Existence Womb (66)

   
   "Existence Womb (66)"
   
When the Moon did wane and things tend to end,
The reptilians did their very slimiest send,
To thieve Miriam away during her content slumber,
That fallen angel technology still having her number,
To further harass and make their wicked claim
On an inviolate womb so fertile; thus, their seed could mix and reign;
Next, ascending through the shanty ceiling,
Buck and Luke like zombies--dead to sleep with no feeling,
And the teenage girl (Miriam) was aboard the swirling craft,
Strapped on a liquid-like table, as if floating on a raft,
Encompassed by serpentine faces harassing with iniquitous cruel--
A toxicity so venomous that a virtuous knight would surely duel;
Alas, no one there save a glimpse from God,
A Trinity United, but evil is in balance within the Universal squad,
And her petitions and prayers were muted and mutated
Into panic and anguish--all sublimity hesitated;
Then, they probed her body for a hidden defense,
Finding diabolical solace in no shield, and the ominous surgery did commence;
Nevertheless, there is always hope
In crossing over an insidious moat,
For having drank from the Holy Grail out of humility,
Buck could not be forever induced into passive senility.    

Existence Womb (65)

   
   "Existence Womb (65)"
    
A prophet hath no honor in his own country,
And we selfishly slay our heroes; next, must become a non-brutal Mountie;
Alas, Buck took charge of divine humility,
Knowing:  It is rigged by devils for the richly dumb to not the light see,
Though if cleansed inside by a singular eye,
Like a candle burning that turns to ash a lie,
And while the mentally ill, or cursed, are viewed as mere trash,
The rich man fornicates with the whore in piles of filthy cash;
Therefore, it seems America is hellbent on pride,
Yet the love of money cannot peacefully hide
From the light of a loving, merciful God,
Him birthing a Son, giving the impoverished a magnanimous nod,
Knowing how to gel with the Holy Spirit,
David psalming to always be near It,
Beheading Goliath due to the giant's vociferous blasphemy,
And the weakness of science now makes the mistakes that the Church did once pee--
Times do announce the false greatness of the capitalistic stalker,
Yet the mammon does rust when compared to the delinquent truth of Faulkner.     

Existence Womb (64)

   
   "Existence Womb (64)"
    
   Miriam didn't approach Buck concerning info about the glowing light.  Didn't care.  Wolfman Templar could handle it.  She knew he would alert her to anything ominous.  So, she sang little jingles about Saint Nicholas in her head, eating a turkey dog on a flax seed bun with a crispy kosher pickle and some sea salt.  Meanwhile, Buck and Luke were discussing matters further.
   
LUKE
Concern in his fatherly eyes.  A bit of neurotic Hebrew sparking to life, but for a totally solid gold reason.  It's her womb, right?  The inviolate child?  Monitored since birth and hexed in adolescence--it all coming down to her spawning a Star Child--a possible Anti-Christ.
  
BUCK
Acting tough and rough.  No way Luke; everyone knows the Anti-Christ will have a mortal head wound and regain a twisted cognizance--like Hillary Clinton falling on her melon in the bathroom.

LUKE
This is my daughter--be serious man!

BUCK
Knock and it shall be opened.  Dylan tried it first; next, Rose brought it to a new generation.  The Christ is with us.

LUKE
A deviant Jew some might say, not being the King David the Holy Land needed in times of occupation.

BUCK
Don't give up on the Messianic juice of the new wine Luke.  Sure, I wish I was back in the junkyard working on small blocks that can outrun big blocks, tooling always with American Muscle, but this is it.  This is the big one.  They're coming after Miriam, and we need to get back to America; that's where all the guns are, and you need one Doc.

LUKE
A physician and a gun.  How have I been so unprepared my whole life, knowing too, something malevolent was on the rise?

BUCK
Hell, Doc Holliday had two guns.

LUKE
Merely a dentist.  

