The End Is Neigh

Yesterday the city suffered under hazardous air and swampy heat. In the afternoon I traveled to 68th and Broadway to see if I had lost mysunglasses at the AMC iMac theater at which I had seen Odysseus with Jack Haven. I had worn them up and put them in my bag before the theater lights dimmed for the showing. Two young friends asked us to move,so they could sittogether. I didn't want to mo e. Jack didn't understand my obstinacy due to other people having claimed a seat. In the end I acquiesced to their request. Later I realized I had left my bad under my previous seat.The young lady handed it to me. Zipper open. The movie was amazing. The next morning I couldn't find my singlasses. Nowhere. I called the theater. Fuckibg AI. No help at all and upon i went on the A train from West 4th Street. As previously stated they were there. I had no particular place to go and opted for a wander across Central Park. I was wearing light clothing due to the sultry temperature. I stayed in the shade undrr the trees.

July 16, 1978 - Providence - Journal Entry

Centuries are divided into decades. Ten Year stretches. This 20th Century began with European global domination, except for Tibet, Thailand, Ethiopia, and the Ottoman Empire. The flags of Russia, England, France, Germany, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Spain, Portugal, Italy and the Vatican flew over conquered peoples, but the status quo was slipping from the grasp of monarchs. The 1905 Russian Revolution signaled the end to the Romanov Dynasty. Te Slavs fought for their freedom from the Turks and Austrians. The Irish seethed under British rule. This has been the American Century, but Vietnam taught us that we ain't all that.

On a train to Boston with Alice.

Amtrak is the third worst way to travel. The bus and hitching are #2 and #1. The Greyhound bus seats are designed for corpses and the dead never complain, only smell. Hitching is almost impossible with the cops harassing travelers and drivers are fearful of murderous hippies.

Providence.

Amtrak stop.

A black boy, Maurice, fakes retching. His older brother plays possum and starts snoring. Their older sister tells him to be quiet. He remains in the snoring state. Alice wants off the train. The hillbilly hasn't had her period. She is motion sick and needs fresh air.

Another forty minutes and the train will arrive at Back Bay. These past two months I have spent little time in New York. Weeks spread across the East Coast. This is Alice's third trip north. I too will be glad to get off the train.

Ann says, "I think my breasts are getting larger."

I check them. "They are the same size as always."

"I wish I had bigger."

"Not me, I like them small."

"Because then you think you're fucking a boy."

"Maybe."

My sexual urges have shut down for homos. I get my most satisfaction from females. Actually gay men were only a substitute for women. Some some reason picking up females was difficult for me. Now I am ease. At least whenever Alice is not around, but I don't need to be promiscuous in my life. Last night I dream of Alice assaulted by my past girlfriends turned fiends and I fucked them all in the dream. Faceless women licking my balls and asshole, as I fuck Alice.

The dream is a product of last night's too many beers at CBGBs.

I even forgot that I need to fuck.

Foto Old Union Station - Providence

Momma Tried - Poetry - July 15 1978 - Journal

Momma warned Bobby Bebadd
'Bout married women
To save him the trouble
Of learning what prison can do__
But like Merle Haggard sang
He was 18, the cars fast, and the women faster
Sheila was 32, blonde, and long wanting__
Her husband the mayor of East Bum Fuck, Texas
His love the incumbent
Bobby Bebad the opposition
He a loser
Losers only win one way
Strictly in it for sex__
People say
You can't fight City Hall
All Bobby did
Sleep in its bed
Fuck there too
More than once a night several times each week for two months__
Discovered in the act
At the foot of the bed
The mayor
Gun in hand
52 old
Fat
The mayor of East Bumfuck Texas__
The 38
Loaded
Steady in hand
The mayor of East Bumfuck Texas
Trying to figure out
Who to shoot first
His wife or Bobby
The wife's 22 in the drawer
"Don't even think about it young man."
And he didn't__
Now Bobby Bebadd in the slammer
Of East Bumfuck Texas
Not too bad
With Sheila in the next cell
No one else in the jail
Just the two
And no steel bars stopping them
And Sheila saying more more more
Bobby Bebadd be bad
Momma tried
Momma tried
Momma tried to make him better
But to the bad he kept on turning__

Homage to Merle Haggard

Great cover from The Grateful Dead

This poem sucks. A warm up exercise, but too confusing, not to me but maybe others who don't think like this. Unsexed. Why do I think about it so much?

Later

At the Figaro Cafe on Bleeker Street Kim AKA Pudd, my CBGBs sister and fellow Gemini, says, "Immigrants are stealing all our jobs."

