So there was this very brave man with a very unfortunate name I will tell your right now it was ‘Juanito’ which means ‘Little John’ sort of like I think the Robin Hood guy and almost like I think BONZANZA’s Little Joe.
He was a matador of speed and daring this Little John and he either fought this one bull for a year (1815-1816) or Goya painted him for a year (1815-1816) or it took Goya like a year to paint one painting (1815-1816) I can’t tell at all the books don’t make it obvious
Lame, yes, all of those explanations (mine) except the one year bullfight expliqué a year! Little Joe Cartwright did nothing so extraordinary in this world in BONANZA. He did however play
an angel and a country farmer in at least two other television series (even and no fooling a teenager werewolf before either like in the 50’s) but I couldn’t bear it! It was ridiculous! He was too sweet and too kind always except as a teenage werewolf in which case he was too tragic, oh, it was so sad
Perhaps he was like this in real life, too, although he was a body builder and smoked cigarettes and laughed on the Johnny Carson Show. People get nervous and smoke cigarettes
and build big muscles and go on the Johnny Carson Show because who knows what will happen next, hence why not? Muscles can come in handy during the unexpected, like, well,
Who knows? But I ask you: if God loved the world so much and loved Little Joe Cartwright so much why for God's sake why did he give him cancer? What kind of a love thing is that? People are afraid of death, hate it, don’t want it, don’t want it, hate it, are afraid of it,
but perhaps I am being too hasty: Juanito wasn’t, didn't, and he fought a bull for a whole year–how afraid is that? Or Goya painted it for a whole year, in any event, these guys–farmers,angels, fighters, actors, Little Joes and Johns re: death: they plow, they bless, they fight, they act, no fear, I swear
Look at Juanito, for instance: bad name, kinda dopey name, sure, but his shadow seems to be kissing the bull’s shadow in a rugged contretemps for all eternity like Hey it’s no biggie
if aquatints are eternal Are they, yes, they are, but as with all things, easier said than done but still, Hell, they can be done, oh so true, both but who do we ask? I mean
We can ask the real Goya as much as we can ask the real Juanito alas we will never see the real Juanito and don’t get me started on
Little Joe Cartwright, Michael Landon Angel Farmer Werewolf Muscles
although we can marvel and laugh at whatever we wish, why not, and caress the unexpected, the inexpicable on the butt, Let’s! Why,
Little Joe, what do you say to this? I figured as much, and yes, (1815-1816) or even (1815-?) it’s true, keep going, be corny, be sweet, be true, love those tints, and shadows, be you
Today I am smiling to see a whole new Goya– ‘The Speed and Daring of Juanito Apiñani in the Ring of Madrid’ 1815–16 (Etching and aquatint) where I swear to God Matador Señor Apiñani is pole vaulting a bull and you can see their shadows making out.
Today I thought: If I had 4.8 million dollars, I would buy Frank Sinatra’s Villa Maggio desert hideaway outside of Palms Springs, CA. complete with heliport and swimming pool and kitchen for cooking pasta like Frank Sinatra. But if I did that with my 4.8 million dollars, I would be broke, as Villa Maggio costs 4.8 million dollars. So I would like to have at least 5.8 million dollars before I bought Villa Maggio. Just to be on the safe side, 6.8 would be even better than 5.8, as would 7.8 rather than 4.8 or 5.8 or 6, or more than 7.8 if possible. 10.8 would be perfect–with 10.8, I would be the happiest man alive in the desert with a swimming pool.
When I met Mr. Simon, he introduced me to his father, Mr. Simon. Mr. Simon was old enough to be Mr. Simon’s father. “You’re much older than Mr. Simon, Mr. Simon” I told Mr. Simon. Everybody laughed and laughed. What was so funny? I didn’t know what the hell was going on. “What the hell is going on?” I asked. And everyone laughed more.
