#fugazzi

[kittesencula]

[diffiddent]

https://www.instagram.com/emilyrana/

[mlentertainment]

it's really funny how brennan introduced tony simos as an older greek guy and then played him exclusively italian

[dracomort]

I don't know if you have already read this but I highly recommend All Roads Lead to Rome by Alemantele. I thought that you might like it.

I have not! Will add it to the TBR list ✍🏻

[inthewindtunnel]

Los Fugazzi & Lusca

NNT

[oneofusnet]

Trash in the Can: The Seduction of Dr. Fugazzi TRASH IN THE CAN: THE SEDUCTION OF DR. FUGAZZI This week we dive into the work of an amateur auteur in the tradition of Tommy Wiseau, Deuandra T. Brown, and the Former United States Secretary of the Treasury’s wife. Frank Calvillo returns strictly to discuss Faye Dunaway dressed as Annie Hall, but sticks around for an orgy with the staff of a Hot Topic and post-stroke Bette Davis. We watched 2009’s The Seduction of Dr. Fugazzi!   YOUR HOSTS   Wright Sulek (Screener Squad, Digital Noise, Highly Suspect Reviews, Trash in the Can, Audio Editor) Wright hails from the northern… Read More »Trash in the Can: The Seduction of Dr. Fugazzi read more on One of Us

[dlyarchitecture]

[ivan2fukdeezslutz]

Ridiculously Fugazzi BBL 😂

[clockwiseleon]

GIVE ME FUGAZZI BEING HAPPY RIGHT NOW! HE HAS BEEN TORMENTED ENOUGH, NOW DRAW HIM HAVING A GREAT TIME!

URGH. FINE.....

Pizzahead takes him to some nerdy museum.

[slowthunders]

i will stand for myself and deffend my integrity perfectly fine as i have no absolute silly bitch to be afraid of and i have the godamn right to get this off my chest.

i have a life to live, a job to keep, an adulthood to survive and real serious things to focus on. which why this is the only post addressing my position on this mortifying incident that i got dragged on by bambi. these levels of slander i was placed on are beyond disgusting, i will no longer tolerate such false dirt.

i will break down my side little by little, with pears and apples. as many of y'all have shown your evident illiteracy.

tw: mentions of fatphobia, death wishes and transphobia

1. masha and applewillowstone

how foolish is to somehow revisit the deal with said person in which i previously addressed, it can be found here for what its worth. i never denied the toxicity or her and apple's actions, i gave masha the benefit of doubt back then and that was part of my mistakes, i still admit with transparency.

this prompted me to re-value who i was supporting, reflect through it, eventually chose to do the right thing by unfriending her, get critical of her transphobia her hostility and privately apologize to whoever i needed to.

bambi, you're getting your 180 wackadoo claims out of nowhere with the purpose of making me look like this shady form, it ain't working.

yes, there were moments i was catty and problematic in my conversations with masha, many of that is dumb shit i am not proud of which i grew up from ever since i cut ties from masha, except what i admitted directly to you. suck it up.

it is wild that for my involvement, which really wasn't as horrific compared to the abusive thing these individuals did, makes people believe i deserve to receive fatphobia, being called a whore, being falsely acused of transphobia and even be told to fucking kill myself through anonymous hate. y'all are taking your unconformity with the wrong bitch.

i refuse to go on an apology tour to the whole community as i did not get involved in the serious trauma infliction that these individuals were exposed for. i refuse to be punished for things i did not commit.

my job with this dead horse was already finished and even after that, some of y'all chose to still think whatever fugazzi ass rumour about me story your tiny little brains decide to stick with then fine, stick with that imaginary idea of me. life goes on.

for the ones up to question me and have doubts on this situation like the civil grown human beings with zero hateration you are: great! i'll be more than glad to answer as i technically have nothing to hide and lose. my DMs are always open.

i no longer know what else to do to prove i worked with this deal with what i had and i did the correct things at the end. i no longer care. flip the page and stop lying on this right here, bambi.

