10 May 2013


1. I have never felt so much a dereliction, even a desecration of Duty as I have the past few years, Obama the imagined and the Rachel Maddow dancers making sure that the the American public was dammed and decayed, while of course the drones went merrily, hummingly, brokenly along.

I see where the Boston Bomber is alas buried, but in redder state Virginia, as his very copse was somehow polluting the blue testimonies state where the holy sea of Chappaquiddick, was, where the noble white folks live, far afoul of the holy family of Gore’s, but then, As these things have happening to always blow up ironically in the face of these sanctimonious, as Machiavelli warned of, after all, the Boston Bomber is buried in Virginia, but then so is Son O’  God comics himself, sweet prince himself, Arthur of the always grasping needing Irishmen Brahman, JFK. Of course this was done quietly, in Obamanation we slip our corpsmen into holes when no one is looking, lest anyone recall when this whole thing began as an anti war sentiment, showing that Pogo Was right, and Clean Gene was if not on the wrong horse, tide in the wrong directions.

Your first mistake, in this attempt at False flag patriotism, was the round robin of Jews gleefully making up shit like Yetta Bloomberg, suddenly all sorts of intell coming from a man with no throat,  alas Tiberius at the lake. Second biggest mistake in this era of paranoia was too much Inky Dinky Puttie put put put, and the Czar who literally looks like the riddler and his black stare of death was too much for lamebrains, who still recalling when Moscow delenda est, well, the KGB corporal was a bit much as his own people now raise up against him, as what happens when one is seen too closely to Obama. No good deed goes unpunished.

2. The past few weeks have made me as sad as I have ever been about my choices or lack thereof in life, as strangely, we are getting the replica of salo one would expect when Fox and MissNBC get their talking heads from the same choir. But then I know all I need to know when some drone called Catiline a foolish demagogue, a word the lefties break out of their belle jar, like their love deep down of war when they as the Italian phrase goes hold the whip, the center fight of all politics. I feel bad as a unmade Jesuit, having turedn my back as much’s anything on the brothers, even my own father, a deep seeded cowardice more than some hipsterism I put on as the center piece of this effect. As I note where does America go for truth anymore, Rodger Mudd, and the boys when I was a kid, are gone, now so much as mere shadows on a Paddy Chayefsky satire, that like all satires was closer to the truth than anyone pretending they spoke the truth.

I feel bad as an unmade Jesuit, in that isn’t it funny right at the precise moment that there seemed to be a moratorium on the death penalty, not important to me, as an Italian, I knew even if caught at anything, we can always plead down to the hellish but living death which is being dropped into venial Arizona. At that perceive moment thought, Fox and now even and tactility the Erkle's collected at liberal television, a wholly owned subsidiary of the war inc, don’t let laughing lesbians fool you, seemed to make a effect of Prosecutorial televising, really, one Trapea after the next as our bloated pig of Justice, Nance, click and clacks in stiletto heels down the hallways of the damned, sure she had to get what she is convinced of as justice and her own show on secondary cable channels. Now it is in her latest posing and midnight ride, another woman found in Madam’s web, or dragnet, this woman Jodi, who committed the greatest crime, raising a hand at a mannish sleazball, unspoken of killing the anal king, some hair gelled Kardashian in law looking closet boy, please don’t make me cry for GEE QUE over here, I have seen the hair product boys of the closeted since a boy, and never thought they would ever become a victim of the imperious chore, and boys there of, but Nancy 'The milk train doesn’t stop here any more' Grace, who learned her Law from cut ins and fade outs from Hee haw, knows no bounds nor shame, not grace even as she snarls at the camera ala Lucy. And now, the peanut gallery of closeted everything’s, as Capote and the nuns referred to the white trash and the Negros they enslaved, all cry for guillotines, which make the rest of us feel ever so cleaned and holy, if not like taking a line out of Unkie Shumah, rather than Machiavelli, being admired for one vices isn’t so much a symbol of evil as it is just shamrt Business.

And now, no less a television city monster than Baba O'reilly wishes to somehow do some slight of hand for us all, and the supposedly conservative television outlet is pushing for the making of any gun crime a federal offense, no less, meaning that someone could be sent to a maximum security prison, now as privatized as war, at Statesville for kicking over a gas station, no twelve angry men here, or only angry without a Fonda as the unmanned Juror 8. We passed the liberal Jews of playhouse ninety, the ones who invented Marty, long ago, and now have nothing but the ones who fulfilled their American dream by having cousin Jonnie come out and pay lip service to then liberal ethics, all the while making sure that enough war hawk Republicans like Mac Kane were sufficiently given bribes enough to administer one Arab war after the next, the six day variety something only the sons of Passover allowed themselves as we fester at the walls of illuim, or Bactria as the case may be. Now, Deputy Fife wishes for every gun crime to be a federal offence, like the jokes, but such is decline and fall, something one would expect from on the pad Sister Of saffo like Rachel. You know, common sense and for the Folks. Ah but if fifth grade taught me anything, it is that all imperialists and epically fascists are hiding something, one can not be a fascist at easy in come se come sah Italy, the land of live and let live and who cares, one can not really be the sort of blacked shirted thug ala O'reilley, unless one is a closet queer or a drug addict or both. See Shumah above. This entails the Italians own dark arts and slight of hand, if not basis of all farce, one must not believe their own lies, but must be devoted to them, much like the catholic priests who as I had as a boy, had Jesus on the wall, but Virgil in their bookshelves and Ovid in their hearts. 

