01 May 2018

OTHER PILLARS. An Excerpt.


 




..I have counted up to about 46 large comic book pages accepted this year, or so, as have avoided the monstrosity of a thousandth ‘unmarried’ women with hammers tiring to destroy the republic for some hag that, well,they were cheering when some shrewish old crow called a bigot on valentines day.And with twelve more smaller pieces, have done my share of writing on walls that were holding boxes of the too sanctimonious, and too festooned with faked glory, when a Clinton is still here and not yet dead, but still married. All I know is that no good deed goes unpunished, and that signora Fortunata will indeed, as MA SAYS, TAKES YOU AT YOUR WORDS,and that CBS was number one when smirking twat Colbert was still demeaning Democrats in the house on cable ,and now Is careening towards third, -so1977-, but thus still cant charge as much for pepsodent ads, and the soup ads that made him laugh so hard when people were losing their homes ,the little faggot well before he showed up with new glasses and personality,hell say what ever you ask him to, they were first and now are not, but are in dread swamp called late night, ah,CBS, you're the best,…Times have changed and bless him, Ted Knight is long dead, as is the Cyclopes, and it turns out no one wants to be told its nine o’clock as no one wants to watch SWAT.  


Using a device that is as old as Pompeian walls, I ,like, Virgil and Ariosto before me,took the work of other men, and thinking I had something wittier or at least different to say,went ahead and wrote out a few pages of an essay called Other Pillars, as a story. Its about Will and Grace and remade it as a espied remnant of the Seventies Tonyverse. This as also been done by Shakesapere,Tolkien, Jrr Wrarings and disposed by at least me,not that it matters,deary Marquez, but they juts never admit it.So, with a few places to send it,I am the queen of the simultaneous submission, I spent the last week of April rewriting, as it were , W&G, THOUGH, frankly, all I wanted to rename and rescue was the Roman image of the girl in the covers used for roman works by the Oxbridge classics, in which heirs of wicker men now, like George Will cant pretend they aren't barbarians and are literary, because as Tacitus would say,had their barbaraic ethic weened out of them eons ago by men and soft living, his actual thesis  for Germania,now hated, as Jews much rather blame a roman book,for their acerbated  suffering,though if ignore Leviticus, or call it civility,hummmm,which is strange since all these Roman books never made Italians,unlike Spanish,catcher up the Jews as the later in laws had. I saw quickly disposable g man Dan Dare sort,Bush backscratching Comey be trashed by no less than Wartime consigliere brother Blue hustler, grinning jewey jackle,Lanny Davis,as a dropped handkerchief, as I had explained it was bad form in an election year to have miss Pangea and other spics so heartily speak of mafias and such, all week, it was this days talking point, just watch Colbert between toasts, as everyone dist married to Bill, and thus isn't doomed. But, as he said,g man creep, he missed Barry the fairy, peer G man, not quite the dying clown thinking of Ansonia, and it was, after all, seeing what FELLINI, a wop clown had done to Petonius, now called a masterstroke,The Satyricon,that made my pop wince when we had to watch it as it was on some PBS crap channel, and was requited view forging fir a melodrama sister, then in the theater ,bt again with a ignored brilliance,my stoic father knew that what made the Roman arts so great  was a love of the people and ordinariness, and lest say Brunettes, no blonds appear on Tuscan   walls, except as a demons, hey, just like the bible, hummmm, that GREEKS HAVE ALWAYS added far too much allspice and made chariots rise with magnets. So, that day,as a father would let me watch things like the wives of Henry the8th and Leonardo and even Howard fast,had enough of this circus and told me basically to go back to my Mads, which said a lot.On that  channel between cooking shows,as now people demean that film for having taken a Romans masterpiece of the people, and turned it into another clown-cicrus-opera that again, a pinkie  George will sorts could laugh at, and recall that Sunday when my father had wished Fellini would just die already, though now even above board, in good standing movie maestros find him sacrilegious, so after the fact. The new Yorker is always lousy with obits when needed, and at the ready. Again,a reason I wrote this all out, at all. 



 [original A Bunnys life-1. accepted as  is.] 