2. the "bullying" acussations

it has come to my attention how now valid open criticism equals bullying. what an interesting case to study...

bambi, i'm still trying to figure out how the hell, you were told by ivy that he can't fuck with your friend for valid reasons politely, then you chosing to try making ivy feel like shit for asking you to respect boundaries and rather than being quiet, mind your own business and be a grown woman about it you CHOSE to be rude to ivy, fight him which rightfully prompted him to block you, still you decide to cherry pick the pieces for your own gain to paint yourself as the victim once freaking again for pity points, yet seeing how literally no one except the cult of enablers that you are part of, disagreed with you with solid facts...

tell me how did you think this will be a terrific idea and allow you to get away with shit without proper backlash?

criticism ≠ bullying

you fucked up and got yourself canceled. stop twisting the deal arround me and my choice to stand and support ivy. this is nobody's fault but yours.

3. the reason why i blocked you

is simple: you constantly brag out loud in pompous ways how you swear to be an innocent love and light little birdie full of rainbows and sunshines and cupcakes yet your actions demonstrate the whole rancid opposite.

i started to look through your shit long time ago. you are the epitome of wolf in sheep's clothing, you pretend to be something you definitely are not online, you love stirring pots but once it all backfires on you with valid disagreements, you run behind your 'but i hate discourse!!' shield.

i'm not the only person who has noticed it. this particular pathern is not normal.

the sky is blue i did not make the rules.

i am erratic, problematic, argumentative, mean ill-tempered and raw which 93% of it is thanks to my ptsd and autism spectrum, sure. but i'm not around claiming i'm a good person. that right there bambi, is the big difference between me and you.

now if you and your little bunch of cult weirdos excuse me, i'd like every single of you bitches to leave me the fuck alone, stop putting words that my devices did not touch and rub some grass. bambi, quit twisting the scenario to surround me. admit you did whole wrong and apologize to ivy, as your actions messed him over and prompted him to close HGC.

you assholes, you childish turds, specially Y'ALL, bitch about antis on billy hargrove tumblr but y'all are doing the whole different agenda of textbook rancid that only feeds our already fucked up reputation. congratulations, your nonsense division is also actively giving us all a bad name.

bambi, put yourself together and get the fuck off my dick.

[kittesencula]

[georgegraphys]

I don't mind "oh fraud/fugazzi/payola/illegal/nepo" as long as these individuals have something that can back them up and maximize that privilege.

But if they got all that and nothing to back them up? Fuck yourself and go to retirement 😭😭😭

[moonflower-rose]

Rosie my love, you know I’ll never get enough of my beloved In Dreams so anything you’d like to share with us about the process (maybe how you came up with the idea, or if you had a specific fic scene in mind etc?) would make my night!!! Tysm ily 💜 - Liv

Liv you sweet baby angel, I love how much you love that fic and one day I'll even complete the half-finished sequel for you that I started in fricken 2011.

God this was so long ago, things are a bit furry. What I do know for sure is that the opening scene where Harry is dreaming the DH epilogue had been in my head for more than a year before I signed up for H/D Holidays 2011 and decided to use it, but I didn't really have a clear idea of what I was going to write after that, lol. I had absolutely no plan, it all just sort of unrolled spontaneously.

I'd been in Kettering (which is where the main action for Chapter 1 occurs) for a wedding in 2008 and then I spent a few weeks sightseeing and visiting friends who were all over the place in London, so lots of the places we spent time ended up in the fic too (although I didn't spend a lot of words lingering on descriptions of places in the fic). Lots of the side characters were likewise named after people I'd been with on that trip. The name 'Champion de Crespigny' belonged to a student at the university I worked at, at that time, who's mother was so fricken obnoxious and would constantly hassle me about getting her daughter into the popular, quota restricted electives. I was also super obsessed with secret agent films (still am), in particular Salt and Casino Royale, and Alias. So all of that definitely had an influence.

The main thing I remember about writing this is that I was absolutely shitting myself about writing for Anna Fugazzi and I was likewise shitting myself because I'd written 37K and there was about 15K on the cutting room floor and I wasn't ready to stop or to give up on those scenes but I'd run completely out of time.

One of the things that tickled me the most to write was this line:

“Yours, then. Will you still be grumpy when we get there?” Malfoy turned away from Harry to face the fireplace. “That depends. Will you still be Dopey?” 

