than I did, as my antennas have been whipping madly all month and I have augured much to his delight and his surprise, but today I was fine with waiting to eat Yukon gold potatoes smothered in a oily bay-leaved natural gravy that my mother knew how to marinate meats with since the old country, and too, I made some rice a rony, the game show cuisine that Ma taught us how to always fix and finagle into deliciousness. He came in and told me, he just saw a word bulletin rolled over a golfer unable to deal with the flat earth links of savages long gone, but even did the heirs to Rodger Mudd came on to explain that Biden had indeed after so long and such a miasma of selfishness , and his last act of undercutting donkey parts, he indeed resigned. Or words to that effect. Like Vietnam and health care he is no where to be found.

I got out of the rocking chair he likes to sit in and went over to the couch waiting to see, juts like the last segregationist to bow to the plebeian street plebiscite, that he would say, at least as much as Nixon did, as I recall that final press conference , but then from a better generation than these ones Tom and Dan, this country isn't what it sued to be thanks in much to these explained idiots and their love of farce, but pretending its an epic, as again, the Hatchet man Persistent was no where to be seen, which to me wasn't even an affront to the gods of Poetics, or the gods of Theater, but to Lavrenia, who was the roman goddess of picked locks, thieves and Clinton's in the mist. After three hours, he had had enough, and got up and went into the darkness of the rest of the house, as there was something ,what is the word...?...its Roman farce, so...there was something anti climatic about the whole affairs and well, not surprising it didn't have the oomph of LBJ, AGAIN CARO WHERE ARE YOU...?, as it seemed almost by rote as anything, and was tarred strangely as a fate accomplish, or with a well that happened attitude that doesn't make 50 years of scheming much worth it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NbVUg3BuTio

At least when Hillary lost, which looks increasingly like it might behaved again and worse than ever, people and wags said to her distress i as told, any maybe got it from me, like the way a liberal was inspired that anti Biden banners read "We are ungovernable like Caesars said of plebs before , lord Satan why doth thy Deserter me, my dark lord why doth they forsake me, as a kind of Dante's inferno paradox of the sonny boy of the triumvirate heaven toured on a necromancer cross. E, DANTE HAS BEEN everywhere since we had for the first time since he wrote of Clement and Boniface, two living popes ta the same time. I did once, as said, shoot Andy Warhol's ,museum, again one of the few essays , though more now than ever, placed into an art news , which is on nice papers and in a satchel called my accepted works, with a cat-suited girl from again, long penthouses ago. Erroneous wouldn't give us the satisfaction of his own demise, the pro council would actually spoke before the dying predator, sad unromantic and without the gods of comedy and tragedy to be part of this anointing with oil. We watched lastly AOC, prettier than I had ever seen her, as it is an insult to her wisely to call her pretty as the Arrian brethren idiots and jailbirds all dont like it, lesbians neither, but prettily, she railed against this, the horse is empty she decried, and my sharper brothers aid, hats enough, tell them to quit stealing your stuff!, so a wake was held, on Twitter, newly there as was asked by some, including my own brother to hurl paint at the crumbling imperial walls, tweeters or X marks the spot, Four and twenty black birds baked into a calzone, he said, Here, he said, tossing me the box, Enjoy yourself, as he left it, which seems like Dante to me be a leitmotiv of the times of now, metv cartoons and a midsummer's midday dinner hour Bullwinkle. A room with a view...of a yellow wood. Or Frostbite falls.

John chancellor is dead and wont came back round again. Did I ever tell I once wrote a paper that the National Biscuit Company and its attempt to red state and blue state us was a mistake, and thus again I was beloved by the brethren, as I said, despite trying to be a boon to Democrats as they always are, will they vouch for Kammala like they did the sanity and wholeness of old coot BYE BYE BIDEN, JOIN US ONE CAN HEAR THE GREAT VOICE OF Matt DILLON SAY for our next exciting episode, Ice to meet you, Barry is alas quiet as a titmouse, or, Visit to a small Panic!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kx3sOqW5zj4