I work at an executive dining room as a way to for lunch serving executives. Everyone else on the floor is Latino. I am the only Yankee Irish in the place. None of my friends would stoop this low to make money, but it is my only job. No one else wants to hire me. Why? I don't know. Maybe because I think of sex too much. I had recently watched BREAD AND CHOCOLATE about an guest worker from Italy in Switzerland, who loses his work permit caught urinating in public. He counter the prejudice, he leads a clandestine life in Switzerland as a blonde Swiss.

It has never been an easy life for illegals and I answer Kim, "No, they aren't stealing jobs. They are our slaves. They took over the jobs from blacks and the Irish. Jobs none of us would do those jobs. Dishwashing, picking crops, all the non-union jobs. They are exile in a strange land and so am I."

Juan left Mexico in New York City
He kissed Rosita goodbye
Maybe their last kiss__
Train to the Border
Two days walking in the desert
A bus to New York
A job as a busboy in an exective dining room
For evil executives
No one speak English
The bosses like that
No one hears their secrets
Day after day one is treated like an animal
He screams inside
Rosita
I am an animal
Dogs eat better
I am an American Just not their American
Better I never came here
Better I never leave you,
Now I have to get ready
For mañana
Maybe one day I come back
Maybe one day I will be a waiter
Pero non Manana___

Bastille Day 1789

2 July 1789

Paris.

Le Bastille

In the afternoon the infamous Marquis De Sade, who had been incarcerated in the stone fortress on charges of perversion, shouted from a barred cell window through an improvised megaphone, "Ils tuent les prisonniers."

The guards subdued the inmate, but his words sparked a smoldering rumor and the rumor spread through le Bastille, the poor neighborhood, long awaiting a match to fan the fires of revolution against the corrupt and venal aristocracy. For his safety the Marquis de Sade was transferred to the insane asylum at Charenton.

Cut to:

14 July 1789.

A wine wagon overturned on the Rue de La Roquette.

The wine flooded the gutter. The people drank their full. In vino revolutio.

The Bastille loomed in the near distance. The medieval prison symbolized the oppressive Ancien Regime and the Bourbon Dynasty. Fortified by cheap wine the mob stormed the prison. Nearly a hundred attackers were slain by the Swiss Guards in the assault versus one defender before the deluge flooded through the gates to massacre nine soldiers and free seven prisoners; four counterfeiters, two madmen and another perverse nobleman, the Comte de Solages, jailed on charges of incest.

The Comte de Sade later liberated by the revolution and the libertine survived the Terror of the guillotine by espousing a radical destruction of society, going as far as to seek the abolition of religion, earning the wrath of the Church. His fortune disappeared and the Napoleonic courts condemned his novels Justine and Juliette. Imprisoned without trial in 1802 he passed fourteen years of incerceration to later be buried in prison. An unknown grave holds his body in anonymity, while the Marquis de Sade lives in our memory. His head was later disinterred to be studied by those seeking to discover the roots of perversion.

Wicked, but it was he, a wicked imprisoned aristocrat, who began La Revolution to topple the Bourbon dynasty.

A bas la Bastille.

A bas le Ancien Regime.

ps “The equality prescribed by the Revolution is simply the weak man's revenge upon the strong; it's just what we saw in the past, but in reverse; that everyone should have his turn is only fair. And it shall be turnabout again tomorrow, for nothing in Nature is stable and the governments men direct are bound to prove as changeable and ephemeral as they.”

Marquis de Sade, Juliette

Bastille Day Beauties

Candida en Corse.

Chez Gabby.

Karinne de Aix en Provence.

Katie 1984.

/

Mirabelle Le Bad.

We'll always have Paris.

Drunk in Moscow, Not Idaho

In 1994 after a month long limbo in Penang I traveled from Malaysia to Paris on Aeroflot.

The Kuala Lumpur-Karachi-Dubai-Moscow-Paris flight time to Moscow totaled about 24 hours. None of them were comfortable in the flimsy chairs of the Soviet era jetliner.

Disembarking at night in Moscow, I discovered that my connecting flight to Charles De Gaulle had been delayed until the next morning.

A Norwegian couple with whom I had traveled from Kual Mumpur were in a similar predicament and I said, "It's 10PM. What are we going to do all night?"

"Drink wine." The husband pulled out two bottles of wine purchased in Dubair duty-free.

"I have two."

"And my wife has two."

We opened the bottles and sat on the floor surrounded by hundreds of stateless travelers trapped in the aeroport. Some looked as if they had been in this limbo for weeks if not months. After finishing the wine a refugee from Afghanistan sold us a bottle of vodka.

"I here one month. Can no go back Kabul. No go to Paris. My brother live there. Now this my home." His name was Jameer.

The vodka was homemade. The liter lasted longer than the wine. Several other Afghans fleeing the civil war joined Jameer with other bottles. They spoke in dialects. After two bottles of the gut-burning samogon I spoke in tongues, and sang amy version of the Pashto song Da Hujrey Mijlas but was losing consciousness from the overdose of hard spirits and lack of sleep.