Ah, hilarity. I really do want to get back to the sequel for this.

[rinconliterario]

“Aullido” Allen Ginsberg

I

Vi las mejores mentes de mi generación destruidas por la locura, hambrientas histéricas desnudas, arrastrándose por las calles de los negros al amanecer en busca de un colérico pinchazo, hipsters con cabezas de ángel ardiendo por la antigua conexión celestial con el estrellado dínamo de la maquinaria nocturna, que pobres y harapientos y ojerosos y drogados pasaron la noche fumando en la oscuridad sobrenatural de apartamentos de agua fría, flotando sobre las cimas de las ciudades contemplando jazz, que desnudaron sus cerebros ante el cielo bajo el El y vieron ángeles mahometanos tambaleándose sobre techos iluminados, que pasaron por las universidades con radiantes ojos imperturbables alucinando Arkansas y tragedia en la luz de Blake entre los maestros de la guerra, que fueron expulsados de las academias por locos y por publicar odas obscenas en las ventanas de la calavera, que se acurrucaron en ropa interior en habitaciones sin afeitar, quemando su dinero en papeleras y escuchando al Terror a través del muro, que fueron arrestados por sus barbas púbicas regresando por Laredo con un cinturón de marihuana hacia Nueva York, que comieron fuego en hoteles de pintura o bebieron trementina en Paradise Alley, muerte, o sometieron sus torsos a un purgatorio noche tras noche, con sueños, con drogas, con pesadillas que despiertan, alcohol y verga y bailes sin fin, incomparables callejones de temblorosa nube y relámpago en la mente saltando hacia los polos de Canadá y Paterson, iluminando todo el inmóvil mundo del intertiempo, realidades de salones de Peyote, amaneceres de cementerio de árbol verde en el patio trasero, borrachera de vino sobre los tejados, barrios de escaparate de paseos drogados luz de tráfico de neón parpadeante, vibraciones de sol, luna y árbol en los rugientes atardeceres invernales de Brooklyn, desvaríos de cenicero y bondadosa luz reina de la mente, que se encadenaron a los subterráneos para el interminable viaje desde Battery al santo Bronx en benzedrina hasta que el ruido de ruedas y niños los hizo caer temblando con la boca desvencijada y golpeados yermos de cerebro completamente drenados de brillo bajo la lúgubre luz del Zoológico, que se hundieron toda la noche en la submarina luz de Bickford salían flotando y se sentaban a lo largo de tardes de cerveza desvanecida en el desolado Fugazzi’s, escuchando el crujir del Apocalipsis en el jukebox de hidrógeno, que hablaron sin parar por setenta horas del parque al departamento al bar a Bellevue al museo al puente de Brooklyn, un batallón perdido de conversadores platónicos saltando desde las barandas de salidas de incendio desde ventanas desde el Empire State desde la luna, parloteando gritando vomitando susurrando hechos y memorias y anécdotas y excitaciones del globo ocular y shocks de hospitales y cárceles y guerras, intelectos enteros expulsados en recuerdo de todo por siete días y noches con ojos brillantes, carne para la sinagoga arrojada en el pavimento, que se desvanecieron en la nada Zen Nueva Jersey dejando un rastro de ambiguas postales del Atlantic City Hall, sufriendo sudores orientales y crujidos de huesos tangerinos y migrañas de la china con síndrome de abstinencia en un pobremente amoblado cuarto de Newark, que vagaron por ahí y por ahí a medianoche en los patios de ferrocarriles preguntándose dónde ir, y se iban, sin dejar corazones rotos, que encendieron cigarrillos en furgones furgones furgones haciendo ruido a través de la nieve hacia granjas solitarias en la abuela noche, que estudiaron a Plotino Poe San Juan de la Cruz telepatía bop kabbalah porque el cosmos instintivamente vibraba a sus pies en Kansas, que vagaron solos por las calles de Idaho buscando ángeles indios visionarios que fueran ángeles indios visionarios, que pensaron que tan sólo estaban locos cuando Baltimore refulgió en un éxtasis sobrenatural, que subieron en limosinas con el chino de Oklahoma impulsados por la lluvia de pueblo luz de calle en la medianoche invernal, que vagaron hambrientos y solitarios en Houston en busca de jazz o sexo o sopa, y siguieron al brillante Español para conversar sobre América y la Eternidad, una tarea inútil y así se embarcaron hacia África, que desaparecieron en los volcanes de México dejando atrás nada sino la sombra de jeans y la lava y la ceniza de la poesía esparcida en la chimenea Chicago, que reaparecieron en la costa oeste investigando al F.B.I. con barba y pantalones cortos con grandes ojos pacifistas sensuales en su oscura piel repartiendo incomprensibles panfletos, que se quemaron los brazos con cigarrillos protestando por la neblina narcótica del tabaco del Capitalismo, que distribuyeron panfletos supercomunistas en Union Square sollozando y desnudándose mientras las sirenas de Los Álamos aullaban por ellos y aullaban por la calle Wall, y el ferry de Staten Island también aullaba, que se derrumbaron llorando en gimnasios blancos desnudos y temblando ante la maquinaria de otros esqueletos, que mordieron detectives en el cuello y chillaron con deleite en autos de policías por no cometer más crimen que su propia salvaje pederastia e intoxicación, que aullaron de rodillas en el subterráneo y eran arrastrados por los tejados blandiendo genitales y manuscritos, que se dejaron follar por el culo por santos motociclistas, y gritaban de gozo, que mamaron y fueron mamados por esos serafines humanos, los marinos, caricias de amor Atlántico y Caribeño, que follaron en la mañana en las tardes en rosales y en el pasto de parques públicos y cementerios repartiendo su semen libremente a quien quisiera venir, que hiparon interminablemente tratando de reír pero terminaron con un llanto tras la partición de un baño turco cuando el blanco y desnudo ángel vino para atravesarlos con una espada, que perdieron sus efebos por las tres viejas arpías del destino la arpía tuerta del dólar heterosexual la arpía tuerta que guiña el ojo fuera del vientre y la arpía tuerta que no hace más que sentarse en su culo y cortar las hebras intelectuales doradas del telar del artesano, que copularon extáticos e insaciables con una botella de cerveza un amorcito un paquete de cigarrillos una vela y se cayeron de la cama, y continuaron por el suelo y por el pasillo y terminaron desmayándose en el muro con una visión del coño supremo y eyacularon eludiendo el último hálito de conciencia, que endulzaron los coños de un millón de muchachas estremeciéndose en el crepúsculo, y tenían los ojos rojos en las mañanas pero estaban preparados para endulzar el coño del amanecer, resplandecientes nalgas bajo graneros y desnudos en el lago, que salieron de putas por Colorado en miríadas de autos robados por una noche, N.C. héroe secreto de estos poemas, follador y Adonis de Denver -regocijémonos con el recuerdo de sus innumerables jodiendas de muchachas en solares vacíos y patios traseros de restaurantes, en desvencijados asientos de cines, en cimas de montañas, en cuevas o con demacradas camareras en familiares solitarios levantamientos de enaguas y especialmente secretos solipsismos en baños de gasolineras y también en callejones de la ciudad natal, que se desvanecieron en vastas y sórdidas películas, eran cambiados en sueños, despertaban en un súbito Manhattan y se levantaron en sótanos con resacas de despiadado Tokai y horrores de sueños de hierro de la tercera avenida y se tambalearon hacia las oficinas de desempleo, que caminaron toda la noche con los zapatos llenos de sangre sobre los bancos de nieve en los muelles esperando que una puerta se abriera en el East River hacia una habitación llena de vapor caliente y opio, que crearon grandes dramas suicidas en los farellones de los departamentos del Hudson bajo el foco azul de la luna durante la guerra y sus cabezas serán coronadas de laurel y olvido, que comieron estofado de cordero de la imaginación o digirieron el cangrejo en el lodoso fondo de los ríos de Bowery, que lloraron ante el romance de las calles con sus carritos llenos de cebollas y mala música,