3. Speaking of which it was nice to see our Buddy Roman Bill appear all Kemeter like, out of the soot of the Obama administration , AND I MEAN SOOT, fires have been attracted to Our Darius as now men lose their lives and errant just destroyed in the much more baloney Anthony Weiner way. I found it a telling mark of Bill’s Roman art, Roman art works in the fall of America, that the day before The Benghazi hearing, still a farce to Rachel and anyone else who wonders why more time was taken about Arabs having under wear packed on their heads than you new heroes Seals dying, our hero Roman Bill made sure he was on the record to signora Fortuna or the dead Jesuits spinning from the empyrean to do the work of Father Janus, that yucycukycuk, Hillary being mentioned as a future president…, its almost laughable to him. Nice to see you back, bubba, again you are too hip for the room, especially this coven. But Benghazi despite the term farce sued by talking points on GE theater, it wont go away, I speak fluent Byzantine. Bill will make sure of that, as it recalls in us all excitedly how that Lucretia does bring a shit storm resounding her like a reverse Beatrice, this time surrounded by daemons and Jew layers affidavits and writs of nolo contrere, like a Streisand, and too, her demander was irritating to the praetorians of state. What does it matter...?,  isn’t a credo to go to war with, one unless one is merely providers of material, who bill by the drone, and the hour to no real end. Her saying that this didn’t matter bothered the same Jews who are still suspicious of her as kisser of Arafat’s wife, secrete terrorist lover, dreaming of being lion of the desert romantic in ways the bag man Bamboo never was, so watch for this to get bigger and for praetorian to suddenly demand and wonder what is truth, always a bad day in new or old Rome. Plautus, a favorite of Master Clinton calls this foreshadowing, and was like Terence a master at roman books that make Greek shit look like insufferable droning. There is a  reason that Bill Bennett’s book of virtues, despite the Romantic Title, was stock full of Greek thought, and one can always guess what that is.

I am the Romantic in ways that bothers the white trash cunts and effeminate men of Engelterra, who preen a fidelity to Carthagfe I note, now that Europe has avoided the great black master Hannibal, as it had, subsuming Romans as it bulwark again, and see it is called the Roman fight there a holocaust, a loaded word, meaning the dead were more important by definition than Turkish Armenians or Italics at Sabinopolis. I think the true Roman Holocaust, I might say, just Being an Italian and all, and not a good white woman, was Veii, a city three times older than Carthage, like say Thuga…oh you didn’t know about burnish bronze, old man…? See, in fact, not in fact available at Ancient Romance, as was three years back, taken out by an editor as a bummer, so now I know where your sympatici  do on your siding scales really abide. Tell this English faggot what Veii was someone, as I was about to leave such a message, but revise I must get over this concept of pagination's, as it does me no good.

Enter --Plautus!

4. And late at night, Instead of hearing any more about the perils of Hillary, she really picked up nothing from the master, I watched espn and a documentary they did about Bo Jackson. I found this touching, and giving into my already burning fevers of nostalgia, and Bo was a superman of the early days, and was a human elk, running like an anthropomorphosis creature on the early Etruscan fairy tales found by me, and which I wished to make my Betrothed and my Italian faubula. Bo was a Roman statuary, like the Hercules found and tagged and cataloged in new Judah now, a Hercules of a man, who yet had the grace and speed of usual prima donna running back, ala Barry and Gayle, but with the gravure and heart of Emmett and Jim Brown, a combination not much seen. I loved Bo, as he was A Raider, like the word snetaor that menat somnething once, and an antisepsis to the awful stealers and their polish hills of sanctimony when the Cowboys were falling part, and it is now said, the venial Pete Roselle went out his way to make sure Cowboy and raider trades were vacated, showing the seeds if the spy gate that would come later, but which those of us who read North Dallas forty had an inkling. On the show a house fag named Greenberg spoke, almost decently and without much of his green eye shade act, free of the Nance act that Nathan Lane has never brought himself to, in how Bo is a creature of having to have been seen, like Roman centuria who were known and are known now only by the banners that have been found of appointed frescos of  herculean men in rubble, as to this day we still place  up silk banners to champions, no less than does curiously Jerry Jones, to recall the feats of glory done by men lost to echoes now not even reverberating amid the broken walls of imperial ruin.

Uh, gosh, I thought of this as not a image to see as I am racked with guilt to and of the men who died alone and unnoticed, while perhaps Rachel was telling others in the cafeteria at Oxford what a liberal she was before the undergraduate mixer. Was Old CS still alive then, acting as if a guide to the Italians genius, at least better than was dismissive and yet plagiarizing Tolkien. It was new years 1982 when I got that letter back telling me I was being reread and reevaluated by the gatekeepers when there was still agate at Harper Collins about what would become Big Bertha, I have still have yet to leave my teen years, somewhat like Archie, alone, as I keep going back to find any sheared of that lost civilisation of an America I cant recognize anymore.