Existence Womb (63)

   
   "Existence Womb (63)"
   
Buck informed Luke of the mystical visitation
While the psychiatrist was girl-sitting on the toilet, giving a whiz or urination;
Specifically, Buck confessed that they, especially Miriam, were no longer safe,
And maybe wisdom should dictate their entrance back into an American State;
Indeed, it is a country of unjust laws, full of a plethora of selfish litigation,
Where minorities verbally and physically complain without brainstorming a cerebral destination
Other than Bush League colleges, taking pride in their weak momentum-moving selves,
Instead of autodidactically craving to read the classics off of intellectual shelves;
On the contrary, easier access to weaponry in the United States;
Plus, more money to be made, which does camouflage mistakes--
Luke the physician rolled it all around in his linear brain,
Not wanting to prematurely jump on an unstable night train.  

Existence Womb (62)

   
   "Existence Womb (62)"
     
   Miriam and Buck were playfully throwing snowballs at one another, no rocks inside, a few hundred feet from the shanty, where Luke slept heavily within after imbibing too much Crown Royal.
   The twosome were still a bit romantic, yet robotic when it came to touching, as if a greater force of sublimity was somewhat frowning upon their possible carnal intentions.  As they giggled and goofed off, a brilliant blue light, like shimmering azure ignited the outskirts of their Calgary location, floating till upon them; next, manifesting itself into the form of a 7 foot tall Nordic humanoid, golden-yellow cascading from his glimmering face made effulgent by arctic-blue eyes.  The twosome immediately got statue-like, feeling reverence and unearthly awe.  Buck was like:  "Leave now Miriam.  Leave now!"   And without hesitation, she obediently departed, curious, but aware that the supernatural is all-encompassing.
   The huge Nordic male spoke to Buck, voicing:  "You have done well for centuries and way way beyond.  Your book is written by the Almighty God, and you have not wended phobic, but engaged your destiny as caretaker."
   Buck bowed his head:  "What now?"
   The golden angel continued:  "Miriam is not to be touched, as your conscience has fed you this instinct.  Possibly, in futurity, by your heart and hand.  Just guard her with your life, for they are coming.  All the tinkering the physician has done will not mask her whereabouts; hence, prepare yourself for war.  War for the fate of a virgin, Miriam.  God's Book will no longer be deleted and edited by iniquity.  Fate can be spited, yet your brave intolerance towards nefarious entities grants you intrinsic courage to muster might and be her shield."
   Buck was like:  "When?"
   The angel offered:  "Like when knowing Gabriel--always keep an eye on God's Message.  Make yourself a child, yes.  But innocence can grow angry and defensive.  Do your job Templar.  As it is written."
   

Existence Womb (61)

   
   "Existence Womb (61)"
    
   Miriam entered the shanty, sauntering with a more supreme reverence for life; plus, that of the Holy Trinity, including the Angels and Saints.  She had extinguished her cigarette in the ankle-deep snow, saying a silent invocation to Saint Francis and Chief Mojo Rising for the litter; still, Smokey Bear had reminded her:  "At times like this, even you cannot produce forest fires."  Moreover, she was surrounded by fields of frozen prairie, and was content with her mild misdemeanor.
   Buck and Dad (Luke) greeted her with bright smiles and vociferous optimism, Buck hurrying to unload the groceries from the beast-like Boss 302.  Luke sat Miriam down, brewing her some green tea to offer anti-oxidants; plus, give her a boost of natural energy and life-long longevity.  They talked hockey for a bit, Miriam still confused, only knowing you put the puck in that goal or the other; next, a fight might break out, unleashing punch-out passion for the fans.
   Buck entered, put the groceries away, and used his telepathy in a sincerely sublime sense to know what his little girlfriend was pondering--as her protector, he had a right to sometimes monitor and guard her thoughts.  
   Luke continued on talking, engaging his daughter in symposium concerning mundane things, and reminded her of America's possible magnanimous echo, mentioning that baseball season would start in the Spring, which was right around the corner, not minding to mention the Blue Jays.  He wasn't fond of bigger birds that preyed on baby eggs; regardless, Miriam was having reverie of her deceased mother, and knew that the Blue Jay, like a wolf, while sometimes demonized, offered much sublimity due to their wisely-forged Animal Totems by Indians robbed of a land that never even belonged to them, but them to the land--servants and protectors of Terra.   