I awoke.

A gray dawn.

In Moscow.

"Russia.

Not Idaho.

"Your flight is now." The Norwegian husband shook me hard and pulled me to my feet.

"I don't care." I wanted to stay in the aeroport. "Life simple here."

"You have to go." He and his wife escorted me to the plane.

"Bon Voyage." I saluted them at the door of the Airbus.

Stepping on board I rejoined civilization and I stumbled down the aisle to my seat. The faces of the other passengers gauged my drunkenness better than a breathalyzer. No one wanted me to sit next to them. I fell into an empty row and buckled up for take-off.

Several hours later a stewardess shook my shoulder.

"We are in Charles de Gaulle Aeroport in Paris."

"Already?" I was the last passenger on the plane.

"We've been on the ground for fifteen minutes."

"Great." I got to my feet and trudged out into the terminal. The time was 8:30. My friends were waiting in the city and it was Bastille Day or 'le Quartoze', anoter day of wine ahead.

In July of 1789 Paris seethed with anger against Louis XVI and the ancien regime of the nobility.

The prison's most infamous guest was the Marquis De Sade, who shouted from the ramparts on July 2, 1789, "They are killing the prisoners here!"

The unrepentant sodomist was transferred 'naked as a worm' to the insane asylum at Charenton, but the fire had been lit and the on July 14 hundreds of workers gathered in the neighboring Faubourg Saint-Antoine seeking to seize the gunpowder within the Bastille.

Mythically recounted in Dickens' THE TALE OF TWO CITIES a tumbril loaded with casks of wine axle an axle on the Rue de la Roquette and wine flow down the gutters to be consumed by impoverished Parisians. The shadow of the dreaded upper-class Bastille prison loomed over the narrow street and someone shouted, "A la Bastille."

The Swiss Guards within the fortress defended the battlements against the mob, until the arrival of mutinous royal Bourbon troops armed with artillery. The commandant surrendered the prison, freeing its seven captives.

When Louis XVI was told the news in Versailles, the king asked an aristocrat, "Is it a revolt?"

His friend replied, "Non, mon Roi. It is a revolution.

Within three years after the Storming of the Bastille Citoyen Louis was sentenced to death and guillotined in Place de la Concrode before thousands of revolutionies.

I emerged from the terminal at noon and from CDG Aeroport a taxi sped to Paris. Traffic was light into the city of light. THe exit lanes were cramped with vehicles as they had been for decades carrying Paris to le Grande Vacannes ie 7/14 go 8/14.

Atop Montmatre rose Sacre-Couer.

After the 1870 Commune the Catholic Church had erected the Temple of Repression to remind Parisians that the Church ruled the Hearts and Minds of France, not the call to the ramparts by a perverse Comte.

The new Bastille.

My friend Tristam from the Musellmen Fumants was waiting at his apartment.

I wasn't tired, only hung over. That afternoon we watched the military parade on the Champs-Elysees.

That night we partied with friends.

I drank to Liberte, Egalite, and Fraternitie.

Hundreds sang Le Marseilles.

I cried each time.

It was good to be out of Moscow.

People drink too much there, then again so do I.

A bas le Roi.

Bastille Day / Palm Beach 2008

Most Americans have an unfavorable attitude toward the French. This antipathy is based on the abuse most US tourists have suffered from dismissive Paris waiters in the dead of August. Few realize that these garcons are rude to their own countrymen as well as any estrangers. That is not to say that the French don't subscribe to a haughty self-esteem.

As a Belge friend joked, "How does Frenchman kill himself? By lifting a pistol six inches over his head and shooting his superiority complex."

It's even funnier when told in French to the French.

Are the French 'surrender monkeys' or 'froggies'?

>After the horrors of World War I the French High Command decided during the Fall Of France that surrender would better serve the nation. The Gauls have a special way of treating unwanted tourist. They soon learned that the Germans were not tourists.

Cracher sur le plat or spit on the plate is the best revenge for the weak over the strong and despite that I will defend the French, because they are loyal to those people who they love, as I had learned after working at Paris nightclubs in the 80s. My friends from that period are still my friends. All the French I have met around the world are my friends too. They are funny, warm, and generous. Nasty too, but not like the Germans.

So today in Palm Beach I raised a glass of wine with my good friend Lisa Rohan and we toasted the French, "Vive la France."

in vino revolutio

Also it's a little known fact that twelve days earlier the Marquis de Sade had set the stage for the storming of le Bastille by shouting from his cell, "Ils tuerent les prisonniers." so maybe sado-masochists should celebrate his part in the revolution. I certainly do.

>Vive de Sade and Serge Gainsbourg too.