que se sentaron sobre cajas respirando en la oscuridad bajo el puente y se levantaron para construir clavicordios en sus áticos, que tosieron en el sexto piso de Harlem coronados de fuego bajo el cielo tubercular rodeados por cajas naranjas de Teología, que escribieron frenéticos toda la noche balanceándose y rodando sobre sublimes encantamientos que en el amarillo amanecer eran estrofas incoherentes, que cocinaron animales podridos pulmón corazón pié cola borsht & tortillas soñando con el puro reino vegetal, que se arrojaron bajo camiones de carne en busca de un huevo, que tiraron sus relojes desde el techo para emitir su voto por una eternidad fuera del tiempo, & cayeron despertadores en  sus cabezas cada día por toda la década siguiente, que cortaron sus muñecas tres veces sucesivamente sin éxito, desistieron y fueron forzados a abrir tiendas de antigüedades donde pensaron que estaban envejeciendo y lloraron, que fueron quemados vivos en sus inocentes trajes de franela en Madison Avenue entre explosiones de versos plúmbeos & el enlatado martilleo de los férreos regimientos de la moda & los gritos de nitroglicerina de maricas de la publicidad & el gas mostaza de inteligentes editores siniestros, o fueron atropellados por los taxis ebrios de la realidad absoluta, que saltaron del puente de Brooklyn esto realmente ocurrió y se alejaron desconocidos y olvidados dentro de la fantasmal niebla de los callejones de sopa  y carros de bomba del barrio Chino, ni siquiera una cerveza gratis, que cantaron desesperados desde sus ventanas, se cayeron por la ventana del metro, saltaron en el sucio Passaic, se abalanzaron sobre negros, lloraron por toda la calle, bailaron descalzos sobre vasos de vino rotos y discos de fonógrafo destrozados de nostálgico Europeo jazz Alemán de los años 30 se acabaron el whisky y vomitaron gimiendo en el baño sangriento, con lamentos en sus oídos y la explosión de colosales silbatos de vapor, que se lanzaron por las autopistas del pasado viajando hacia la cárcel del gólgota -solitario mirar- autos preparados de cada uno de ellos o Encarnación de Jazz de Birmingham, que condujeron campo traviesa por 72 horas para averiguar si yo había tenido una visión o tú habías tenido una visión o él había tenido una visión para conocer la eternidad, que viajaron a Denver, murieron en Denver, que volvían a Denver; que velaron por Denver y meditaron y andaban solos en Denver y finalmente se fueron lejos para averiguar el tiempo, y ahora Denver extraña a sus héroes, que cayeron de rodillas en desesperanzadas catedrales rezando por la salvación de cada uno y la luz y los pechos, hasta que al alma se le iluminó el cabello por un segundo, que chocaron a través de su mente en la cárcel esperando por imposibles criminales de cabeza dorada y el encanto de la realidad en sus corazones que cantaba dulces blues a Alcatraz, que se retiraron a México a cultivar un hábito o a Rocky Mount hacia el tierno Buda o a Tánger en busca de muchachos o a la Southern Pacific hacia la negra locomotora o de Harvard a Narciso a Woodland hacia la guirnalda de margaritas o a la tumba, que exigieron juicios de cordura acusando a la radio de hipnotismo y fueron abandonados con su locura y sus manos y un jurado indeciso, que tiraron ensalada de papas a los lectores de la CCNY sobre dadaísmo y subsiguientemente se presentan en los escalones de granito del manicomio con las cabezas afeitadas y un arlequinesco discurso de suicidio, exigiendo una lobotomía al instante, y recibieron a cambio el concreto vacío de la insulina Metrazol electricidad hidroterapia psicoterapia terapia ocupacional ping pong y amnesia, que en una protesta sin humor volcaron sólo una simbólica mesa de ping pong, descansando brevemente en catatonia, volviendo años después realmente calvos excepto por una peluca de sangre, y de lágrimas y dedos, a la visible condenación del loco de los barrios de las locas ciudades del Este, los fétidos salones del Pilgrim State Rockland y Greystones, discutiendo con los ecos del alma, balanceándose y rodando en la banca de la soledad de medianoche reinos dolmen del amor, sueño de la vida una pesadilla, cuerpos convertidos en piedra tan pesada como la luna, con la madre finalmente  y el último fantástico libro arrojado por la ventana de la habitación, y a la última puerta cerrada a las 4 AM y el último teléfono golpeado contra el muro en protesta y el último cuarto amoblado vaciado hasta la última pieza de mueblería mental, un papel amarillo se irguió torcido en un colgador de alambre en el closet, e incluso eso imaginario, nada sino un esperanzado poco de alucinación-