G. Gordon Liddy, Robert Conrad, & My Dad

   
   "G. Gordon Liddy, Robert Conrad, & My Dad"
    
   G. Gordon Liddy's tough guy autobiography, WILL, was morphed into a 1982 television movie staring the barrel-chested Robert Conrad. most famous for BAA BAA BLACKSHEEP, a fighter pilot story during the Second World War on a Pacific Island.  Plus, both guys were bad asses.  Just wanted to mention my hard-hitting father, a college football player, him having once threatened to punch me out when I was in my early 30's due to an insult aimed at the Pittsburgh Steelers.
   Anyhow, this is not a piece of pulsating prose or in any way poetic.  "Just the facts ma'am" as wends the words from DRAGNET.
   But Robert Conrad was on the LATE LATE SHOW in the early 90's hosted by comb-over cool guy Tom Snyder, when you could let the colors of ancient television fly into your home, offering simplistic entertainment before Internet Porn became all the rage with local politicians and troublesome teenagers.
   Robert, or Bob as Mr. Tom Snyder called him, fiercely boasted that when he came to New York, he liked to walk Central Park at night in hopes of getting mugged, all to see if his skills in the Martial Arts were still uncanny, making him the ultimate human fighting machine.  Tom Snyder was laughing his ass off, as was the whole behind-the-scenes crew.
   Next, Snyder asked Bob:  "What's it like to punch out a guy?"
   Bob replied roughly:  "It's like knocking one out of the park."
   The Show erupted in wild giggling.   

Existence Womb (60)

   
   "Existence Womb (60)"
    
   Buck and Dr. Luke noticed Miriam sitting in the hungry Boss 302, it rumbling at a standstill, her smoking a dancing cherry and engaged in prayer, possibly mystical communication too, which transcends prayer, in a sense.  As they looked out the shanty window, their hearts were made Christian Gold, having great empathy for the sufferings of the young girl.
   
LUKE
I think she has been through plenty; nevertheless, she is brave, holding up like a divinely defensive stronghold.

BUCK
I've seen plenty of shit in life Doc.  Remember being a Yankee Soldier during the Vicksburg Campaign, during Grant's Yazoo Pass Expedition, which ultimately put William Tecumseh Sherman on an ironclad, passing through the cut of Moon Lake--highly classified.  I don't have to read modern metaphysical books to know that Sherman with his "Scorched Earth" policies was something Otherworldly, possibly a werewolf.  But like what Bush said about Putin when he had him at the ranch, and they shot guns and drank Bud Heavy, offering:  "And I looked into his eyes, and knew he was a religious man." 
  
LUKE
But surely Sherman was a garden-variety werewolf, not having the sublimity of the Holy Spirit.

BUCK
Never can tell, as Jack Burton always wisely blurted.  Yup--never can tell.    

Existence Womb (59)

   
   "Existence Womb (59)"
   
    Snow was crisply falling in unique-styled flakes.  Miriam was weeping.  The Boss 302 rumbling at an angry idle.  Who was she kidding?  The Virgin Mary?  Miriam knew that she, herself, was no Saint, especially not the Queen of Angels.   
   Regardless, in physics, "Superpositioning" is being in many places at once.  Christ was potent and powerful, yet is He truly ubiquitous?  Could He be in all places at once?  Hear every prayer?
   Thus, if He could not, which is theoretically possible in theology; next, maybe the myriad of Angels and Saints could listen--give that holy ear and offer a vociferous request to the Christ, His Father, and the Highly Mysterious Holy Spirit--so not worshiped and neglected, but full of LOVE and constant gifts of spiritual benevolence.
   Miriam remembered Buck calling It Spiritus Sancti--the Good/Holy Ghost.  As a result of this sublime reverie, Miriam lit a hypertoxic cigarette in the warm muscle car, glared at the shanty and her bizarre life; then, prayed to the Holy Spirit.  Asking the Good Ghost to make her life more full of magnanimous engagement--helping and assisting other freaks like herself.  All in the holy style of mercy.   