07/23/24

11:27:29 AM

I find, as lost some friends and acquaintances it seems ,and took some arrows over not ever wantoning to be tarred with the brush of ever having been on the side, or deathbed, of a resignation-- ist, sorry segregationist, too Roman and not Sicilian enough am I, that I must get this Requiem for a fly weight done today. THAT ITS NOT due until the 1^st, as it were, but still, cant in good conscious be an Antony for this lied low CAESAR, who never fit, as it were, the Bill. I was offered a lot more than mere Brownie points and fat girl sanctimony to, as Pop said be a Manga merda and eater of something worse than mere Dunking Doughnuts, when I was 10-15 and I didn't do it then, as I'll, be damned if I do it for the Tom Eagleton at the head of the snak—ticket, as after all, politics smolitcis, its all blood sport to me anyway, and Biden's is tiredest blood at most. The Jews are spotlight gunfight and outta-site than neither dead corpus of Alexander nor Camilla, really I've been told i do overestimate this crowd, pro council, nor dead corpus of Julian is there to great them at a speech they demanded that Blowhard Herod gives, so quickly the bleak house referrers all to the fact that they will be meeting on Thursday after a few more hours of what my brother assures me is old man getting off the the horse, all puns operational, or the monkey being shot and torn from his back. I didn't tell anyone to redo Sondheim Follies, or Commodities or Funny things happening at the edge of the forum,. If not mausoleum, so, that your touch luck as , like Elaine Stritch , Gummadi Pillotta, as ma called her, with no reverence at all, plays a woman who lunches. This corpse as I have been foretelling, soothsayer Am my brother and other well wishers think, never deserved an Antony, as he was sure to ,as I warned, make an absolute Asp of hisslef. Don't you love farce...?

8:12 PM.

Into the darkening afternoon of this most imperial of month, I thought, and maybe I tweeted to Meathead, the next time what you want to speak so glowingly of the democracy of weeds, as pop called it, much less any The Republic, I would were I you, keep the words thought and said by some, Palace Coup to a bare minimum. I DIDN'T ALLOW so much as merely didn't turn the television from Loony tunes again for a while, my sister to sit there an watch the Chuck Jones panoply she has adored since she was a little girl, as the Law and Orders of Armour ham 'ONOFRIO have swerved to their lagging middle with the guvnor from The Good Wife and a rape victim Italian actress who was gotten rid of post haste under sealed orders from Harvey WeinsteIn. Like Biden being a drooling idiota, the curia is always kept in the dark which is strange for a assembly of so many haggling, gibbering Queens.

Into the darkness towards the small green digital light of an older stove I walked towards what was either the Shady Groves of Clinton's I had been before, or the cartel in Daffy's attempt at having JW make him a leading man in the scarlet pimpernel, or the happiest place for petaphiles, the magic Castillo where Collodi went to die and which now deterring in the worst summer in years as the plebs have turned from a circus atoned by a contingent of circus owners who cant stop being sanctimonious about anything, and don't recall or ever heard that Ovid said nothing that has to deal in receipts and box office can ever be elite. By 8:26 PM, all seemed that the sorbet of Vendetta served cold was indeed not as fulfilling as say a lovely cherries jubilee of vengeance that I would have served, again flaming. In fact, despite having had one of the anchormen acceptable by their paper bag and other litmus tests, only servants no masters here, and with fraying whips, Lester Holt was quicker than any, elliptically cyclops CBS which must have gotten the short Friendly straw, and stayed about with a third act of Julius Caesars, is was it the second, whatever still, without a corpse, but someone convalescing and without the willingness if not the decency to play King Lear with CBS ACMES WATCHING MARINE ONE TAKE METTERNICH AWAY. If Richard Nixon was King Lear and Bill Clinton Barefoot Marius the great, and Mario, dear Mario, avenged today as Hillary shall never be, and it might get worse as the little woman is replaced by the other woman, wow, was Virgil in the Purgatorial as the divinity of the literate, then Biden, well, Bent Biden wan-st more much and nothing much more than David Wayne as The Mad Hatter in Batman 1966.