ah, Carl, mientras no estés a salvo yo no voy a estar a salvo, y ahora estás realmente en la total sopa animal del tiempo y que por lo tanto corrió a través de las heladas calles obsesionado con una súbita inspiración sobre la alquimia del uso de la elipse el catálogo del medidor y el plano vibratorio, que soñaron e hicieron aberturas encarnadas en el tiempo y el espacio a través de imágenes yuxtapuestas y atraparon al Arcángel del alma entre 2 imágenes visuales y unieron los verbos elementales y pusieron el nombre y una pieza de conciencia saltando juntos con una sensación de Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus para recrear la sintaxis y medida de la pobre prosa humana y pararse frente a ti mudos e inteligentes y temblorosos de vergüenza, rechazados y no obstante confesando el alma para conformarse al ritmo del pensamiento en su desnuda cabeza sin fin, el vagabundo demente y el ángel beat en el tiempo, desconocido, y no obstante escribiendo aquí lo que podría quedar por decir en el tiempo después de la muerte, y se alzaron reencarnando en las fantasmales ropas del jazz en la sombra de cuerno dorado de la banda y soplaron el sufrimiento de la mente desnuda de América por el amor en un llanto de saxofón eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani que estremeció las ciudades hasta la última radio con el absoluto corazón del poema sanguinariamente arrancado de sus cuerpos bueno para alimentarse mil años.