Existence Womb (58)

   
   "Existence Womb (58)"
   
    Miriam was in a cerebral fog as she nervously piloted the powerful Boss 302 through the fluff of snow, exiting Calgary, on the glacial prairie path towards the fancy shanty she shared with her brave father and Buck, the Templar werewolf, animated to change by way of the sublimity of the Holy Spirit--hey, fangs can be a benevolent thing, at certain times of violent contagion.
   Anyway, she was freaked by her conversation with Brother Puck, and how he appeared out of nowhere.  For nobody was supposed to know of their habitat location, way up here, Northwards; moreover, the death of Christ was freaking her too.  Are Christians painted with a bloody target on their backs by the negativity of the fallen angel, now the adder?  And she thought of the Virgin Mary's suffering, watching Her Son tortured till a painful culmination of His corporeal self--for the possible phase of the time being.  
   Does anybody use the ANGELUS, that Catholic devotion celebrating the miraculous and unearthly Incarnation?  And how Saint Mary was visited by a linguistically cool Arch-Angel named Gabriel, and maybe more supernatural beings from the Celestial Hierarchy if we look into the non-canonized Gospels, such as the Protoevangelium--it also called the Gospel of James, or the Gospel of Mary, these texts leaving hints at Her potent power during early adolescence.  
   Regardless, Miriam must steel herself Maryways, getting her pestering hormones away from Buck's lean body mass, and becoming more like a peasant girl with uncanny greatness, Her bravely enduring the death of Her Savior Child.  

Existence Womb (57)

   
   "Existence Womb (57)"   
    
   Miriam, the very cold, Calgary bag boy nicely packing her Boss 302 and politely exiting, ignited a cherry of a coffin nail, inhaling the sacred toxicity; next, noticed a haunting specter of the past, Brother Puck, a big load of tobacco behind his puffy lip.   
   
MIRIAM
WTF?
   
BROTHER PUCK
You know how John Barleycorn died?  A glorious yeast infection!  Bacchus was not the true god of wine; Christ is the GOD of new wine.  Old wine skins cannot hold His New Wine.  And He says:  "I am thirsty."  Yes, upon His immortal death.  Once, in America, a woman called 9/11 to report her irritating and manic yeast infection.  Too, I've had a saliva duct stone, epididymitis, and mushrooms growing out of my crapper.  They were not magic mushrooms; I didn't attempt to imbibe them.  Yes, I don't have Sleep Paralysis like you, my mystical Miriam.  But I've endured harshly.  Done it smoothly and bravely.  Remember the Christ's vocal landmark of a vociferous, Universal Church reporting:  "He was obedient, even unto death."
  
MIRIAM
   Squinted hesitation futureways.      

Existence Womb (56)

   
   "Existence Womb (56)"
    
   A frozen prairie.  A cosmopolitan city.  Calgary, housing a bit over a million cold folks, drinking beer, imbibing a legal remedy, and polite as ice cold shit--a paradox, but greatness.
   Miriam battled the snowy roads with the Boss 302, using the low-end torque to rotate and manipulate her way into a grocery store parking lot.  She fell on her butt, once, for a sec, upon the icy parking lot; next, she giggled, kept her Templar/Bowie knife concealed in case spooks would offer an assault, and marched gallantly, once cautiously picking herself up off of the glacial conditions.
   She was soon to fall in love with hockey.  Remembering Putin play on television, somewhere over near Russia, and him never getting roughed up a bit; plus, with the CFL, sports Northwards were the crazy rage, all gladiatorial in a hard-hitting nature, to architect a solid man, a Nordic Warrior braving the beasts of the field, perishing without pity, yet accepting the hands of blonde, glimmering angels.
   Miriam kept her raven-haired head under a colorful toboggan that boasted of the CFL's Calgary Stampeders; indeed, she was gelling with smooth mercury.    

Existence Womb (55)

   
   "Existence Womb (55)"
   
   Miriam eyed the glacial city of Calgary from approach through the windshield of the Boss 302, it fishtailing through the slow Canadian traffic.  She was alone.  Buck and Luke giving her a chance at independent girl liberty.
   They also gave her a Jim Bowie type of knife with a red Templar Cross stamped on it.  She'd prefer a shotgun, being like Ali McGraw with Steve McQueen, pumping explosive ammo at the bad guys, whatever.  Buck only needed fangs, fur, and fright; moreover, the Templar Knights (Order of Solomon's Temple) knew how to engage in combative anthropology, even with primitive weaponry.  
   Those wise-fighting Templar Knights, disbanded by Pope Clement during 1312, the Year of Our Lord--they still existed, getting up everyday in fantasy land, living more in the clouds than on Earth, always looking for the allegory of the factual Holy Grail.  
   Anyway, Miriam was going to buy some groceries and cigarettes.  Heard the coffin nails were more expensive, up here, in the Great White North.  At least the prisons and health care were superior.  