I recall wondering what this had in store for me, as one of her last acts for and to me, my beloved and disappearing sister bought me a gold edged diary to recall and remember any trip to her beloved new York I would take, which would never come, like so much else I never did or completed or attempted. Bo now gleamed on the LCD screen, a screen whose colour has always been off putting to cathode use to me, but I recalled these nights of the Human Gazelle as he strode heroically and blazingly, a symptom of Al Davis dark Machiavellian genius, in ways that his rival Hershel never deemed willing to ever much do, I more like Herschel, why I hate him, sadly too gifted to not take it for granted, unwilling like Bo to know anything about anything, and not even like Walker to be about at least for a paycheck as he always mercenarily was. How could the Cowboys gifted with this some kind of monster not had been given a resurgence, now seven or so years away, --why as I knew then, because Tom Landry knew there were certain things that the American  Buffalo Hershel would not and could not do. Like say Block-- allowing a journey man named Steve Puller to be side swiped as she stood there, oh don’t tell me –I saw it live, Hrershellll--Hoisehalll, you don’t know diddley, and which was why the always keen and Giucciardini cool and clever and agronomist like and southern lawyer Jimmie Johnson knew Hershel, when he was asked to block for Playmaker Michael and didn’t, had to Go and fast, quickly as there was this boy in Florida who would run through fire, ohm they all call me Speedo but my real name is Emmett Smith,….So, Bo here was a misty recollection of a lost ages, especially, as it came concurrently with a thug named Ortiz who was putting on a assault on DiMaggio’s hitting streak, this after we knew he was with the A-Roid, one of Big Antinee’s supplement junkies. 

Bo, who had I learned the familial name Vincent, --how perfect this creature had a roman named and not a misspelling of Dante, as niggers need not give dignity to anyone as long as they Vote Quimby or at least Shumah, was a recollection of better tries, by me, and of a better earth than the woeful one seen now. By the by, who called this land an archipelago of Torture Castillo’s years back…? Like Bo, I know stuff too. I know Manzoni, and again as I said to a white woman, the Jesuits arbiter of bad taste, I love Italy certainly of Kemeter and Turan , the blond farcical demon, shades of Yakoob, still flying there somewhere in the Vatican library that collects the ash every word of Tuscan thought unburned in its archivio, and I love Italy of the supreme tyrant, the Innominato, who espouses too on Bill Clinton’s favourite books to Maureen’s dismay if she even knows who he is, and I adore Italy as there is where the conversion scenes are dogma, if not canonical, not here. Here the torture Castillo’s that the allergic to Evil Manzoni could not bring himself to, unlike the equally brilliant Leopardi to describe or in Salo, shown, still, here they are hidden within the McDonalds streets until broken upon and in comes Mary Poppins herself Anderson Pooper to stand amid the brat eaters and twinkle amid the turnpikes towards shaker heights. Like his hero Temp, Obamaluch, he Para-shoots in and candy man can cus, he sprinkles it with love and makes the world taste good, as his emotions spurting at the lenses, alike a gay porno cum, or spittle when Jewry Jonnie interviews Newt.

Bo is a recollection to me of the similar time, the early nineties when I was hep enough to catch Seinfeld with Maria before any of you, --she is a genius at pop culture I cannot be, and met the Lovely Gracie herself Leslie, both I thought similar in stature, as she and Bo were akin to my drawings come to life. I am a sucker for the Italianate, in man and woman and both mirrored this and tugged at my perpetual apprenticeship heartstrings. Like the Pinocchio ethic that goes back to Ovid, like King Kong, Freud and almost everything else, they were living embodiments of my arts, in the same way I was attracted to Bill Clinton as If he had jumped fully formed off my long winded Italian folktales, the Machiavelli with a smile, the smirker with a  knife, the highway man per excellence. This wasn’t the day for it, but after I had seen Bo, I was out of paper, at least good paper at elast Paper, that I wanted to use, and being ill, have allowed my Brother to go on various sojourns for me, lest I actually have to place on pants again, as have been in shorts all day for a while. He was asked by me to go to a local store and buy a Card Stock, but a particular kind, with some grab to it, as the four reams of hp copy paper I have seem to be wanting to me and my previously described arts. I thought he was calling when I answered the phone, watching Seinfeld again I am knee deep in nostalgia as the disease It was meant to be, and I heard on the other line the shy bitchy cool if not cold but slightly warm breathy silence of the ice queen herself. I hate to answer the phone if its her-- as I feel I have given in or am losing a point to her, --so much for a strike for mental heath. But today I was not in the mood, as it seemed to go on a while, for her, is quick on her overacted trigger finger, and I almost told her to go back to her stinking suburban life, whatever kids she had, whatever life she led, as this road back to Laurentium, to this day seen as the Italians Eldorado, well It was closed for repairs. My ability to make her feel less like the hurried housewife she wished all along to become, my open road back to where the spiders built their nests, back to the catalos of crossed destinies more than the torture Castillo’s of Anderson Copper, well, Hun, leave me alone and lessa me pace, as Ma would say, and I, shlub in her own definition of me, has started to tire of the wonder girl with the roman coin colored eyes of Tuscan saffron, like eyes I had not seen outside of my own woodworking novellas. I have to keep this line open, doll, I SAID, AND CLICKED OFF, sad that I had to but I knew that my brother was calling soon enough to make sure that what I had chicken scratched out on a slip of paper, --card stock--, but with some tooth, was what the clerk had given him,  instead of the construction paper white he had bought, as he is never sure what the hell I am talking about.

04 May 2013


I tried to post this to Maddow Blog, but either the length or something else, didn’t allow it to go through, so I place it here.

Rachel Dear, though now am castigated by the herstory lesbo crowd that in fact, when I was  a boy, the nuns adored me for having taken their most hated saint, Maria Goretti, and trashed her as a symbol of all which as evil and vicious, with her legs crossed for the lord. That somehow, these nuns adored me for having trashed this wanabe Lucia, and that I spared her nothing, thinking I could use this to get out of confirmation, which I kind of had a distaste for, instead they thought I was brilliant, as sister Celia told me as kid, after a while sanctimony, as like a virgin for Jeyzus, or the black man in the back playing Caesar, this from a Franciscan nun no less, gets on everybody’s nerves. My, if not admiration for her rapist, but at least my inclination to defend him in the Latin then taken from priests, and given wholly to house Jews, was in their words, a good showing of my training, and was Ovidian. Writer as psychoanalyst, something they thought, like magic realism, the Italians had invented. Like how lucky you are that GE doesn’t make a fortune selling guns. I knew we were fucked when the special guest villains like Rudy and Ridge gave way to Larry David Jewry human punch lines, scruffy Jew doormen who glare behind ray bans at the gallows, who don’t mind blacklists as long as they never end up on them. A good primer to recall.

