On this day, April 7, 2026, I John Presco, reborn my Lost Blog….

The Bohemian Democrat Register

Last night I found a post on Royal Rosamond Press that showed I had saved some BDR posts, but did not know where. I found two ports, and found the Presco Family photos on one, and the BDR posts on the other. I made a draft of this post at

12:52 PM.

Rena Easton was born on April 7th. She wrote she said she wanted to me..

The Muse Hall of Fame

The Bohemian Democratic Register

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Fucking the Cowgirl With Six Titties

They say every writer writes to some one special in their life. In Boston, I fucked women to Rena. I was angry because she took her incredibly sexy body out of my life, and then she show me the life-size nude sculpture of her boyfriend he was rendering in the art department when I came to visit her on the train. That is Molly Sims in the top photo, and that is Rena’s body – take off several pounds and years.

“This is war, you gorgeous Aries bitch!”

In 1972, Monday nights at Father’s Three was like catching tuna in a net. The bartenders handed out ten cent drink script on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday that could buy you a drink for a dime on Monday. It took me ten minutes to get up to the bar. I had to wade into a sea of hot chics, ten deep. I got to rub titties with the girls I would get to know later on. All I had to do is gaff them on my long pole, and haul them in my boat. It was easy pickens. Most of them were college students in their teens.

One evening I met two sisters. two pretty blondes from Wyoming. They were checking out Boston, and were going to go visit a childhood friend that was the Opaire for one of the great grandchildren of Gustav Swift, who founded the meat packing company. She lived in a huge mansion on Cape Cod not unlike the mansions we see above.

I took the sisters to my appartment on Anderson Street, and, we bunked the spare sister in the room of my neighbor, a black man who was a squatter, he not a true member of our cult. He would later rape my dear freind, a fifteen year old Roanoke Inidan, in the hall of the building I fought the Mafia for, but, for two days he restrained himself as I balled this beautiful cowgirl whose father owned one of the biggest cattle ranches in Wyoming! She told me she used to ride the line nude, lying atop her horse getting a suntan. She was an expert horseperson. She also had six titties.

When she got into my bed, I was treated to two ample breasts and four more nipples, three on each side. They were about the size of a man’s tittie. I was blown away. I asked her if they were all sensual. She said, some of them were.

“Which ones?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out!”

When we got to Cape Cod we hit the nude beach. There I am between two pretty blonde sisters, whose firm breasts are swaying back and forth as we walk nude down to the beach. These are real cowgirls! This was a snapshot, my Hallmark postcard I sent to Rena in Nebraska via the Astral Plane. I was their Hippie Trophy.

“Hey, check it out! She’s got not two, not four, but six titties! My new lover has a six pack – and she’s a real animal in bed! That’s more titties then you and your new boyfriend have – combined! Now, throw in the sister’s two titties – and mine – and that equals ten titties walking down the beach! Eat your hear out – bitch”

We arrived at the Swift mansion around four in the afternoon. I was blown away by the green lawn that went down to the sea. It was like a carpet, not a leaf on it. I met Mrs. Swift who had never talked to a Hippie before, because we do not travel in the same social circles. But, I had fucked this beautiful cowgirl here who helped raise the beef your old man stuffs in cans! I’m on the breeding end of your husband’s profit margin.

Suddenly – he’s home! His wife goes to the door in order to prepare him because he is as far right as you can go. He takes one look at me, and is fuming! I am his fucking enemy. I am the guy he kicks around and crucifies at the Mens’ club and the golf course! How the fuck did I get in his mansion. Where’s my security? And he wants to sleepin my house? Does this creep know Charlie Manson?

“What is this fucking hippie doing in my house!”

“No, it’s O.K. We’ve been talking for an hour. He is really a nice person, and very interesting.”

(He and his back radical friends are taking the Mafia to court)

“He’s quite harmless. I’ve invited him to stay the night.”

This guy was a little stewed, no doubt he coming from some Nixon fund raising ho-down. There were eleven guest bedooms in his house.

“The girls can stay, but I want that freak out of my house – now!”

(What about her? She’s got six titties?)

What a no-class asshole. I got up to leave, having no car or place to stay, and the sister’s got up with me. We walked out.