Toxic Bliss (9)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (9)"
    
Thus wends the weird of corporeal culmination;
Hence, does exit the Ghosts from every Magnanimous Nation;
Regardless, to live in the Hereafter is an event for most mortal souls,
Having to face the Divine Justice System, yet the verbal confession of Christ pays tolls;
Therefore, have no freakish phobia concerning crossing over,
For goes the 1980's Rock Star for never being sober;
Alas, sick is sick, and medicine should be mercifully allowed,
For all conditions will ultimately lead to a death-faced shroud.
   
* * * * * * * *
   
   Just a kinda/sorta axiomatic quote from Wernher von Braun as memorized from the first aspects of Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, like this:

   "Nature knows not extinction--all it knows is transformation.  Everything science has taught me, and continues to teach me, is that there is a spiritual existence after death."   
  

Toxic Bliss (8)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (8)"
    
   Simon contacted his neighbor dubbed Buzz.  Dude delivered pizzas for a local Mom and Pop pie establishment--yes, they were true, hairy Italians, mixed a little with French; hence, the delicious and exotic pies were to be elegantly delivered, and Buzz was the man.
   Buzz had just ran some anchovy miles in his Dodge Dart.  He had improved intake; plus, outtake, redesigning the exhaust in his parents' garage, like Iron Man, and like a Middle-Aged Jack Kerouac--he lived with his Mom, Dad too though.   Anyway, Buzz had just dropped off a steaming anchovy with Gummi Bear pizza, and, extra cheese, "please" said the pregnant housewife, so single, and Buzz was in love, getting an Alexander Hamilton tip, ironed, or so it seemed, and very very crispy, totally so.  Yup, it was love, and the single housewife blew him a kiss before hungrily opening the box like a devouring wolverine and burning her esophagus on the hot cheese, but still going:  "Yummy."
   So, Buzz was Simon's babysitter for his frail father.  And having trust in the quirky neighbor, Simon took a lime-green taxi to the gastroenterologist for his yearly colonoscopy.  As always--it was a nightmare.  The day before always consisted of torturous cleansing, crapping poop juice until running clear, and with it, a bit of slimy gore included in the runny pseudo-stool.  If only he lived in the American West, they'd try cannabis oil to reduce inflammation and pain; then, do a fecal matter transplant, but the South was years behind; indeed, they are changing the world out West. 
   At least Simon got the Michael Jackson medicine to put him night night.  He started to tell the anesthesiologist about Bubbles, Mr. Smiley, or whatever the hell Michael Jackson's chimp was named; next, he went out as easy as cheesecake with a dash of cherries on top, as if a Mafia Hitman had turned him off like a delicious light.

Toxic Bliss (7)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (7)"
    
Simon was watching Richard Burton in THE ROBE,
A Roman-styled film with emphasis on Christ's Kingdom ringing in the earlobe;
Moreover, his father informed him that Mr. Burton could throw back the adult juice,
Marrying the most lovely ladies with pomp and spruce;
Indeed, it was a Messianic movie with the Supernatural told
So that the sinners we all are will with angel's wings unfold,
If we grasp for the Heavens in mystical manner,
Transcending the cliche of doing darling and dandy only on our Sunday planner;
Specifically, the mystic bed must always be made--
So grease the goose and feed the beast,
Resist not evil with mercurial scatterfeet,
But only steal God's Heart with benevolence and sublimity,
Defying even with levitation to trump gravity;
Next, the Holy Spirit does enter
Into your body, animating every word; moreover, every letter.      