But despite the anvil chorus being played for 12 days by winsome and Abfab Andy Pooper--its nice to know we have become so tolerant that even a Vanderbilt can get ahead --deecline!--still a shock poll came out amid the sanctimony only Boston can show, and in fact now 75 percent of Americans fear tap dancing Erkle and his arcade of human filth passavanate than they do the Arabs. Who would have guessed that, besides me of course. Passavante always seem as engendering hatred, they always do as you’d think praying stragea Pollozzo now desperate the Hillary be queen next, we are setting up popes as Dido starts to waste away to nothingness, not hold an imperial grudge, Should have known. I do find it funny and quite de- humanizing, though not to those who hurl the invective again Machiavellian readings lists have their residue, as how human filth little short haired jack Russel lesbians, now on these same side with a human troll called Gutfeild, who punch lines for grace, make it so easily seen how inhuman their enemies are. This made me think, isn’t it funny how now suddenly the station that was derailing the black list only weeks ago, their triumphs , like their Russian masters are a feeble almost Persian lot--well now finds no problem in de- humanizing all these Arabs, no less than fat porcine liberals, Elks club emeritus,  like loser for hire Mike Douglas looking pols on Fox making common cause with the aforementioned giggling Nazi textbook Gutfeld. Like Gandalphini, like Capote way back when the Gore in me thinks that on some level, Gutfeild gets ahead because deep down, the little Foxes are ever so sure he was what they wish for Jews to be.


As their Arabesque poverty is an act of God, or Yahweh, like their hooked noses or sweaty glands, in how we can always castigate Arabs and look for terrorists under every rock, with Madame Lucretzia herself Napolitano, mob wives made good, with big ankles and I, the jury Charm, as we never seemed allowed to see communists under each rock and made fun of those who did. Gutfelt and Shaggy Isakoff both waving the flag at the same time…? Too Monica for me, as they send out higher level Jews now when the principate wants a show trial, --count me out, doc, --that’s OUT. Poor Rudy, he now goes about Harold Stassen ish, deep down like Scalia knowing how venial these savages be, but is too late in life to find a new shtick, now that its has enshrined him a coal mine at the end of the rainbow. So, isn’t it funny how now paranoia rules the day, when It didn’t with Murrow who was being instigated by blood stained William Paley, to get the drunken Irishmen with an eye for the boys who is all in all Bostonian Charley's intellectual godfather. And true godfather to RFK, but who brings that up, fags writing plays about Roy Cohn…?, you wish. Ah, but Jews aren’t Terrorists, you know outside of Goldman Sacks, so this time, three sheets to the wind and kill em, kill em all, as Gutfeld true to his inner creed chases after Kimberley, despite her being non blond, she is white enough and the common cause with Imus white trash Irishmen, as both do, both finally glad there is somehow someone to spit downwards at.

And now the city of the tuck rule and the bloody sox shows its almost genitive instinct for virulence and blarney again, as no funeral games place shall take the body of the Russian anarchist, a first in civilization if Not in Irish fairy tales. Ill bet! Something tells me the state shall pay for a Viking send off, lest we find out the nagging feeling all have, as I was listening to the play by play when John Batchelor spoke live of how Brother number one was naked on the asphalt, before the fat bloated stooge cops--this was a better America when we called you Pigs, and again, no castigation, I was the one at nineteen who wrote a book that someone at Harper Collins called the equal of Wambaugh, accusing me if I was a cop. No, but my grandfather was, … a carbineeri. Hello….? And I was listening as he was taken out and stripped, I love it when things get Spartan, by the strangely crouching tigers of the hidden dragons of SWAT, Ted Baxter’s favourite show for a reason, and then suddenly he was dead, run over by his soulless brother, as you see, as that sort, like Niggers implied don’t feel love like white people do, maybe not Germans, which causes me to ask, wait a minute, you let the other brother stay in car as the first was being wrestled to the ground, and couldn’t see where this was headed, ah but then these Irish cops were are dealing with, who certainly didn’t find Whitey that fast. To quote the dread fag hating Bill Moyer’s, even the Romans allowed the Etruscans to bury their dead, ah, but this was what you get when the people of the Canaanite campaign feel their oats. Livy explains that so furious was the killing at Cumae, wherever, that Hannibal left so many corpses that Vultures were throwing up on the carrion, but that must be wrong, so say white girls who just love their help and surrogate nannies.