So, as Comey is the latest Sejanus praetorian to not see it coming, as Lanny is send out to say, no, now we DO applaud his demise, alert the television city partners in our labors, and this time initial it, why he doesn't know where his next bribe is coming from. See, it was a mistake to allow or even be close to, having raging bullshit mole man play you,which when saw that it didn’t take Christ’s death as long for Jewey apparatchik Lanny to be on a real show, not one comprising itself too Horace, can you imagine, what a comedown for Tina Fey, ah SNL, a hee haw for swell's, were all the rats are city rats, within hours ,like Pollozzi, resent and say get behind me me Satan,or whatever. As I freaky miss Bill C., our Romans schoolboy, as dont think I’m the only one who noticed the imperial deaths have started, as he is in a repertoire of doges that my my roman eye found heinous and awful,power loving family taking pictures with men who ran against them, rather than a brother as missing now, as Neal.I miss Roman Bill,as hes barely there,strapping ABC,frankly allowing Barry to be a target of sprites a lover of Conan can never see, as wrote this story to send out as much as anything to return to an ethic of Bill as Roman, as opposed to the love of vikings and our Cato less imperial, perpetual, war. So, at 20,000 words by Apr. 26th,went back to complete just chapter one, ‘At Emilios’, as used Megan’s fulsome image, as a Beatrice again,as Italians are want ,befitting in this mayday, a mayday that Rachel wouldn't let you have with out a sneer,but then, better than pretending you are all broken up cause the old hag you made rape jokes about didn’t win,so still there, I’m sure he KNOWS SOMETHING about what was realistically being done when bad verses were being cast out,but a schoolboy, from halls where the Latin was actually understood, had a wand, and how,and was Roman,and how, he was a warlock was always in the mist,doing all that black magic in reverse. As I might have, again, hit a nerve, as got another Columbia cartoon accepted, and a gal, of course, thinks its aces, probably a brunette ,as there are I’ve noticed more of them than Hillary voters, even with the Spanish,…And too have been approached by an other editor who has used my work  for a fake ad as he hates the Vanity fair as a handbook of decremented vulgarian capitol fetish, as  much as I cant stand that magazine Gore called ‘the police gazette without the warmth’, as how many In Cold Bloods,black Dalias, fatal visions and season of Purgatory did we, all theirs by the way, did we needs…? I see the dictated to pompous talking about in their short hand toxic masculinity,and such, as I wonder,again getting a real admiration out there,whey didn’t that word exist when Barry was bombing the icu units of Arabs…? My mother is right, your die is cast, or again,vice versa…




 



***
The man who wrote the Pillars of Hercules, Dore,  and thus was blackballed by rags who know think they are the Cassius of now,again like with various editors awlasy a check on the Yesiva boys, can laugh and say see Jesuit bitch i am, you can be Cassius, or Jack Paar boys, but seeing the pink slips starting to fall like Orsons romantic 1871 prairie snow, you cant be both. So on a day that like so much was kept despite its Roman, pagan, roots, I decided after a season without chicken, will attune to a new lent and not eat a can of meat kept here but instead  will eat some tuna,and start a new prayer vigil as recall that Turan was the Italian Venus, no not kidding,  and the  keeper of italic Valkyries, who  carried the noble off to Parnassus, again like so much demeaned and degraded to jews in a senate and gunman wops more devoted to bribes THAN HE EVER WAS to anything in your Nobel past, as why would you be and break the chain...? As the pretty Brunette who played Chloe Kane in that musical version of Uberman on ABC lately as had a run on Broadway, when i w as a lad would be seen by me here in the fall, as the  mistress  of aging Shelly, eic, and  now seen as inferior to dead ghost  Burton  Spawn, the as in almost deified here, in that slop, but of curse, in Jew land, he had to with dying breathe have left her, for sexless  cold water dishwater blond again monster mother  Miranda played for  laughs hag who puts on the smokey voice some affected  ice-queen named Felicia, what else...? , as thats what they call in on the fly literature land, But not too anything, and certain not like me.