I SAW THE COLLECTION that had come to reverie and to rejoice in the end of Bill Clinton's enemy was has happened since the Apia way first held the bees for which it was named, there was one winner now, and it wasn't Kamilla, as the male democrats allowed on News-max, as opposed to cringing Negros and damnable dykes on out and out Democratic and thus better lines of credit television, the kind owned by toaster and arms manufacturers, all seemed happy go lucky with this...but the women, I NOTED, AS THEY ALL GATHERS HERE TO see their The Prince Bill take his bow and his curtain calls for a death trap well made and configured—again I must get this done and spell checked as best as I can before the first for reasoning that mean nothing to me, like say shutting off my computer and updates complete the night the the while internet infrastructure went reinstalling,--i heard as walked towards the republican brick, volcanic stone of the trees and dark shrubbery canopied by the rains, here out of that black and slightly green fluttering of motion, Shady Groves of Bills own Pentcameron, I heard just in the submissions of gossip, the name of an early play I WROTE as a boy, along with an early play called CATCH AMENDMENT 22, no fooling, the collected for colored girls , who were just shown by Rachel as abandoning the henhosue of section 8 cells, that they stemming wanted no part of it, nor of her. I COULD declared calculate the button down mind of Joshie Shapiro, already clicking and chiming at midnight away to how to tunnel to and louse up a ticket that had all of the Democratic aplomb of the holy spirit smoking a dollar cigar, or Segar as the thimble theater case might have been. From what I gated at the edges of this imperial palazzo, the other colored girls wanted no part of the bracketing jackass gummadi who was white enough to turn Willie Browns browner heads. And there, or here in this parallel lives universe, there was A pretty, sorry AOC, initialed goddess, a lady who looked like the playboy bunny I believe was a CHICAGO BEAR GIRLFRIEND, NAMED Charlotte Kemp, WHEN I WAS A BOY, do they even make tootsies in COLBERT LAND NOW THAT HE CANT IN GOOD COUSCOUS BREAK BRA STRAPS AND HEARTS AND KLEIG LIGHTS ANYMORE. She stood there ala another Roman goddess, she stood there as if Fascicle incarnate, and a spear like banner standard that one sees perhaps mostly in the admonition of tin soldiers at Saturnalia times. The red, Roman more than anything Germanic and pinko, banner read the number 13 in those letters, and it was shocking to see her as a discouraging word, but by sundown now, I was not in the least supersized, as bigger imperial Conveys, Michelle and Barry the fairy were as quiet as Alexanders Tomb before desecrated by Rex Harrison, miss tits and Mackenzie, in technicolor. Don't make the mistake, she warned as I walked past towards the midsummer's night scene, and I saw a hanger on of Bill's an MIL FOB, in statuesque glory as a lipstick wearing man clown was sadly devoted to her. At least I thought, in Roman boy Bill someone alas finally or still existed who understood the basic needs of having a class of perverts that never were accurately to the Chaney or others crime familiars.

I walked past the masonry wall in the yellow wood, and saw the gates that rose Xanadu like into the darkness and the imperial purple skies above. Girl one of his happy dinning retinue came up to me, assureds a vestal as his circle of pretties all were here, and again, fish wife Hillary was again, as in the ouveur of Rob Reiner, dead and gone before the first draft, much less the cutting room floor. She invited me to the other side of the wall, upon which was written a bloody red WE ARE UNGOVERNABLE. Shades of Apocalypse Now, actually graffito I thought. She walked with me to the showroom floor of this half pleasure dome, half and as hotel in the ring a ding ding sixties, where all the tables were set up and all the people seemed to be from the garter age of Matt Helm, woman in PLAYBOY AFTER DARK FINERY, IT WAS IN DEED THE SELF NAMED a Copa that Danny Thomas, adored by my mother, often sang to with his Lebanese charms. The Gorgeous woman were all there in ermine and in pearls like cardinals were once, in wraps and in stoles and in figure hugging sequences non sequaier dress that draped a body like a Gino Reni painting of funfair did.