I thought it was funny that I must have been listening to ESPN, Fan radio at night, as in the bright morning, I heard the dulcet tones of Bill Benet, decrying with his fellow boys  about how this Stanley Kowalski  sort had gotten a one time Vassar like feminist to fall for him and his brutal almost --yes he said it in my fog, Neapolitan charm. Something around the lips. But one of your white women wrote a book about how some gumba was the first man amid the sissy boys to give her an orgasm, that Eucharist of white girls. And he was upset, showing I was right when listening to John, a bit taken back by Terrorist one being stripped completely naked, as their has been a sexual component to the barbarian creed since way back. He was upset this girlie man, the fat bloated Murican male, sad that some Emily Lawrence collegiate shicksa had fallen for both the brutal man, and brutal Islam, must have daddy issues he said, or a Neapolitan grandfather somewhere back always, as perhaps she wasn’t looking for always prom less Gutfeld, but instead, one of Marc Antony’s here was a man. Not Gutfeild, his god and he knows deep down, as everything is sixth grade to his ilk. For those of you keeping score, if not with percentage points and bottom leans as does Gutfeldt, always looking for the next joke to fall flat,that puts us at the right of --listen  up you vestal mustached talking women lovers of Homer, as in that book not gotten to by me until public school to show what Jesuits wrought, doesn’t Priam, is it Priam…?, the Greeks are Greek to me, like Vespasian, the father of later Roman Aeneas, wishes to have his son Hector’s body back, Achilles’--that’s Achilles everyone, gives in, as there be rules to this all, which no noble savage nigger, no Irish drunkard or flush with glory Yid joke machine would ever understand between the sucker punches. And the shock poles showing that all human action has a thousand strings of what is unspoken coming off of it. A note; I met this lunchy arbiter of all which is trite--sorry Virtuous, when at a bookstore in Pittsburgh, and was buying the complete Ariosto, and Italos Calvino's tarot book. Unprodded by me, he explained that he wasn't big on Ariosto, and of course the dreaded Cervantes was better, as was the awful Borges to Calvino, somehow, as the closer to Englishmen, high school Spanish shit, translators always are. Cervantes is a pimp, I said, unamused, unwilling to play middlebrow with her highness, and exclaimed, --true story--, Vir is the ancient Italian word for Man, as it was my forebears, who knew to be virtuous was to act like a  man. He glared at me with his jelly fish eyes, as I walked outwards with unpaid for marvel comics

I am off to free comic book day and have a yearning to buy something Wally Wood had to do with, like All star comics. Get this Kirby taste out of my soul. Maybe a Heavy Metal from the old days I saw last time when I knocked over a dc comics chess board, but the guy there has taken a kind of liking to me and didn’t make a federal case out of it. Perhaps next shall be the Black knight, when there was a rule to such warfare, before the laughters found their greatest invention, the drone, allowing them a warm place in which to cry and war yell.


02 May 2013


26 March 2013

1. In reading about the disaster that is the DC new fifty two, as the Marvel now impact was lessened by Uncle Stan lawyering up and telling Marvel in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t going to some phantom zone where the national compilers and the democrats send the non people, who are UNNECESSARY feti or the victims of drones shown when they are in power, I saw the words that defined comics for me now.

I have had an unsure almost queasy reaction to comics book’s, having left them sanely back in at least 1995, when I was sending out work and a distinguished Gentlemen from DC, saw my work, and called it praiseworthy, …as long as done by someone else. I would never be seen on the pages of a dc or marvel comic, the white haired Jewish man abide me, not to be mean, just that I was hardly what they, he said with some distain, were looking for. He saw that my under drawings were as good as any, but the bloated men, the Herculeans, the wonder women of a Neapolitan heritage, this was not DC stuff. And he added, its wouldn’t be. But the word sued at one of the comic websites was that the superman of old had been brought down, remade, refigured and configured by Grantee poo, into something that fit not the bad ass of Jerry’s whooshing need for revenge and a champion, but instead was too much like our without empathy age. That captioned comics books perfectly, and too did fit our valued employees to a T. Did I ever tell my Jim Shooter story…? It always shuts up the snerds who wished to act like I didn’t know what I was talking about. I have known what I as talking about since ten, when on a show called Saturday night live-- with Howard Cosell, Howard went into the audience and introduced two old men who had made Superman, and were now, then, were living in poverty. The men who created Superman, Jewish immigrants children behind the golden door, ended up in poverty, the heirs trying desperately to gain some crumbs from this magical iconic character, from the house of the Warner Brothers, which suits America to a T, don’t it…? Perhaps Al Kida has a point, but then these Semites biggest mistakes was in not seedling their souls to the Principe as their cousins the Jews did, although I am sure with Jerry Siegel as a guide, they too will eventually get theirs. Well join you all soon enough Joe! I saw something that night that told me more than a thousand nuns, about America, lost and found, what it was and what it wasn’t , and how somehow you could cerate Superman, up there with Mickey Mouse and Dante, an  incarnate image of their nations, and still end up in Shwartzland, --with nothing.

One of my big regrets is breaking the tide of some attention I was getting especially for a script called Roman Mythology, which had the great trifecta of then been dammed and censored by Zoetrope, Project green light, trigger street and a few other sites, But which soprano fatigued Jews found a wonderful satire of both America and the gangster film, which was strange coming as it did while Pollock’s were pretending to be wops were literally shitting on television.

[NOTICE: The Superman now wears a one piece blue unitard, with cape attached to the breastplate ala a centurion. The hair is now seventies puffy, with Gregory Peck bangs; I think they are called, falling into his eyes. Wonder woman now is more of a voluptuary, in a bodice and one peace, a bouffant with curls at the neck, thick thighs and two single stars, framing her crotch. And yet both look interestingly infantilised in Kirby land, in ways my creatures never do, as a certain faggy dimension is brought here, no fault of Lee, but necessary to a culture that thinks Batman would just have to be able to beat Superman, using gloves made of kryptonite, the equivalent to making Superman a bull whose neck muscles have been severed, and batfart back in his usual place as prancing dancing matador, in Mouse ears, and is a new coyote--did I use that right, a male cougar that preys on the new off the bus…?, --that makes slim look like a danger to children.]