“I won’t stay in a house where my friend is not welcome!”

You go girl! Spoken like a real American!

This was my finest Bohemian Hour! The guy who may have had one dollar in his pocket, was worth more to these real cowgirls, then the dude who had a billion dollars in his bank!

Gustav Swift founded the YMCA known world-wide for its hospitality, and a song sung by a queer dressed like Molly Sims. There is justice in the world.

He was the second of three boys born to William Swift and Sally Crowell, descendants of British settlers who went to New England in the 17th century. The family (which included Gustavus’ brothers Noble and Edwin) lived and worked on a farm in the Cape Cod town of West Sandwich, Massachusetts (present-day Sagamore), where they raised and slaughtered cattle, sheep, and hog. This where he got the idea of packing meat.


A map of Barnstable County, Massachusetts dated 1890.
As a boy, Swift took little interest in his studies and consequently left the nearby country school after only eight years. During that period he was employed in a number of jobs, finally finding full-time work in his elder brother Noble’s butcher shop at the age of fourteen. Two years later, in 1855, he opened his own cattle and pork butchering business with the help of small loans from his family. Swift purchased livestock at the market in Brighton and drove them to Eastham, a ten-day journey. A shrewd businessman, he purportedly followed the somewhat common practice of denying his herds water during the last miles of the trip so that they would drink large quantities of liquid once they reached their final destination, effectively boosting their weights. Swift married Annie Maria Higgins of North Eastham in 1861. Over the years Annie gave birth to a total of eleven children, nine of whom reached adulthood. In 1862, Swift and his new bride opened a small butcher shop and slaughterhouse. Seven years later Gustavus and Annie moved the family to Brighton (near Boston), where in 1872 Swift became partner in a new venture, Hathaway and Swift. Swift and partner James A. Hathaway (a renowned Boston meat dealer) initially relocated the company to Albany, then almost immediately thereafter to Buffalo.
An astute cattle-buyer, Swift followed the market steadily westward. On his recommendation, Hathaway and Swift moved once more in 1875, this time to join the influx of meat packers setting up shop in Chicago‘s sprawling Union Stock Yards. Swift established himself as one of the dominant figures of “The Yards”, and his distinctive delivery wagons became familiar fixtures on Chicago’s streets. In 1878 his partnership with Hathaway dissolved and Swift Bros and Company was formed in partnership with younger brother Edwin. The company became a driving force in the Chicago meat packing industry, and was incorporated in 1885 as Swift & Co. with $300,000 in capital stock and Gustavus Swift as president. It is from this position that Swift led the way in revolutionizing how meat was processed, delivered, and sold.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustavus_Franklin_Swift

http://www.cheersboston.com/pub/

http://www.mapquest.com/maps?city=Boston&state=MA&address=84+Beacon+Street

Armour and Company was an American slaughterhouse and meatpacking company founded in Chicago, Illinois, in 1867 by the Armour brothers, led by Philip Danforth Armour. By 1880, the company was Chicago’s most important business and helped make the city and its Union Stock Yards the center of the American meatpacking industry. During the same period its facility in Omaha, Nebraska, boomed as well. That city’s meatpacking industry was the top in the nation in 1959. In the 1980s, the Armour brand was split between shelf-stable meat products and refrigerated meat products. Today each is owned by different entities (see below).

Gustavus Franklin Swift (June 24, 1839 – March 29, 1903) founded a meat-packing empire in the Midwest during the late 19th century, over which he presided until his death. He is credited with the development of the first practical ice-cooled railroad car which allowed his company to ship dressed meats to all parts of the country and even abroad, which ushered in the “era of cheap beef.” Swift pioneered the use of animal by-products for the manufacture of soap, glue, fertilizer, various types of sundries, and even medical products.

Swift donated large sums of money to such institutions as the University of Chicago, the Methodist Episcopal Church, and the Young Men’s Christian Association (YMCA). He established Northwestern University‘s “School of Oratory” in memory of his daughter, Annie May Swift, who died while a student there. When he died in 1903, his company was valued at between US$125 million and $135 million, and had a workforce that was more than 21,000 strong. “The House of Swift” slaughtered as many as two million cattle, four million hogs, and two million sheep a year. Three years after his death, the value of the company’s capital stock topped $250 million. He and his family are interred in a mausoleum in Mount Hope Cemetery in Chicago, IL.