In came the praetor, fully flushed with power and potency. I recalled that Kamikaze, oh fuck you, Polish queen, you and your kissing cousin were calling people enemies of the state last week, dearies, I guess your stuck now only with those who buy sunbeam toasters, he said, as evening scores were everywhere. In the space like toots Shore's, comes the performance, fat and bloated and here not sucking in his guts, with Augustan indigo ash about his over sued boa and his perfectly sued heads. The place was quiet after some polite applause, which stunned me. Galahad pouted then a Roman salute of a hand above his paralleled head, and he spoke to the mob as no one has since Tiberius Gracchus, or maybe Trump, who understand in their bones that indeed there is a circus element to the days of politics that no woman can understand, as they sweep the dust behind the golden door. PLAYGOERS...!, HE SHOPLIFTED in full playing to the mezzanine throatiness, THE POLITICAL TENT IS A TEMPLE TO PUNCTURA, [This isn't neoclassical Roman Roman, but a bit of doggerel by some middlebrow in some book that included The Twelve Caesars by Gore Vidal, and that I took as early as Ariosto did from Matteo Maria Bordiardo, for my own uses as I said before anyone he'd be saying ye bey bird y. And, he said, We are here to adorate the Roman Gods of comedy and tragedy....tonight we are pleased to present a comedy...the end of Biden! It was still quiet, almost on edge, as she allowed the fringed purple cape to sway in the shady winds of his life. FRIENDS, ...he shouted aloud and firm as a ham would, ROMANS... COUNTRYMEN...HE SAID, I COME TO BURY BIDEN, NOT TO PRAISE HIM...!

At this the perky girls as gumba sleazy merchants and thin fedoras and Jewish sackers and all the collected Sydney Sheldon he could find and made hangers on, erupted with unmitigated joyfulness , their man their boy, had down the day, and Biden was the deer left on the eroded hillside to Etna, in more ways than one, Biden was finished and would in fact get off the air ship Ambra as the once and no longer king of the world, they are so pleased he is hone, after all, and he screeched at James Rosen, in the next few days when people wondered if JOHN PAUL the first hadn't died, he had to eventually in two days from this triumph of Guillermo will, slink off a airship and yell at the stepsisters , as he knew as I would guess that such a nothing would that in fact he was a victim of circumstance and useless and worthless and casting about wishing to spit , if not worse, at the vicissitudes of fate. Out came two other vestals of the forever king, with a movable dolly upon which was the BALLY table HE HAD PLAYED SINCE 1975'S TOMMY, the Gottlieb Kings and Queens, lighted box, but alas our future were all mortgaged by that cretino Gloria Vanderbilt junior and his nun like shushing of any not saying what Doge Turner or worse GE wanted said in what was the mausoleum of Politics. The box of lights and wire and speedy little silver balls twinkled and spin and danced away there against the dark gloom of the extemporaneous night, or Knight, as he put out a pudgy and weathered old hand to demand quiet from the truly interracial, pan ethnic, crowd filled with people that prissy George Will never wanted in his Cotillion of a party. He started to recite as he was so good at doing as a kid.

People, he said, There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile, he found some crooked nickels all left in a crooked pile, he said, ...a pretty blond, old Playboy after dark type, more Joi Lnasing than Elly Mae and her sanitized William S PAYLY SEXUALITY, POURED HIM A DRINK FROM A LARGE GREEN GLASS , I GUESS THEY ARE CALLED Carafes, and he held it up where it shined with green poisoned light and beneath like nacreous carbonation. The Panoply before me was reminiscent of the famous pull out appointing done by boyhood hero Jack Davis and his brilliantine watercolor work of marionette people and flat cartoons, as it wasn't quite Our Town, at all, but a revitalization of that age that had come before and for Roman Bill, and like the dies of Biden hadn't yet passed. Tn it call came quickly before me, as I used and utilized the small cathode aspect flickering drawings on the new screens of old Loony Tunes, and that Jack Benny like duck as a clue to be able to get home as my mother no fooling was something of a witch herself , and she taught me, no fooling about the way to get back and forth between realms on this Calvino, equal lover of Italian magic realism, as for to them it is less a mere literary decisive as it is to some self righteous indigenous in Fathers as it has been part of the very volcanic soil used by Etruscan along gone and unremarked to and for bu those who'd cry over a rapist not being allowed to be first lady, or worse, house coon Van weeping openly about the old man praetor having to have the keys to the kingdom, if not the papacy be taken from the old coot before he smashes onto that perversion of the marble buttress. KKRRRASH,Rachel, try crying for an Italian grandmother smote to death by her own mucus as was done in Duchess county dears,as I knew when heard that anyone, again as ma said, who drank from this cauldron would be poisoned by it.