So,stated my career at Knickerbocker magazine,with the same Italic sensibility we  alas had despite the smarmy little darkie Glissando who this rag adorers, and yet calls with its best demolition saved for from  genuine wizards like Ovid Valentine, cool  and detached, and almost  agrarian , as a city Gods know, as saw him come inhere, seated in the hall to confront  some  other lady  who lunches, some hag, who out down some boxing movie made which didn't have the warmness of say, not only body and soul, from which it was stolen, plagiarism is their biggest swipe at any Italian despite their forefathers living in trees. He was a gypsy there,in a  reverse shine,which sickened me stood there  cooling his heels… Waiting  to ....what ...?,get a recantation...? I saw him strangely anti gleaming there in jesuitical black, away ward or laid or mislay-ed priest ,whatever now making dead end kids films laced with slurs and swears so that over fed white women think him a genius and a like they looking in too an  underworld like  girdle wearing Dantes. I said Wop, disgustingly, under my breath but loud enough which made his black bitumen eyes glare up as he was shocked in what Machiavelli called that frozen moment of realization, but I, his enemy and his ante me all through school, bigger and smarter than he, said nothing, as he is a little snitch  for a reason. I thought , passing the giant cover from 1922 blowup, or was it from 67, does it matter, a think many of the issues were burned when they were found pushing it here for no war in Peoria,and Bund really speeches to not appose Hitler or that Stalin was wonderful, or whatever it was, all those cartoons went up in flames that no one ever  got, falling back to  earth as confusing soot. I felt I have to save Dixie from these horrid people, and that proprietress at Emilio’s too, from the dark manages that are here, left here,the wops, the without papers crowds so different than Continental Italians, which Sardinians to be  more  the Sicilians, and Sicilian  are all that are seemingly here, Calabrian  and Ionin and Lucan and umbrian  in the hinterlands,  they make fun of eagerly where Italians have been seditious  enough to buy homes  in that terrain contactable America named for an Etruscan  city as much as anything. I have to save the  gal who the smart sophisticated Rowan saw walk  away and gave her his number. I walked  past the gumba emeritus to my desk, and sat down.  


After the heedfully dull cocktail party, in  which my disdain, or at least worst than that my un-impessedness of the nest there was sensed by them, as they can sense everything as an insult, As I was the hallowed sainted hallways where light is a commodity as power like paper and ink  costs money, as radicalism does have its incompetents, I walked past the unfunny drawings. I was there amid the painted, hated sometimes parodies, no Mud was this, too as left right us and sanctimonious for mere Roman satire, I stood there, as out of  his office   came Menschie Shelly, with  always  nervous, tricky, smile. He looked at me as if neutrally lost and then  clutched his cut dick,no fooling,his dick, like he was kicked there, as I stood back, wondering if his zipper had somehow turned against  him.He groaned,  and fell to the ground  in wincing pain.I went to get some help, meaning Dixie,as ,she was all I really knew here. So, he seemed to, as  he died  there, to rather than die than  go back to West-port and a dutiful, cold, blond wife, after he, a  Jewish dream, had  a mistress that was carried by Uberman, Herculean of the cold war, Samson of the nuke age. He couldn’t, on some level, go back  to Chesterton stop on the trains,  and taillights, and game rooms, dead schools next to buzzing funeral homes, mobsters in Elbas whose crimes will be visited on children who wanted no part of them, as opposed to, like, the men who took Oklahoma, and Sucrets and leis, and eves,and Jewish wives as ewes, and interiors, and perturbing, preening, to  be a Lateran, or tiring still to to be into golf clubs, where he was irreparably as bad ass a wop like me. He crumbled, it seemed to me, as tried to held him up, as dixie, true to her Sardinian witch creed, that would appeaser those who read the cannon of a Penny dreadful writer held in Victorianism magazines and somehow thought of Ovid as a poet of empire, as she told me to  keep his head up, and not let it fall backwards, lest he be dead, her using some sort of magic taught to Sardanians when Caesars tax men appeared at the sandstone gates.


 

told must redo. 