The Bohemian Democratic Register

Thursday, January 21, 2010

The Last Muse

By

Jon Gregory Presco

Chapter One

The Muse’s Solution

“I am going to take Marilyn away from you and destroy you!”

These words were spoken to me when I was sixteen by my best friend, Mark Owen. We had spotted two girls fallowing us after school. A note was passed from one of them. It was meant for me, but it ended up in Mark’s hand.

“Come see me after school!” was what it read, and it had Marilyn’s address”

We had talked about what girl we wanted to be with out of the two. We both chose Marilyn. When Mark left to go see her, I put a new canvas on my easel, and with a sigh, did what I do best, paint beautiful images.

A couple of months earlier when Mark and I got to know each other, he was shocked to learn I was a virgin..

“You’re handsome, talented, and converse well – what’s the matter?”

You could say this story is about seeking an answer to this question, or, answering this question, putting it down alas, in words, in prose, in a fine work of art. You see, I was smitten by my Muse. She overcame me. She owned me, my very soul. There were no other Muses before her. She was a jealous Muse, just ask the beautiful women that tried to get close with me and bond with – her soul. I was her soul, and she drove me mad. She filled my head and heart with lofty visions and prose. She tormented me, gave me an incredible Lust, then aimed me at one sexy and sweet thing after another, and when I approached them for a date, she was furious!

“Where do you think you are going?”

“Ah!, well, I thought I would approach this girl I like in my class, you know, the one with the cute upturned breasts, and the mound of Venus that purrs at me like a kitty cat. I want to take her into the bushes in Diamond Park, and do all kinds of nasty hot things to her, with her, then, I want her to unzip my…..

“Stop! Stop it right now John Gregory! What is wrong with you! Have you gone mad! Where is the poem she deserves from you? Surely she wants a portrait? Why are you so selfish? If you do mange to sneak past me, get in her pants and put your Stradivarius in her – then what! Big fucking deal! You’ve blown your wad, done exactly what the little tart wanted you to do, and now she is going to take her warm little kitty and let some other dipshit play with it,

Now you got to your room, lock the door and play your Stradivarius. I want to hear sonnets gushing out of you. I want another Romantic Masterpiece about the lone misunderstood aching poet who is tortured by love, who withers away for want of the woman he can never have. I want real tears, and blood! Then I want total surrender to your fate. Only then will you rise above it all, the carnal, the base, the stuff that makes most men human. But, this is not your fate. You will soar in the sky with the gods. Earth women will want you now, like they never wanted any man, but, they will despair, rip their hair out because they will see you belong to me. When ever they go to a museum, a concert hall, a library, there WE will be, just you and I together forever and ever!

All the damn time, my Muse had me in such a state of extacy. It was all I could do to make it to school. My mind was torn in twain, in one second I am doing incredibly sexy things to the young girls who await, and the next moment I am pushing them away and replacing them with lofty, even religious visions.

In every class there was one special girl that I chose to focus all my attention on. This choosing of the Divine and Virginal Sex Kitten was the best part of the beginning of the school year. It took me weeks to finally decide who the lucky girl would be. But, because I never committed to anything, told any of my six Muses what I had in mind, I could change my Muses. I could be real fickle. Uh Oh! Why am I calling these sweet young things my Muses?

I would always take a seat at the back of the classroom, so I could see my Muse of choice. I would look at her, study her, and then put myself in a trance so I could write a poem to My Love letting her know why we will never know each other, never consummate our relationship. I wrote this when I was thirteen

The Dreamer

Leave loving to the lovers
And life to those who live it
Retreat my friend
For you are a dreamer
And dreamers can only dream

Forsake all hope
Of living a happy life
For you
There will only be strife
For the plays you have written
With beauty and art
Have no actors to act the parts

I taught Mark Owen how to write automatic poems on my mother’s IBM typewriter. I told him to type every word that came in his head as fast as he could. We then marked certain words in red, and then typed those words in stanzas to make a poem. He was blown away. He did not think he had any creative skills. He was grateful to find the poet hidden in him. We wrote automatic poems after school for weeks. Then Mark noticed the two girls. One of them was my First Muse, the love of my life, who is my dear friend today, who I am not allowed to have any contact with because her husband, a Jazz artist, is jealous of our undying fondness for one another, our need to be in each other’s company and care, until the day we die.