If only I would have waited: Mr. Simon would eventually die, as would Mr. Simon. Only I would be left to tell you this story, the story of Mr. Simon, Mr. Simon, and the Simon family. But who would listen? Everyone who was alive would be too busy laughing.
Ron Padgett occasionally mentions a Drunken Boat or two and there is a magazine called THE DRUNKEN BOAT and probably one or two rock bands called A DRUNKEN BOAT and Patti Smith is always "Drunken Boat" this and "Drunken Boat" that but none of any of this would have ever happened if it weren’t for Rimbaud in the first place who wrote his Drunken Boat alexandrian quatrains a work of delirious visions revolutionary in his use of imagery and symbolism.
Today is Sunday. Everybody else goes to church but usually it’s a day that I I always seem to spend being jealous. Can’t seem to get around it usually. I mean, you can’t think about being jealous very well when you are working at your job, Monday through Friday. And after work there always seems to be chores during the week. And after chores it’s easy to be deucedly tired. But it’s Sunday now, the chores are done, morning has broken *, and the first thing that popped into my head is The Drunken Boat that Rimbaud wrote at 17 and in rhyme and delirious vision and revolutionary in his use of imagery and symbolism. God I am jealous. Really jealous. Of Rimbaud, of course–who else? **
I can’t do anything about that of course because Rimbaud already wrote THE DRUNKEN BOAT drank a lot had a leg amputated didn't accept Jesus as his savior and died so I thought Well, I could translate it if I wanted to into English from its Le Bateau Ivre and I could call it The Happy Little Drunken Boat so that it would be a little smaller and friendlier and I could add one more line at the end like: “But in the end, everything worked out for the little boat and although it was still little and drunk, it was a very happy little drunken boat, gaily laughing and spinning along in the pretty blue ocean as the sun began to set.” This way I will have contributed in my own small way to the drunken boat episode. Now everyone would finally feel good about the little drunken boat. I mean, sure, THE DRUNKEN BOAT was a good poem, but most folks didn’t feel good about the drunken boat when it was just Rimbaud with all the groans of Behemoth's rutting, the horrible eyes of the hulks, bathing in langours, the dense Maelstroms and whatnot. And to top it off, the boat is drunk because it is filling with water. Filling with water, filling with water, when will it end? And there is no relief, only delicious visions, revolutionary in its use of imagery and symbolism, like hulks and maelstroms, which offers no material relief, so it worries people, they wonder how it will end, and it's terrible, and so I felt that I had to do what I could do about that, and so I did, and I wrote it. “Although it was still little and drunk, it was a very happy little drunken boat ..."
* 7:30 AM. The blackbird has also spoken, and in addition, sweet the rain's new fall
Boy, today is a depressing Sunday. I looked at my new Cowsills album and realized that for all the happy fun butterscotch days the Cowsills were having, it looks like they were living in a mobile home. I tried to look it up to see if they were really living in a mobile home but all I found out was that Mom smoked since she was twelve and promised herself a new dress for every Cowsill performance and died at 56 and Dad dropped out of school in the seventh grade because his Dad was an alcoholic and his Mom was turning tricks in Ohio and he died of leukemia. And now their ashes are together, sort of, in the ocean off the Baja Coast. But before they were incinerated, it looks like Mom was serving Pullman Loaf bread and pancakes to her kids in the mobile home. Later, kids would break into their home and pour syrup all over their instruments and throw them in the swimming pool. Oh, this was in California. I guess they moved from Ohio to California. So at least they had a swimming pool for a while. But all they really wanted to do was perform Beatles’ songs all day. And Bob Cowsill appeared on ‘The Dating Game.’ And Bill, also known as Bud, was so awful with the drugs that Marilyn Manfra wrote a song for him called DON’T DIE BILLY. Then he died. From ‘a number of ailments.’ Rich Cowsill’s favorite Beatle song was ‘Yesterday.’ As I said, this was depressing, even for a Sunday.