I held him there, as was on my ass and knees and this older  Jewish gentlemen, for such is the short time I  knew hum what  he was, was lying back,in pain of some sort,but couldn’t or wouldn't tell me what. I gazed into his office ,and there was the cover of a Roman book,blown-up, and made into a print,of generous renaissance figures, dedicated by Apollo, juts as I had thought when saw Dixie at the restaurant remove her outer vestments peeled away, and with them,a dollop of  in vino veratas as she out placed a Mediterranean fellow,but what interviews takes place at restaurants where Jews are allowed,…?.She came out of her office, as a perfect Della Figura ,in dea upkeep  had finery and carrying it off as well as a Caesar,with silent aplomb,the short haired brunette who made her flouncing hair into  a black brown anti-halo was wearing a blue, classic, business suit, the kind with  bows in the covered and yet shape hugging front,and her sightly chubby and delightful Nymphet in the lake, legs where encased in Leggs nylons,and poured into expressible white leather shoes, made by the poor old lady's in Rivieras for a slave owner still allowed, by  name of Gucci. SHE WAS THE ESSCANE OF THE  PRE CHRISTIAN, CERTALY PRE LUTHER, WOMAN, before the Romans dress of the women in that Print, that Id need to ask his son Lenny if we could keep there,  maybe,as she showed what was replaced by the unoriginal Hajab,the nun of Monza brown sackcloth habit. I held his had up as she summed to know what she was talking about from some N’gratti, the Sardinia mob, which has, more than anything been an  italic people less willing to accommodating to  invaders as say the more famous and cartoonish Sicily has been. She, strangely, for a swell , took out a rustic necklace, a peremptorily to the Rosaria of her grandmother, and Dixie prayed  diligent for the soul of the Jewish   man, who was dying here under ironically a carton of a New Amsterdam overly  etiquette elite in the age of Ragtime.

She mumbled some prayer in Cataolian, to  ‘Michel ‘, though it wasn’t to Shelly as much as to the only Catholic saint, Micheal,who was an aspect was Hercules enough to be superimposed in these Italian Angles. Even in this distraught state she was georgeois, and stylish and the essance of the kind of woman that the redhead Gertrude beloved, and that the old biddies of English lit dispraised,and i wondered how she had gotten in,at all, as  noted  to where her dispatcher came ,and too that print of the Roman salon on his wall. I held him up, we both sweaty  now, a large Italian man behind  and  beneath this longer losing  Jewish man,as we had become  an American Pieta that old ladies who lunch would be against, even as late  as new years  day, Romantically speaking, 1972. He couldn't  go back to Westchester, west-port, West egg, wherever,he couldn’t, as I saw looking past hem , befittingly, that print that fat women here would call kitsch, the coever of a copy of  Martial, I think. He, almost pacifically, hit  the rug dead, I just sensed, as Barton raced away, faggily, to be unseen the rest  of the day, as some fags round here can sense they are in some crossbars, as it were,and with a dying utterance  a tsk was heard by me as I tried to held up his head and calm him some, as if this gonnif at the end knew exactly what that sniggering little twit fairy was,all along,and ths just confirmed, as it were,it.And I thought it almost an indiscretion to see this be-speckled jutted Jewish man, would rather die, than be an in  law yet-again, as he after the classic  Girl reporter, he couldn’t go back…who would…? 