The operator in high dungeon looked out over his Make Room for Daddy crowd, the women all with gloves of velvet, and men in high allotting suits of gaberdine armor, the glasses worn once by father Francis were all over, cigarettes smoldered too, as this was a respite for romantic Bill from the sorts of horrid women with flyaway hair and bad skin who Hillary knew too late were always looking for the escape hatches, if botched to march at all. People....!, he shouted with Plautus charms again,

he looked up at the medieval mezzanine now then populated by garbage like Colbert and his needs to be in lights and wires in a slimmer box, and almost aw them all it seemed to me, as dummies, scarecrows who were eaten to death or at least to saw dust by his manageable hnand slight of handed magicians birdies. His birdies had a state for Lena and Grey carrion. Ask Biden. Praetor Biden is Gone, he said, then, and after a moment uproarious applause from his gaggle of gummadi made me think though I had somehow anticipated it, I was glad again, sad top admit it , but again I take what i can gets, that the ROMAN LOVING SCHOOLBOY HAD INDEED bent the tragic universe to his own primer's Virgillian wills.

Did the minions of the Prince..., he asked, as there was no mere -ling affixed here, did you get all things I asked in my imperial quest dear children...? Yes, your excellence, a devotee said, looking the part, half Fellini and haft kiss me Kate, We have completed the hunt...Where is, he said, The Instant relic...? A pretty blond came head in again a outfit half Sinbad and half Barbara Eden. Yes, your honor she devotedly said, Weave brought you the instant relic that you wished for...and with that she took a lawn sign that read Biden-Harass, and handed it to him, with much arabesque fancy. He smiled and took the cardboard sign and tired it in half, tossing the shards away as he has justify done to Biden the man the myth, the legend only a few hours before. HE THEN asked for in his rummage imperial sale, his fire of Rome sale, his epilogue of vicariousness, that he was Bedouin. past the reach of any mere hacks and blind followers, the Machiavellian had entered the hillbilly's Ostia. The flood of those willing to be lead by the noise weren't going to distracted or detract him, he had been through too much to allow George Will to cast a blind eye along with house Negros and lesbians of bellicosity at the war temple to cat a blindness towards lids of Kojack era Coke to be dropped on Eisenhower floors. I WAS IN AWE. WHERE IS THE LESS SHARPENED THAN A VIPER'S TOOTH …?He asked. Other pretty black woman in this banquets finery placed a broken tooth on a table before him as he was being guarded over by Angelia by satyrs of the blankets of tapestry that he had collected. Shady Groves was indeed alive more than it had been last showing duding Persistent Lugosi and his want to a blood bank vampirical praetorium, and now indeed Vlad the impaled had been , as I had guessed as pillared for it, vanquished, or better like a spider tossed into an imperial Roman viaducts drain and out to the sea of loserdom. A tooth, the pretty black bunny said, From the crooked smile of the crooked man, HES EATING SOUP TONIGHT, AND HIS HEART OUT!, to which there was applause and he took the tooth and flung it into the now black and oak colored of at all leaves of the canape of summer , glorious summer, that came above our heads. And he said, then, What of my bumble bee herself,...? He said, So, what of a living doll in our menagerie of preatorains, where indeed has any one found in this amercement of Venice causeway, has anyone found in my asked for rummage hunts, where is my living doll, the Punctura to make this all completa...?