Toxic Bliss (6)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (6)"
    
   Simon was sincerely exhausted.  Same old same old; specifically, changing, feeding, brushing his Dad--you know the rest; plus, all the metaphysical/spiritual compulsions to better-off his father and his own OCD with Tics.  Yeah, of course the garden-variety bullshit passed around at local taverns, where big-boobed hussies and dart throwing is the order of the night, followed by a smooth lager and some soul searching with the blitzed patron lap-dancing upon your intoxicated consciousness.  What a freaking blast--Simon missed David's Psalm:  "Wine to make man's heart happy."
   But it was beyond.  Verily, it did outshine with perplexing weirdness, the religious cleansing, the imbibing of Christ's blood, and the burning of incense and gemstones to radiate into your personal healing factor, boosting immunity and all the rest; alas, the VIVID IMAGERY, and sometimes animated--speaking, moving with dexterity, beyond you, yet so tangibly surreal.  
   Thus, the anti-psychotics, in case the Otherworldy visitations were negative, having a squeeze of demonic twist, shaken, not stirred, and so are you, never being a good-looking womanizer, never so lucky, but charmed into the bizarre madness of things unearthly.  And the Holy Spirit, so vivid with images of hues and colors, shocking the more than five senses into a state of beaming bliss.  

Toxic Bliss (5)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (5)"
    
   And a heart-shaped box from the visitors, glowing with a gleam unearthly, resonating from True Divinity, and the more-than-nuclear hands of angels making a delivery in 30 minutes or less.  Simon noticed nothing save the weight of his father in his arms, uplifting the downtrodden to a toilet bowl sanctuary, the patriarch's tears flowing with an almost irritation to both father and son, as they always did, testing true patience, and then, a bowel evacuation--a true release of internal pressure, and a child's smile on his demented, yet so beautiful face of gold.
   Simon returned him to his safety chair, fed him yogurt with strawberries, a glass of green tea, and a handful of pills to be choked down; next, he took his own, juggling two diseases; plus, his psychiatric interference, dismissing the political soundbites of Sunday morning news, where bullshit is always the topic of the day--they always say "Middle Class" and not FREAKING POOR PEOPLE, especially knowing that stress outshines genetics where so many cancerous things are concerned.
   No order of the day for angels, locked in eternal combat with the fallen, and it all denied, yet the sub-culture pushes and drops hints of tangible truth, yet dubbed pseudo-science and the rest, that American Green in the bank making it easier to golf, party, count your bland achievements, while denouncing with your pornographic glee, the impotence of others, working harder to please the benevolent hearts of those crowned by weakness.
   Next, Simon did find a smile upon glancing his thin, lean body; he was animated by something Otherworldly--had to be to complete all the labor he was engaged in, knowing his small frame transcended muscle--dude was all gristle, growing more grizzly steel by time uncounted.  

Toxic Bliss (4)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (4)"
   
   This was not Simon's first mystical rodeo; specifically, the Nordic females were no coyotes, but creatures assisting him in navigation beyond death, past that Sublime Perimeter, where the Otherworld exists--if not being ubiquitously cool and all encompassing, on some levels.  Regardless, Simon followed Frankie, the white coyote with one arctic-blue eye, and another shimmering-sunshine eye farther into the glacial pasture, way atop the equator.
    
SIMON
So, I guess it's not a cockroach and Keith Richards that can survive a nuclear war, but a coyote and Keith Richards.
   
FRANKIE
Be easy on the guy.  Being an addict doesn't mean you can't quit.  Statistics, blah.  The coyote is an anomaly.  After 30 years of heroin for the Rolling Stone, Jack Daniels is like mother's milk to him.
   
SIMON
Is he in touch with the Otherworld?

FRANKIE
Not in my district.  And those blonde angels, them Valkyries for your bravery of endurance--you have friends Simon.  It's just that those without eyes and ears cannot perceive us.

SIMON
Will you help my Dad?
   
FRANKIE
We have been--feeding you the mercy to do so.  Now come on--we should find some mice to pounce on.   

Toxic Bliss (3)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (3)"
    
   Simon braved the daymarish day; next, endured with little solace, brushing his father's teeth, feeding him peaches and chocolate ice cream; then, changing his steaming diaper, offering the sanctuary of a cleansing wipe, carried him to bed with his own weak gut and mind; furthermore, said a HAIL MARY and made the sign of the cross over him, hoping the garnet under his pillow would bring a higher level of cognizance and mobility.  Exhausted, Simon collapsed into his own bed, gave an ACT OF CONTRITION to God, and felt a glowing glimmer atop his forehead, and he was in the uncanny Otherworld.   A coyote, all white with one blue and one yellow eye approached, the Canis Latrans introduced itself as Frankie, it was in a glacial pasture, Northwards.   
    