This was a Jesuit like lesson as I have never forgotten, as when one is capable and worst of all sanitised, there is no depths they may not sink, sulfur as a sacrament, Satanism for dummies, and if one dares to bring the white women censorious class down a page, as did Gore and others when I was a boy, such is alkaloid in the dying empire where women are even willing to share with you some of their husbands if you are a once dirty and filthy fagot. Ah, but as the nun told me as  a boy who hated white women even more than the priests did, the only romantic thing ever written for most of these women who hate Romeo and Juliette for its lack of a womanish approved ending, is their abortion bills. I let this all go and for quick résumé lines, the résumé is sacrosanct and a bit dusty now adays, I swerved and went too close to the inferno of Kirby dregs called comics.

2. For all their pretences of comics as literature that was big then, as Kirby had become their Raphael, which was amusing to me as a boy I recall Kirby being liked mostly by marvellettes who spoke of smoking at ten, had dirty fingernails and who it was repotted that they tortured animals in the dark and dank woods, which called out to them, like pixies and or lesbians, and where they hid most of the day outside of school. I was shocked by the ascendancy of Kirby, as knew from art school encounters that dc was not found of Jack the hack, who pushily made people know how good he as in ways his mere  art by which you’d never tell, as this was the hack who could not bring himself to draw Superman as heroic, not even allowing the spawn of Shuster to have the basis heroic qualities of his mister fantastic, or was that Bowie...?, who he like so many faces frozen at least close to a kind of Rock Hudson attitude, sottovoce elements not withstanding or allowed by our rabbi of the four colour bullshit pamphlet.

I was also shocked by the lack of grace they all had in comics Chudland, these submariners in all ways types. They seemed vicious more so than most of the kids I had met in arts school a decade prior, like the sad and depressed blond kid with glasses who drew like a mother fucker, and would give me an occasional smirk for something’s said by me funny, which was more than he gave most and who I take it had it bad for Lesley but was smarter enough never to bring it much up. The comics hags and fags of 2007 wow they were a grimy lot, mean and savage in that way that would give us the dying imperious of Onmabalauch, and they seemed for all their Warhol pricked-ness, devoted to every thing Stan Lee had ever done, but hated him too, as he somehow stole everything from the aforementioned Kirby, who did nothing before Stan, except try to steal Captain Marvel, this I know, and thus made Captain America, as a Jewish nightmare that was what superman had been if not for those two Jewish kids having loved Roman strong men like Hercules, and a book called gladiator, which as I have said informed even comics and a sweet Broadway musical It’s a Bird…It’s a Plane…It’s Superman. Down to the type of cape, shield, and boot allowed by national comics on Action comics number one, the only one worth a damn. Not only is Teri as Phyllis Coats as Lois Lane,  not on the air anymore, sadly, but Lois Lane,  based on the girl that Jerry Siegel liked as a kid, as if that matters, has been somehow relegated to non person, as Jim Lee, whose work seems to be drenched in a Clinton era vulgarity, as opposed to vitality, sees the promise in Superman and Wonder woman as some sort of Rhineland operatic nightmare. The twilight to Valhalla comes early, or late, as Alan seems to have been the Virgil that helped define their ’literature’, like white women I must reduce myself to the snide air quotes of the page to say what I mean without having to say it, and vulgarly, the steroids of youthfulness they have made into seventy year old figures is off putting, if not insulting, but then somehow the ghost of Jack Warner and his ilk have bought up everything, why not the icons of America too, and they’ll push this shit with their pushcart souls and dna aplomb.  

Even as a boy when Mister Stupendous was first made, with an enemies list cared of people called then still generically Steel man, Ratman and Ms. Amazon, only the third taking hold, even then, the story of Miss Annie being tired of then called Definition comics, or something, so the letters dc could predominate, and her having witnessed the killing of Moscone, coming so soon near John Paul the first made my father think that America was going to get what it deserved as he saw it as the essence of all vulgarity and evil,--oh sorry does that put me on a watch list now…? Even Cicero said the first causality of war is truth, and he was a on the pad GE complier of his time. Sometimes the truth is where you see it. But, even then, as a boy, --do I go back over finished MS and rename the caricatures the generic names again, with white out and cut papers, do I ever finish anything…?--Jack Kirby disliked by me even then, was the Satan in this dank Styx water, around which the universe spun, like Dante’s, which says what we Jesuit students are taught deep down to think of the earth, and to people who think the world revolves around them, stint a compliment. But in this schoolboys dream of Herculean power and duty, which I am sure can and has been dismissed within the Batman days of now as somehow misconnect, the wooden  boy was made not a son but a hero, a turn of Roman events even the Franciscans thought clever of me, again not yet a pejorative in coppaols world, even Jack Kirby arose as the demonian here, the evil figure, the Jewish villain unallied now as they roll their eyes at just the right times. They think the dogs of imperia won’t come kicking at their doors, but I beg to differ, as hasn’t Marcus Agrippa taught any of you a damn thing. Still here in seventies world, as mister stupendous still shows the puffy hair of the Glenn Campbell age, a better age than sanitized gay marriages now, when marriage was merely a piece of paper, the strights could be so lame…havent we all come far…and why cant fagots be given the choice to be queer as I given a choice, would rather chase after a Wendy, then have to cashed after the blond hags that most dagos are content to want to want but do not want, as I don’t want to spend my life beating women because I cant be attracted to them as much as they say I must be. Ah but such things were buried with Norman Lear, as Meat head, I saw today was pushing gay marriage on Boston charley, as I recall when he was the Pollock captain of that free to be Jewry age now so much aids bleach left interfered in their bones. Ah, play the card of your compasion and womanish slyness all you want but I, shyest me, recalls when aids patients were sometimes left in potters graves, as fine upstanding catholic and Jewish funeral games wanted no part of their cootied up corpses, but then I recall everything, and forget northing, more is the pity for me.