Thus began as my life at the Knickerbocker, where copy boy fags bite and mean, and editors feel their eve veils coming apart, as no one ever asked or made the me a management striver, did they. A city  of Trimalcios exists here, a Satyricon with gas stations signs reading  Esso in halo-ween colors instead of statues of Minerva, where Apollos are pictures of Namath on walls, where the sky as seen in renaissance paintings is a predicable gray, as between hating Romans,the Moma opens up weeks devoted to an centurion’s found chariot,and in a painting made with black inks, the only Roman  girl in all ways is the shining pink skinned Sardinian gal, and in comes the pretty dago maid as in  the musical doing a revival on Broadway, holding a silver dish as a Roman reference made alive amid the Grecian gray daily news photographed world. AS I WAS AFFABLE WITH SHELLY, and he saw me as a fellow enthic amid the white trash who thought they were so shirtsleeve literate when telling us all what cowboy books they’d burn this week,but leave the true crime shelf they helped create alone as they do books on the mafia, codes all, I was invited to his funeral, even as a low level staffer.So,perhaps  this was due to my laird Angel, Dixie, who I said, sat there in a Synagogue so reformist it might's well been a Chautauqua  tent,I saw the equally stunning Mistress enter,a scene pithy of the painted figures of that cover,  causing the old biddy blond and her gay son to Kqvell,as she’d say with her picking up Yiddish as spoken by a Brahman’s mouth. I was stoned to see the Mistress come on,but then,that cover of Marital wasn't by accident. How do I explain the sight is a whether in a Synagogue SO BEREFT of Judaica, it might  as  well been are civic center,as poor Shelly was Charon-ed across the  muddy old man Lathe riverboat by a man named  “Rabbi Denny”…? I saw her come in, under exploited orders from Shelley as the Wasp cycle wife's eyes glared with anger at this, and not he’d that and not that her husband  was dead, at all. She looked out with eyes begetting the  queen of ice people, and was blown away by the sight.How do I explain her …?,  the mistress and believed I have been taken of the older man that through  mere guile tunneled his sway into the colony of the middlebrows. She was irresistibly sharp, though rounded, a living Vargas I upstart as she, here, I watched her, she in not necessary black clothing,as that would be too UN- hip and too mob funeral for the perfect  thighs of Shelley’s little chickadee.To explain her well, as am told I am more metric and poetic by some,  at this stuff than they would have thought, or frailty liked as all Times and other rags try to teethe pure at the forth fade level,you see,my weekly reader and Hemingway as touchstones,when one has to pay a cent a word, as they call  everyone an idiot and a goy fool,but then, that self delusion has been at work since Marcus Agrippa,the  first and saddest of Jewish in laws,showing it never works. She was an image of teal and a nuanced,to barrow a word often used in Plautus, as a Circe, in a suit now perhaps more expensive  than anything that  the wife had,why she married a Jew,  I’m sure her kin will never understand, as he was a chancre and a bounder, and  found a pedigreed mistress,  who in fact was from a retailer and more socially meaningful family, as her being in things like “its a bird, its a plane, its Uberman!,” as a perfected new Phyllis Coats,as Chloe Kane, or 2 rms Rv vw with Pauley Provolone, was a sincere lark,as she came from a family to whom the blond hag and  her handsome son, the fairy ,Leonard, were riff raff. She eclipsed  the part of  mistress, here, with one stance,as she looked  like a starlet around now,a woman prettier  than most of the hags that Hollywood puts out there,God knows,a character actress, meaning she can actually act, who looked much like her named Kim Hunter,who was the gal we all adored in the ragged swimsuit with Heston in the planet that went ape. She was that pretty,a Wonder-lass  amazon sort, and  know I knew what made Shel will himself across the Styx,rather  than retrun to the impure rooms and the sub urbae located death, where that her lover is with either  dead or retired to his wife, dutifully as a geisha husband must. Poor gone Shelly, I thought, perhaps, Id give that lovely brunette,shining to that older hag’s distress,  a few pews and some self imposed caste system rungs away from me, as she glimmered in a fox stole and a hat worthy of MGM in its heyday.Bless your soul,Shell ,I said half aloud,Himmmm, that you couldn't go back to the ruins of new Rochelle and the  quiet blood sport there,a Jew to the end,there was one last Jew in Westchester ,and I think he was the  better for it. He had to disavow the alumina sided baths of editors life, , as his sort  must, so, Id give pretty Leslie Ann-Kim here,a call and see if shes alright, and Im not sure a Romans satirist  is what a magazine this in love with itself was oking for me to come here to be, with out crossing any Trojan bridges.


Written on 21-27 April 2018, on Kingsoft Word Processor.




UPDATE:

IN COLD INK.

A NICE LITTLE boom of acceptances, from again more gals than not, as my Roman goddesses have gone a a long way easily with some women who sneered through the hostage crisis known as Hillary for whatever it is this time. One gal named Crystal liked my Roman goddess Libertina very much, and accepted it for her magazine, and another Italian woman liked one of the Vestals of a  few Ive gotten in, and both accepted my clipboard bio, saying my life was shanghaied irrevocably by two Italian masterpieces,the note books of Leonardo and miss alabaster January 1981 Patty Fairinelli,beloved girl,  Beatrice of the stapled stomach. This was interesting, it was accepted by gals as it was, as couldn't use that Bio for something some ninny accepted, a comic, as it was seen as just too much in me too land,as somehow  Little Italian boys dreaming of a glossy paged pin up,most of all, non blond Beatrice, as miss Portinari WAS, that was preferably what was too much, as I sneered back,and though am addicted to the resume,told him to buzz off.  No line of Ariel 8 point type is worth that.