FRANKIE
Don't touch anything unless invited.  Too, don't follow me.  The American Indian recognizes the Totem of trickster; nevertheless, more--stealing fire to gift to man, hiding our death in our tails.  You can't kill the coyote.  We thrive under negativity.  So must you. I will guide you to the Otherworld upon death--this is no trick.  You saved me Simon.  You brought God to your father, as the coyote will bring Grandfather, that Great Spirit to the people.

SIMON
What do I do now?

FRANKIE
Don't be sad.  Don't engage melancholy.  Adapt.  And we have the best digestive tracts on Terra's surface.  Toxic waste or an omnivorous diet, whatever, we give the Earth blessed scat.  

Toxic Bliss (2)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (2)"
   
On the Body of Christ did Simon sometimes munch,
And Coyotes can shape-shift in a fated crunch,
If you comprehend its Totem and wish on a Robin,
Knowing the Rook offers yearly reality, like an angler's bobber doing the bobbering;
Next, when you've pulled in any variety of flopping Bass,
All is Divine, like having a loving synergy with a Nordic-hued lass--
This is Simon's wishful thinking,
Him in clothed in much illness and never at his faith blinking,
For THEY visit him from the Otherworld,
Luminous females with girly curl swirls,
Tasting like colors--every hued sparkle defined--
Simon so alone, yet never in his mind.
And years ago a family member said he had no ass,
Being emaciated like a Confederate Soldier--fragile as glass;
Thus, he hated himself, knowing he was a true gimp,
Obsessing on their treatment--it making him corporeally limp.   

Toxic Bliss (1)

   "Toxic Bliss (1)"
    
   Simon squirmed weakly in his bed ornamented in STAR WARS sheets, with an R2-D2 quilt.  He knew he had to go to the gastroenterologist and get his Remicade Infusion, but with the painful anguish of a lower right-sided abdomen feeling like it was being painfully pinched; plus, with the dangerously glacial conditions on the road--he was a struggling soul, knowing the true definition of agony, and that he might miss his much-needed appointment.
   It didn't matter that his father was perishing slowly from a neurological disease, or that pernicious neglect had been offered to his disabled self as well as that of his beloved patriarch, for he had the affection of Nordic-appearing angels.
   Simon had been suffering with active colitis for twenty years, getting close to developing a cancerous large intestine; moreover, his social phobia and OCD (Flagship of anxiety disorders) caused illuminated imagery, not always benevolent, and he knew the fury of diabolical demons upon those baptized by the Holy Spirit, that Good Ghost being infused into the life-giving water contained upon much of Terra's creation.
   Regardless, he had to pull himself out of bed, reaching to the right side of his gut, the pain shooting through his colon like a large caliber bullet; also, a pinching sensation, that was no joy, but like a tainted meal from the nasty snappers of a rundown RED LOBSTER eatery.  What to do?  He prayed:
   "Holy Trinity, yes, You too Spiritus Sancti--help me; specifically, breathe life into my father's ill condition, as well as mine; furthermore, let us find a physician divine.  I love You.  I love the Living Christ.  But You Father--You are the epic architect, the intelligent design of our cognizance.  Please deliver peace to my Dad and my toxic gut and deranged mind, put in there a golden, healing light, and don't make that shimmering wealth of treasure be hard to find."  

Chris Christie bullies Marco Rubio

   
   "Chris Christie bullies Marco Rubio"
    