[whileiamdying]

Howl

BY ALLEN GINSBERG For Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,   

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,   

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,

who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!

Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!

III

Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland    where you’re madder than I am I’m with you in Rockland    where you must feel very strange I’m with you in Rockland    where you imitate the shade of my mother I’m with you in Rockland    where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries I’m with you in Rockland    where you laugh at this invisible humor I’m with you in Rockland    where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter I’m with you in Rockland    where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio I’m with you in Rockland    where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses I'm with you in Rockland    where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica I’m with you in Rockland    where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx I’m with you in Rockland    where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss I’m with you in Rockland    where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse I’m with you in Rockland    where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void I’m with you in Rockland    where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha I’m with you in Rockland    where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb I’m with you in Rockland    where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale I’m with you in Rockland    where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep I’m with you in Rockland    where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free I’m with you in Rockland    in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

San Francisco, 1955—1956

Notes: Read “A Footnote to 'Howl” here. Allen Ginsberg, “Howl” from Collected Poems, 1947-1980. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg. Used with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

[handeaux]

Whither Cincinnati’s Erstwhile Wooden Tribe? The Demise Of The Cigar-Store Indian

Throughout the summer of 1888, Cincinnati erupted in celebration of its centennial, marking 100 years since the first settlers pulled ashore here. In the middle of the festivities, an unnamed reporter for the Cincinnati Post [2 July 1888] composed a fantasy in which he imagined all of the wooden cigar-store Indians in town brought to life one midnight. With the temporary gift of movement and speech, the statues gathered on the banks of the river to contemplate the pageant of the past century.

The gist of that fairy tale – that one hundred years of progress had done little to improve on the conditions that existed before the settlers arrived – is irrelevant to our story today. The important fact is the reporter’s estimate of the number of participants:

“The group consisted of about 200 wooden Indians that usually adorn the fronts of the Cincinnati cigar shops.”

Just how many cigar shops did Cincinnati have in 1888? A quick count of that year’s city directory reveals nearly 500 cigar and tobacco shops in a town of 290,000 people. If a large minority of these vendors plunked a wooden native on the sidewalk in front of his shop, it is entirely possible that there were, in 1888, something like 200 wooden statues of Native Americans in Cincinnati.

William C. Smith, in his delightful book, “Queen City Yesterdays,” recalls their ubiquity when he was a child living on Central Avenue:

“Indians were plentiful on the Avenue but they were of the inanimate type, constructed of wood, and stood on pedestals in front of cigar stores.”