The dying nation is really laying it on thick, now that Bill Clinton untimely death or perceptual marriage whatever, a mayonnaise sanctimony that is strange coming from people who pretended to vote for Bill Clinton twice ,but then he pretended to have read Sallust so, were even.Wont go  into it all now, but also got a chapter of OCOPILLRS allocated in a shady, threadbare, pulp paper unowned by war profiteroles,a literary journal, as did the re chapter did as a boy ,what else is new…?, about A Confederacy of dunces,again I take the stories like that one and Jefferson street Joe, and Kitty Gensoeve, the eons polite Companies like to act like never happened, and I try too get something operatically vulgar, Dantes words of it, again wont examine it,juts managed how a asinine rag that now lards itself with innuendo and vulgarity,  you are who you follow, Maureen, Like and Like,like,go therefor, and the hatred shown for Marcus Aurelius dunt execrable help, a magazine that now has a daily smear, meet the Daily dirt…!,low elver household Jews and thugs, Hollywood husbands caught doing a perpwalk as a perverse Palladio, who gloried in their like of woman,how dis-spartan of you, we are all fags off to find teh holy grail, as Peace is unattnable when war owners can make this much.Well, as I made clear recalling the Tom Snyder show with his, Tooles  Mother on, having been given a prise for his vigilante comic gem,far even then, too Roman, too Petronan, to Juvenal, too backstair satire,  for a nation that would end up with some hack which got his career gifted to him by LouisCK, acting like a crass  mix  between Javeiere and Cassius, but not as funny as either. A written novel masterwork,that became a will and signet ring, a prize given to it as if coins on his eyelids for Charon,  I was appreciated more than they'd think lately, admired ,lest say,  to recall when the new Yorkie was not only not a oily, over  used, gas smelling,  garage  rag, revealing in blue vulgarity,but when it made the great John Kennedy Toole, a living then master, jump through so many purposeful hoops hed killed himself , see what I said about bleeding on a Saturday night, something tells me old smarting creeps like Little Stevie, will, like Louis, will just fade away,…as happens in my Clay Roman BOOK.This is all me not going into it, but again,there is a audience for roman everything,see, say what you  like, but that Chariot going  no-wheres, but dullsville, as opposite to blond Seinfeld Sethie, who has never caught on.  As he would have without fake and real Italians to always get the laughs. Also, was informed of this nice boom time, that what put me over the top, what placed the thumb on the scales of my bologna, despite seventies slurs so heinous to some, who call themselves  satirists now, and are bleeped on cops shows and yet not on a fag farce that has alas even with miss Mullallay, has gotten on my nerves, it was was a gal at the literary magazine, seeing, as she was reading the death of Shelly on my blog, I do get audiences dont I though, after having read the chapter  called Requiem,the one about Calvino vs Marquez,-- like Virgil I play with time,-- She, again almost always a she,saw on her twitter people talking about how Maccers was in fact planning his own funeral, like the famous scene in that book, I MENETONED,tres Trimalchio, and she said if any time needed a Roman satirist, it was now, and she accepted my work.That pompous little rag well, instead of actually admitting it had something shameless done, something boring this way came, editors playing a game my parents warned me of long ago, that somehow a magazine could sneer at Ignatius Reilly and then turn abound and generate Fatal visions when it was lashing Robert Blakes performance in in cold blood, they got even by somehow taking a book written by this man at 16,and trashing it fully, so there, and the take that !, you rumpus roomed hanger ons are always looking for, anyway. Oh,I was the only one who wrote better, or at least more your accountable way, when I was 16,but then read the Manzoni you dont even bother to demean much. Another is reading OCITIESOPILLARS the ordinal, to differentiate it from my burgeoning novella, have re-titled FOR GORE VIDAL.Also have eschewed W&G and cutaneous Frazier too see Cavett again, in mid century, a strangely hated time now,when the queers weren't all dying like in Boccaccio, I noted.  So, to paraphrase beloved Gore Vidal, as the editor, she read Petronius in college, and loved it as opposed to books like THE GALS BURN NOW, it seems not only am I doing well, but my enemies, or at least all those I hate,all so seem to be failing.