   Chris Christie has irreverently bullied Marco Rubio--but of course; that's what the guy does.  Shuts down bridges, not giving a damn about traffic phobia and his own state, crowning his monstrous self King of the World.  Says a 1st term Senator is a bad choice, like Obama.  What about Bill Clinton as Governor?  What a porn show his 8 years were.
   Regardless, Rubio was rising in the polls, and Christie, having hugged Obama in the past, diabolically calls him:  "The boy in the bubble."  Christ might offer:  "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth."     
   Moreover, Rubio wasn't stuck in repetition during his response.  He was simply pointing out that Obama is Harvard (IVY LEAGUE) smart, and knows specifically what he is doing!!! 
   Anyway, I would've taken a page out of Trump's vociferous book, looked the big bully in the eye, vocally probing:  "If you can't even control your appetite; next, how can you control Congress?"
   Obviously, obese people have problems.  As do all of us.  But just because you're a pseudo-Mob Boss, this deplorable axiom doesn't make it right to attack a smart, young man with a heart.  And BTW, I'm not voting for Rubio--I like Bernie.  It just made me sick how Christie doesn't think his crap smells, and it's probably the most toxic lard of all the Republicans.  
   Alas, in the kinda/sorta words of William Blake:  "People who control their emotions only do so because they have weak emotions."  I much rather see Trump make deals than slaughter myriads and initiate war.  You scratch my back; I'll scratch yours--Putin and China would go for that.  

Existence Womb (54)

   
   "Existence Womb (54)"
   
   Buck was intrinsically haunted by the spirit of the wolf before the Black Madonna became animated and prayed for his magnanimous Lycanthropy, way back in the early centuries when Saint Helena swayed her son Constantine Christways; moreover, he (Constantine) saw the alien/angelic cross flying through the azure sky--they've been dropping out of the heavens since before the construction of Sumerian Cuneiform.  And now Buck felt so ashamed of the lack of knowledge possessed by humans as quasi-academia drills bullshit into the brains of youth, the government insisting upon such, as George Bush knew:  "We are not ready to know--it would freak us to the core."  As would the knowledge of his search for King Solomon's Ring that was inscribed with the true name of the Abrahamic God, able to have an uncanny impact upon the fallen.  So, sitting in the Calgary snowfall, Miriam strutted up to him.
  
MIRIAM
Whatcha doin?

BUCK
All the supposed fables, and they still don't sink into the skulls of conscious men.  Language invented, and all cultures write of God and the lesser gods.  As if nothing is going on except the light of Bud Light and frat sex; next, a crummy job that defines you; then, you die, not even taking Pascal's wager to heart.  

MIRIAM
Relax, the coyote will bring the Great Spirit or Grandfather to the people.  And you're kinda like a coyote.

BUCK
The globe would be in a state of phobic terror.  The whole world put on anti-psychotics, like you were.

MIRIAM
And look how well I've adapted, like the coyote--adaption is true for most men.

BUCK
Save the power hungry.

MIRIAM
Screw those infected by the root of all evil.  There is more, and I'm gonna tell.
   
   Buck looked at her sternly, knowing this would mean the ignition of the angelic/human wars.  

Sad is a man with no friends; sadder is a man with no enemies

   
   "Sad is a man with no friends; sadder is a man with no enemies"   
   
   It's not easy being the quintessential freak--trust me; I know.  And when you have a myriad of social phobias, and obsess; moreover, when you're physically ill--there is always a bully; furthermore, sometimes those bullies are family members or pseudo-friends.  What would the sublime Christ sweetly offer?  Something like:  "My brothers and sisters are those that do the will of God."  But who cares of Christ these days.  Yup, ignite pernicious neglect, pick on those with asymmetrical brain patterns; next, purposely drive them to suicide.  You got what you wanted.
   And then the proud.  Pride:  Rebellion against God.  Look at me!!!  They pin medals on guys who carry backpacks weighed down, marching a few miles; meanwhile, those enduring the American Prison System for protracted periods get "the business", as the Beaver called it.  And who is the man having braved the most?  Locked up for years and shamed upon release, while soldiers kill innocent women and children and are dubbed heroes.  Again, the Christ:  "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven."
   Bogus physicians and attorneys armed with no compassion or mercy; plus, black-robed pricks incarcerating without any axiomatic knowledge of events.  Hell, DNA evidence can be planted--they've been doing it for years.  Cops with no knowledge of Agatha Christie, having weak Bush League educations, while men that are autodidacts are persecuted.
   Just like in the epic novel FIGHT CLUB:  "You are not the car you drive; you are not the job you have."  Verily, it's about treating people with respect, and having reverence for every human life.  We miss out on that in America.  And as life is over, for all of us, in the blink of an eye--the Divine Justice System is calling--and They know every thought and action of man.  Even as the somewhat atheistic Voltaire knew:  "To the living we owe respect; to the dead--only truth."