Then and at his very command has he had lived so much of his hillbilly Marius life, the curtain parted an there with a white sodium colored light shone upon Wendy-Sybil, as it was meant to be, as she was after all, no Hillary here, no angle of the mattina was she, a goddess in allays even if Jews upset their walnut-ed dens are lacking as they cant sell their usual plagiarism of Plautus with a dollop of hatred of hippies as I have said Meatheads fathered by Alan Brady, while mine worked for a living and didn't use pigeon English as a weapon against as CBS has done before, and surely shall again. She stood there in prefect relief in the deepening darkness off the always Renaissance night, as dark as is the day bright when LEONARDO draws, although as said in a previous essay about my superwoman, Leonardo is now not some house negro hoo dddee doing, but alas , back to normalcy, mere a house wop doing some sortie of house wopism over some deodorant spray for woman to spray on their popos for relief of the curse of eve, or something. She was gorgeous and fertile, sexual and yet, scarified, as we Italian have done for eons before Jewish comedians since Solly of Damascus brought their love of a baby killing god and marrying Ann Maria Napelotano to our shores. She wore an antler set as some ALAREIA DID IN ANCIENTS , BARELY CALLED TIMES, AND A RED BLOOD COLORED, OF NOT SOAKED CHAISE I BELIEVE THEY ARE CALLED, A SISTER CANT REALLY THINK OF IT EITHER, AS I ASK OUT, BUT A KIND OF BATHING SUIT BIT WITH RUFFLES AND OF LEATHER WORTHY OF THE VILLA THAT THE goons think they will message me out of calling this laughing beast, this gummadi K, Willies slut, the other woman who only a few years ago, was a sort and a type disposed of by all the pretty ladies all in a row. So the Sybil, she was stunningly gorgeous to me, and then, in half dream space land, I I saw the only one not as overtly devoted as was I and obvious the boy man in triumph there, a writer who looked like a pre In Cold Blood Truman, the mention of his name or at least of mad man Finch who played him so Tru was last uspsettedness id get from the collected creeps of the SS JON STEWART and his that as the day that was leaking Lena had started to take on more slat water than was healthy for a preatorains Ambra sea ship of state. Prettier than I had ever seen her in snapshot glory before I felt badly and looked down as the curvy, fleshy, anti age of anorexia as Gore called us once, antithesis and thus hated of Susie cream-cheeses and Italian as the trevi fountain, no better than merely that, at this attempt at Fellini's Roman, she was as Italian as the feminine corpa, as m,a called the voluptuous types, and somehow on this day when all those Italian grandmothers dying was a bloody read to draft and a bridge to no wheres, she resembled the Victoria that has been placed on Roman coins since ancient days. The writer who had been both bested by and escaped the Newark-er, as they refused to public Answered prayers as too did they hate mall fact wrapping and now, I will never allow them to forget that, he looked down on a small notebook pad and with a number 2 lead pencil, transcribed in the scavenger hunt, One Living doll, he dutifully recorded there.

As she stood there a perfect embodiment of the belladonna quantitation that my mother told me of, that sorry Jewish Husbands and even Seinfeld at the hop, your blond Hulgas do not have, a reason why Myrna Turner was married to who she was, Now. the newt Punctura something as I have said I have saved from a book and rather a snide on at that, and remap into a goddess usurping the accompaniments of the way Romans have since time immemorial, as she was recast-ed and armed into the mace we-idling, spike barreled RUN GOLDA THAT AGAIN DONE BETTER LIKE MAOISM AND BEER BY ITALIANS THAN MERE GERMANS EVER SHALL, he put out his hands to her and spoke in the same sort of schoolboys awe as I was deeply in myself. Augustus called it a Republic too, dear Punctura, --that line causing a three digit bounce on BLOGGER AND GETTING ME A TOP FAN FOR COLBERT, why who knows...? Here stood in sexual and ethereal perfection, the queen of swords, DEA improbability, my demigoddess, my Isis, like the Pictar pickpocket at the end fog that malevolent swerving booklet, he said, Come and fetch your supplicant, the Praetor called, in supplication as we have been since we were ROMAN ADDLED BOYS, I PRAY TO THEE, come to me, he said, Come to me my Melancholy baby, some to me and wipe from the earth the ravage of Tear sheet hacks and cabbies of empire, to the goddess of Ovid, not COVID I baksheesh thee, come to me, my Godless true, and tether we Yahoo spin and ring around Cassia as he flatted downwards and kisses the molten lava of Father Saturnine, --[i hear a last Sunday night sired in the backdrop along with whats opera , Doc...? shorts, as there is rumors he is undefinable by the secret crevasse so who knows what magic box that uncle Bill has arranged to spin the moon his way.] Come , he beseecher the perfect exemplar of his beloved, somewhere my mother said, in some drain pipes in some fruit seller in some gully or some alley ways bricks doth exist the beloved of his that Livia did massacre swat tears ago, she could , bless her Italian heart , top of the Terra Ma!, smelt it that night she saw wifey was despite to save herself on Don Hewitt Democratic a go go masquerading as 60 minutes. Need to get back him as the song sails I THINK, AS ALL HAD BECOME TOO BACKSTAGE EVEN FOR ROMANTIC ME. Ore, he said, Punctura Wendy, he said, And sweep the dust behind the golden door. Then he want into a soliloquy,

PUCK:

Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon;

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task fordone.

Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,

Puts the wretch that lies in woe

In remembrance of a shroud.

Now it is the time of night

That the graves, all gaping wide,

Every one lets forth his sprite,

In the church-way paths to glide.