With so many statues scattered around town, it makes another item from the Cincinnati Post all the more remarkable. Just 28 years after counting 200 wooden Indians, the Post [12 September 1916] published this squib in its Village Gossip column:

“By the way, what has become of the old cigar store Indian? So rare is he that if any cigar dealer who still keeps an Indian in front of his store will notify me to that effect, I will send or photographer to get a picture of him – I mean the Indian.”

In response to the Village Gossip, several readers directed the Post’s photographer to Nathaniel Aglar’s cigar store on Front Street near Broadway. Mr. Aglar claimed that his wooden sales associate had stood outside his store for 30 years and that the statue was 40 years old when he acquired it.

Twenty years onward, Mr. Aglar’s Indian had apparently disappeared because the Post [5 March 1938] could only locate two wooden Indians still standing outside Cincinnati tobacconists. “Chief Kusnick,” also known for unknown reasons as “Sam Pincus,” stood guard outside John Fugazzi’s cigar shop on East Sixth street and “Chief Mueller” guarded William Mueller’s store on East Fifth Street.

During their heyday, Cincinnati’s cigar-store Indians actively participated in the city’s street life, usually against their will. The local newspapers regularly published accounts along the lines of this item from the Enquirer [30 July 1876]:

“A young man, well known in the West End, went over the Rhine last night and dropped his wealth so freely around among the beer halls that he was soon in a frame of mind to avenge Custer. His first victim was a wooden Indian which was standing in front of a cigar store, innocently pointing people to the fine stock within. The warrior disposed of, the Avenger tried to get in his work on a policeman, whom he mistook for Sitting Bull. But he failed, and to-morrow Judge Lindemann will throw chuck-a-luck with him to see whether it shall be $5 and costs or $10.”

As late as November 1938, police arrested an inebriated waiter for assaulting Chief Mueller, thus ending a tradition of fifty years or more,

It wasn’t only drunks who attacked the statues. In 1848, the Cincinnati Commercial reported that a pack of dogs attacked a wooden Indian mounted outside a cigar store at Third and Sycamore. This must have been among the first such statues erected in the city.

And then there were the practical jokes. On a frosty night in December 1882 Cincinnati Police Sergeant Philip Rittweger discovered that some miscreants had hoisted a cigar-store Indian from its customary perch and dunked it into a horse trough on Freeman Avenue, where it was frozen fast. Sergeant Rittweger telephoned Sergeant James Young of the Oliver Street Station and informed him there was a drowned man in his district and foul play was suspected. Sergeant Young assembled a group of officers and rushed to the scene. On discovering the frozen statue, Young put out a call for Rittweger, who made himself scarce.

The cigar-store Indian began appearing in American cities during the 1840s as steamships began to replace the great sailing ships with their magnificently carved figureheads mounted at the prow. The streamlined steamships dispensed with such decoration, leaving a generation of woodcarvers looking for a new market. As the big sailing vessels were dismantled, woodcarvers found the weather-beaten pine masts to be exceptional material for carving cigar-store decorations. Soon, a painted Indian was as essential to the tobacconist as a red-striped pole was to a barber or three suspended balls to a pawnbroker.

What happened to Cincinnati’s substantial tribe of cigar-store totems? Mostly they disappeared as fashions changed. A sign hanging above the door was more visible than a statue at street level. City ordinances prohibited sidewalk obstructions. And, very importantly, wooden statues in a folk style were becoming quite collectable. As early as the 1930s, Cincinnati newspapers reported collectors paying $500 for an authentic cigar-store Indian.

The Cincinnati Post’s Village Gossip, now writing under a more distinguished byline as “Cincinnatus,” lamented the passing of this tribe [25 June 1936]:

“Cincinnatus used to know many a wooden Indian . . . a friendly, mellow spirit that seemed to summon Cincinnatus into the store to stay awhile, to talk with the proprietor about the price of cabbages and the state of the nation and the way the Reds were going. The unbusinesslike Indian was like an invitation to leisurely loitering in a cigar store which in the Indian’s time was more a club than a business. But what now? Cincinnatus buys his can of tobacco and is quickly on his way again. With the departure of the Indian, cigar stores have gone into mere trade, abandoning romance, philosophy and leisure.”