3. I should have known to leave the comics hacks alone, they could have only gotten worse, I noted a hateful little snerd in art school. One my buddys still shall not mention his name, this cretin always roiling his eyes at the goofballs like the one motioned before, always trying to bully in the ways that only the severely effeminate fagot thin man can, less like a hammer and more like a whip, the Wop-Jewish haired creep I have known of all my schooldays, mind and kinky and as tan as their hair, with thin girlie arms and names like Corey, as he sneered and tried that sort of stance perfected by niggers on liberal television, a chin held upwards as to make you look as if beneath his contempt, which I noted became more procured, not less, then he was speaking to Michael Moore, but that was along the liens of two wounded wolves sniffing the others had entered too close to their self appointed piss stained acre, and always beneath him.

Well, one day, not the day I was throwing chairs, but was curiously upset, this creep thought he was going to snicker and shoot his puss at everyone who he thought he had  cowed, with my jaunt from class to class, it seems besides my bitterness, too did middle brow hacks sorts try to get me out of their class as to play artisan without me around, and my occasional Welles-Ian booming distress for all this shit become stagecraft too, as if I was even trying, but still, I was sent into this creeps class, where my buddies were having enough of his shtick, and one day, as he rattled and hummed and sneered and eye rolled, without my usual Verdi operatics, I had to ask, rather serenely who the fuck did this little twerp think he was….? Suddenly, the room was quiet, knowing of my predilection to hurl architect benches at the sprinklers. Who the fuck is this twerp, I asked, rolling his fucking dead eyes at everyone, this queer and his asides and his constant drum beat of how wonderful this faggot is. I had had enough, and as I am used, easily by the vicious,. His back was turned and quickly he ran to the dean and the head masters of this dump to make sure he wasn’t about to be hurled into a wall. Sorry its my roman training, but when one wishes to be a bully, one gets what they gets. I was thus respected,  and he was fiercer broken then, like Obama is now, as once one shows they are full of shit, its over.

4. Despite of because unlike him and some creep who seemed to wear mesh t-shirts that tied around his balls, I didn’t draw in some Kubert style, at least not back then, and was still artfully and shamelessly doing the Etruscan works, or because of it, suddenly I was seen as a master of at least my own self imposed Roman artworks. And people whose styles were nothing like mine, came up to me to ask for and how and why of art, knowing I had some inner knowledge beyond the Kirby school of flat notes as they had learned was art. This upset the white women and the pigs who ran this dump more some than even my calibrated attempts to get out of this mandated entree into the world, Audrey thought it was less about my knowledge of art than it was to get out there and be in the world, sadly she thought it mattered then, as I know now it probably doesn’t, and it was about making friends, meeting people, networking, etc, all the things that Jews as she thought mattered or should matter to me. Sadly I was a natural hermit, I liked staying in a dark room drawing only when natural light allowed, electricity seen by me as an anathema at night as I listened to a transistor radio, of all ancient things, and reworked novels of 1000 page girth in my mind, sometimes acting out the part of a Romans Senator, an Italian cop, Machiavelli , or a space man superhero. And to be honest, I am sad It as so much fell thorough that this nameless witless punk got that diploma that for me, ME-JESUIT TONY!, has seemed as illusive as the Golden Fleece. I was a bad influence, many thought except some of the teachers, as I had in inclination to draw and make people draw ‘Blood and Rockets’, the human and the technological mixed and at odds, in ways am too tired to care anymore, and mixed them in ways that these comic book scholars didn’t much like.

All the little fagots are so snide and pasteurized and refreshed and goggled and clones it is just sickening to me, who recalls the queers in their Oviddian loving glory before  they became kookier, woman accepted Jerry Helpers and friends to fat broads like Maureen Dowd. I feel bad about this turn, as I do recall the old black wearing brothers, rs making me read more than I had any right, or need to as a boy, a true abuse that could never get the under desk woody that is the annotate that tells Andersen which way did they go, which way did they go, as our shining Murrow decided what stories he shall like a more effeminate cnn Graceless, plow like Romulus into the bloody earth. See it  as stuff like this that made the barely known Jesuits who had heard of me in 1980, try to get me to Georgetown, but alas I was too smart for them and ended up here.

I think perhaps instead of gay marriage since even Darth Vader like Dick Cheney is now willing to see their humanity should they be after all married, and thus three times more likely to vote in ways republican—oh I’m sorry did I go Jesuit on you all again, with that pesky Machiavellian thinking that you don’t ever to worry about when Negros placed on the air as gate keepers after the death of Ed Shultz,  must emcee sure they come out quick and reveal that, no, in fact, no fidelity to the race and the struggle here, when a white woman is involved, no matter how drunk, they are sacrosanct, after all, and you as a ge bought and paid for nigger must act like the rest of us for went and forgone any thought of but the immaculate white chick, as if anyone did. Ah, more sanctimony making arguments against arguments unmade, the only kind these flatlanders can make with there always clever thoughtfulness. I say instead of gay marriage and white chicks dating for fatsoes,  I say true to my heritage and my training that we packed up on your imperial lawn, near the misquoted, cheap ass MLJ ride, a exact duplicative of the bathes of Curricula, with all attended and adjacent… uh, attendants, and make it flaming and queer and faggy for all its worth. Oh, please, save us from the butch bulldykes klieg addicted, Rachel, who is becoming less enchanting to me,  by the say, as she gives into her screwdriver creeds, Girls with slingshots that short burning rage, or maybe a fire thrower, something only a lover of soldiers could love, --do put up a pre Roman ruin worthy of the name, and the brand, kids, place up a bathhouse, please, before we all drown in suburban douche, the cunt after all, the Jesuits advised me with more sorrow than anger when they knew I had it bad for Catherine, the first of my Beatrice’s, though they thought it rather cute, is the hole left where a man is indeed by nature and God to full up a woman with spunk, if not ideas, to make the giggling bitches a bit more whole.