And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate's team

From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream,

Now are frolic.

Not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow'd house.

I am sent with broom before,

To sweep the dust behind the door.

BE MINE FOREVER, OR A LITTLE WHILE LONGER, HE SAID, AND MAKE THEM ALL KNOW THAT am...invictus. In the Roman gardens, I started to walk away, but turned as he seemed to plead with the roman goddess there as a exemplar of all that all we were and all that Lutherans and my mom told me hated, and there as the boy man pleaded with the curvy vison with and for god only knew what else, not to fall into his piggish faultiness, but something someone else had to go, had to be vaunted as his victim and his triumph. And with a sweetly done blown kiss, fittingly for him being here, no...? I turned and gave the supplicated to feminine vision, only a Hillary voter could construe mayday and the thunderbolt in this war state and GE stockholders meeting into some male gaze with has a tinge of sour grapes to it as the little foxes are never much noticed on the street confers which explains it all. As a lesbian girl incorporating my work last year said this to me, thinking again and sounding like a nun, no meter haw e are or where we are, we all must be married off. I sent her a slight pantomimed kiss as despite it all, and all the Andrew and Cuomo brothers who had brought us to this, now, in fact Hillary the queen, she faces a brunette other woman as the first woman eras after so mucky gypsy readings I was told of Antony and Cleopatra, and the one no less not the one by the balding English queer, but the one by the roman historian in pieces, that in fact my mother loved and named me out of, in that last great resigning of the praetorship when America still mattered in the age of something funny happening on the ways to forums. She survived the plannedemic, as opposed to Julie and many others, but that would many not Roman Bill or I angry, but hats too bad. And, with that I walked into the rain that had in this new Avalon started to fall in the night.

IT WAS almost ten, and was about to go to bed and watch the late night Bullwinkle, shown at eleven and thus seen as too perfect and too Juvenal for a nation weaned on the una bruna sympattachhi , as ma called them all, that Disney didn't like to admit did exist. SIGNINGS ARE SO BAD even a woke liberal might have to pay up I said to his humor. He gave me a small cardboard as a early birthday present, like some in the imperial parade, like some glorying in this or deafeningly quiet, I am a Leo. He gave me a small box and I opened it to see a small scrimshaw like Colosseum, he said to sue it as a paper weight, but having just ruined a ream of 12 x 18 sulphite drawing papers with small liquidtex black and bright colored India inks, I said no, and told him to place it with the rare Rocket-man figurine, and the few Supermen I did have. Then, shockingly to me, as i had seen bendy in my minds eye as the answer to all that Latina deaths of theirs, now a mere waste of time, I told him that there was a goldfinch that like Vivaldi, had settled ousted near the gates, and he looked to see it fluttering,and he said, That's that's been good luck since before our parents were even born, it good luck. I told him not to go anywhere, buy to allow the small green bird to jump on the gates, but he waved that off as he had things to do. Till, it was good fortune, HE SAID, THAT IT CAME THIS CLOSE, WE SAW IT AND THAT WAS ENOUGH,. I thought of how all was revealed that after noon there days ago, and the small goldfinch was a kind of return to the universe of life after the tortured animal elk on the median wall. Only woeful and glorious CBS did stay with the strangling, unpopulated, almost gossipy story of a percipient who had resigned, a third in my lifetimes, but none this, 

Well, Nick Sabine or bad boyfriend I break up quoth you on TWITTER SORT OF THING. YELLOW. As in fact the National Biscuit Company had left the death of Biden in mid Honorable man speech, Rachel Maddow isn't butch enough to play an Antony well, and they had in fact shuffled what you'd think they live for to cable, and the armamentarium to return to in fact, chariot races, my brother coincided, bugging away even before he, who assuredly doesn't care. NASCAR was broken back to, already in progress, and therein is no thing more Roman than that. HE WAVED HIM OFF, SO LONG SUCKER, SAY HELLO, my brother said, clicking off Biden, TO Mario when you fall into purgatorio. But Minerva's will I said, thumbingly playing with the small clay Colosseum the demeans of the res publica, had as Ennius précised lost their reasons, and their minds and had to continue on with Biden's dastardly, Quail nests insurances, and the Flavian amphitheater had indeed stuck back and struck again. Gods will, I said, without an implied apostrophe.