When Mark went to Marilyn’s house, I began working on a new painting. I was going to handle my disappointment at not being chosen, not being the one. I caressed my brushes, stepped back, and beheld my empty canvas, and with a note, a refrain, I took away the virginity of my white linen canvas, and we made love for an hour, with utter confidence. With graceful moves, dips, and flares, we performed our Ballet. We resigned ourselves to our Fate. We spoke without words. We………danced!

I looked up from my masterpiece, and there’s Mark coming in the door. He is not happy. Why is he back from Marilyn’s so soon? I guess I will hear all about her, the slick moves he made. He approaches, holds out his hand, and hands me a creased piece of paper.

“There was a mistake. This note was meant for you!”

Because of this mistake, I lost my new friend. A month later, at the ages of fifteen and sixteen, when Marilyn and I are boyfriend and girlfriend, Mark approached me in school, and said;

“I am going to take Marilyn away from you, and destroy you!”

These hurtful, almost evil words, will change the course of my life. It is only in the last week since the spirit of Rena come out from the canvas, do I alas realize Mark understood Marilyn was my Muse, and, if he could take her from me, I would be finished, the beautiful artist and poet. I would be destroyed. Because he was very experience with women, he knew what was in store for me. He knew, my love of woman was my Achilles heal. When I taught him how to be a poet, he had the answer to his inability to love women. I gave him his Muse! But, he believed that having Marilyn was a reward, was evidence, that he was a better poet then me, and a better lover then me. He was trying to steal my Muse from me. However, Marilyn had different plans. She only had eyes for me. She already loved me, heart and soul, and we had not even exchanged words.

In 1987 Marilyn insisted I got to the Berkeley Psychic Institute and get a reading. I was told this by a beautiful young woman who read me.

“People come into your being and take, take, take! You are powerless to stop them. I don’t know why!”

A week ago I realized I had a chance to marry my Muse. These are rare marriages. For an artist, poet, or musician to marry his Muse, and make her the Love of His life, is the greatest of human feats, for, this marriage benefits all of humanity for the reason these Creative Lovers protect each other, and when they are protected, even the making of a New Heaven and Earth is possible!

I began my portrait of Rena back in July, in order to impress my daughter and grandson who were going to be in my home for the very first time. My daughter came into my life nine years ago when she was sixteen. This portrait was a good start for two days of work. Everyone was dutifully impressed, but, I was left with the dread of not finishing it. I kept telling myself she needs to be thoroughly studied before I go in and fix the little details that bring your subject alive. I had not found the solution yet.

Then, I saw it, and with one small brush, I struck, moved in and it was like watching Marilyn and my sister Christine putting on make-up with their brush. All of a sudden, Rena began to come alive. She was there, waiting five months for me to get back to her.

“Hello Rena. Hello beautiful! “ I softly spoke after stepping back and taking a look.

“Now I see you. Now I own the solution.”

Then – BAM – I fall in love with Rena all over again! The brush falls to the floor. I clutch my old heartache….

This story is about WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN on so many levels. For fourteen years I have looked for a resolve concerning the egregious matters surrounding my sister Christine’s death. Impossible! There is so much ruin – everywhere. Then it dawned on me that rendering a work of art is not like rendering history. It does not have to follow liniar rules that keep moving time forward. Artists, poets, sculpture, and musician, all borrow from time. They are permitted to be time travellers, anything to perform, produce, and create a Masterpiece! Art, IS the Solution!

With this revelation, the hand of my Muse reached down and picked up the brush I dropped. Then, she smiled at me, and without moving her lips, she said;

“Has anyone ever done your portrait, Jon Gregory? Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are? Why can’t you see that you are beautiful? Let’s see if we can fix that, once and for all. It’s my turn to paint you, the way I see you, not the way it was, but the way it should be, forever and ever.”

* * *

In 1974 I went down to L.A. for my annual visit. Except for my father, all members of my family lived in the Land of Lost Angels. My sister Christine called me up at our mother’s house where I was staying, and asked me to come over.