5. I did notice, as a page of mine that got much distress was when Mister Stupendous tells the almost by now inhumane Batman-[Mr. Mockingbird], who exactly appointed you anything, a rich man beating up junkie’s, a line of mine that has been oft sued by comic hacks, and on the back cover of Rag, also disliked by the bic pen Armanda. This all did tell me though that I had sued up all my schoolboy powers and indeed as some fat chick, they are as equally insufferable in comics as the girlie armed dweeb, said, I was indeed too old for this, especially if I wasn’t groggily making pennies on the dollar and eking out a frugal apprenticeship, as even 60 year olds in comics seem to be filers in of Michelangelo’s, if not Neal Adams lines.

But, I have noticed that Batman's legion of boychicks has been defanged, it  isn’t the cashe among the sissies and the freaks he was before Batman fan numero 1, Bozo himself, is now about to cop a plea, so again no one is as mad or as devoted as they pretend to be, Machiavelli one oh one, and he was left to take the fall and hold the bag as sudden like all the batman minded vicious queers,who had no less than started sending weirdo missives to Rodger Ebert had backed away. I think I went back to comics as much as anything, again for the first time since Jim Shooter praised my work, something more than the usual comics queers get, as I think, Auger that I am, I noticed where America was heading, as the comic book of all things became our sibylline scrolls. I think I saw Stan The Man becoming our Dante, our national poet, in ways Capote could not. I saw the comic book the reversed implement of the truly vulgar, in the Latin meaning of the whole, unadorned and thus unfastened with fakery and silliness, was going to be re-sized and remade into our national creed. I had to go back, not just because dealing with a television producer when he asked me if I had a resume, I was startled thinking merely my brilliance would carry the day, I felt I had to get some sort of curriculum under my feet, at 38 years old, and had to get a semblance of a resume, as couldn’t just blue sky my way through life. If I am right that the Batman Meme, --not even sure if that word is used right or if it is a word--is the overarching legend of our times, if that old dower closeted depression era Zorro has become our Hercules, as we sing of him as the Romans sung of Ercule, then I felt an augers need to speak out and up with Rag comics, and the Lass who dominated it, that I wasn’t part of it and was not going to be one of the wards of the rich faggot, nor was I latest in a line of Jokers who appeals to the cable divas who mark the cards. I had to somehow be true to that very page, one of the first done even back then at the catholic school, where the blue massive figure tells the night vigilante that he is about as repulsive a figure as Lee J Cobb was to equal republic defender Henry Fonda was in Twelve angry men. Like America made flesh Henry, I had to say I had enough of being screeched out by blowhards like this keeper of justice.

In a replay of that page done back when in 1978, I felt the need again to have my Hero, Mister Stupendous, More Lou Ferrigno than any of the latest queers playing superman, almost defend himself to the deeply disturbing Bat-Queen and mean drunk known as Batman, who I then noticed had to Virgil us towards the aids hell, as a vicious little Reagan era supporter, Gordon Gecko in satin, later to become Kevlar, and for me to say to the Valued conservers as he did to The Mocking bird, You’ve been acting like a self appointed avenger since you showed up. I AS AN ITALIAN can take and sign off on good old fashioned vendetta, but free floating rage in what was an Andy Warhol costume and now is a swat team rubber suit makes me nervous.

Best moment in comics book ville, some dimwit thinking he was putting me down, saying he saw worse stuff than Mine at Marvel comics. This recalled in me dear sweet bitchy Leslie, with as much compassions she can muster for anyone telling me, when Ciotti said everything I did was the best thing I had done, I had somehow scratched her own empathy and she touchingly sadly said to me, Dude, I think he’s putting your stuff down. Doesn’t matter I said, as the magic of RT, Roman Tony, is that even the insults they hurl to me fare better than their pompous blathering at their heroes. This comic creep saw worse stuff than mine at Marvel, I said, I should certainly hope so, as they are a business meant to sell to creeps a lowered common denominator sort of filth and I, I am doing the things I do with a flair pen and 24 lbs copy paper. Perspective, I said back, since Gioberti has been a bitch. A cute woman who worked in comics saw my iconic image of Mister Stupendous, hovering as much as anything, man on watch, downcast face, hair falling into brown eyes, something I note Superman has eschewed the spit curl for, in as a comic writer called out perfected, the word that for me distilled my comics misadventure, our ‘less than empathetic’ times. Why so Glum Chum…?, She playfully asked me, why was my hero so glum and sad, to which I answered that was the cause of all Roman heroes, to do ones duty and shut up about it, the flag waving and the boastersness was a jewie up that was beneath them. Beneath contempt. Do your duty…or Not. It was my duty, I assured,  to recall that. Too Intense,… for Funny books, she said. I am just glad I never gave in, after it all, I am glad I didn’t become one of these comics hacks who on one hand sneer at the Herculean image and then make it all seem capable of being so fascistically Batman, hero to the closeted. I am glad my heroes have been dower, better that than to have mouths constantly in the satire of pretending, growling with glistened teeth.