“I want to do your portrait. I need to take photos of you.”

Overnight Christine’s paintings of beautiful young women were found all over the world. I admit I was jealous, because I had been a struggling artist since I was twelve. I was not alone, other artists I knew, and would meet later, would express their jealousy of Rosamond for the same reason. This is key, because the non-artists who surrounded my sister and her fame, would employ this innate jealousy in order to take over Christine Rosamond’s estate with the exclusion of the surviving artist in the family.

My claim to fame was the watercolor I did of a sailboat that was chosen to tour the world in a Red Cross art show that I rendered in seventh grade, in Mr. Kautche’s class at McKenzie Junior High. However, I was thrilled that a member of our family had made it, because of the failure of our grandfather, Royal Rosamond, to become a famous writer, and get his four beautiful daughter back in his life. Royal was a poet and novelist. Before Christine’s funeral, I found this poem in the box of photos, and told my mother, Rosemary I wanted to read it at the funeral.

Your Name

The tide was low today, my love

A cadence of the sea was wrought

In melancholy strain, and low and fraught

With whisperings of your name above

The deep sea song!

A shell that lured along the shoreWhispered;

“I love you evermore!”

I wrote your name upon the sands –

Would that I traced with gentle hands –

The minor chords were wont to spell

Each syllable!

The tide is high tonight, my dear.

The rock-bound shore loves the wave

But sends it dying to its grave.

The low base notes vie with the fear

The wind send on

The all-encircling gloom

Descended o’er old ocean’s tomb!

Your name is gone tonight, my love:

The angry surge rushed in above.

It cries aloud, with sea gull’s shrill

“I love you still!”

Rosemary and I were standing on Christine’s front porch when I showed her this poem and told her my intentions. I was shocked at her response.

“It would be highly inappropriate to read this.”

“What!” I said, and studying my mother who would not make eye contact with me. I knew then something was up, and for some reason Rosemary was allowed to direct aspects of the show, the so called funeral of Rosamond.

I did not stand behind the podium while my sister, who I had not seen in twelve years, lay exposed in her coffin but ten feet away. As it turned out I sat next to my niece Shannon, Christine’s eldest daughter, who was thirty years old when her mother drowned after being swept off these dramatic and beautiful rocks at Rocky Point, twenty miles south of Monterey.

Shannon did not get behind the podium and eulogize her mother, in fact no member of our family did – as planned. What’s going on here I wondered as I studied the threads and strings that were attached to my deceased sister, like a marionette. Where there are strings, there is a Puppet Master.

Arriving at Christine’s house, she lovingly sat me in a chair, as if she was my barber. With her expensive new camera in hand, Christine circled me while she studied me, then, when she saw what she was looking for, she raised the camera, and snapped the shutter.

The artist, Rosamond, shot the whole roll. We had fun! In each other’s company we always performed a skit, put on a little play. We shared the same sense of humor. When we were together, folks who loved us sat in the audience and watched the show. We could have sold bags of popcorn.

Christine now revealed he other motive for wanting to paint me, and thus immortalize her beloved brother. There were critics out there who raised questions after they discovered Rosamond was a woman

“Why are all HER subjects, women?”
“Is she a lesbian?”
“I thought Rosamond was a man, a man who worshipped beautiful women!”
“What a surprise!”
“This has never been done before!”

“I’m not sure this is appropriate!”

Rosamond was intent on answering her critics by doing a portrait of her brother, who she had worshipped all her life.

Before I went back up north I stopped to say goodbye to Christine. She looked perplexed. She had that famous look of puzzlement on her face that all who loved her will never forget. She handed me an envelope of photos she just got developed. I opened the envelope, and looked at the photos of me. Every image contained these lightening bolts that apparently were an energy of some kind that had been mysteriously captured by the camera. They were like jagged cracks that radiated from my head.

“What are these?” Christine asked.
“I don’t know!” I replied. “Perhaps the film was old, or left out in the sun?”
“Christine assured me this was not the case, and discussed this with the man who owned the camera shop where she had bought the camera and film, just for my sitting. He was baffled. He did not have a clue what had gone wrong.

Christine Rosamond Presco, never did my portrait. Her attempt to immortalize me met with failure – of some kind!