Saint Raphael and dogs

   
   "Saint Raphael and dogs"
   
   The Book of Tobias, as it is dubbed in the Vulgate, smoothly showcases the powerful potency of Saint Raphael, an Arch-Angel--the physician of God, yet mighty when driving away the dirt of demons.
   It displays that suffering may not be punishment, yet a test of sorts.  The endgame:  God gifts the just; however, the lazy-hearts, blinded by ego are sincerely punished; furthermore, it boldly states:  "It is right to keep the secret of a king, yet right to reveal and publish the works of God as they deserve."
   Tobias not only travels with Saint Raphael, but a dog as well--and here wends the weird of the cool coyote.  Not merely a sinister trickster, for the American Jackal has an infinite meaning.  A goofball maybe, able to unmask the wicked; plus, the Wise/Fool, catching neon-green tennis balls thrown by Angels and Saints.  If you can feel me, and so on. 
   As Johnny Carson would proclaim:  "Weird and wild stuff."   

Pineal Gland, Crystals, and Hematite

   
   "Pineal Gland, Crystals, and Hematite"
   
Those wacky ancients were not severely stupid, but weirdly wise,
For the gods and God are always dropping out of the sky--some do surmise;
Regardless, they claimed crystals offered communication with supernatural gods,
And crystal radio communication thousands of years later proves this with axiomatic nods;
Furthermore, the pineal gland contains micro-crystals,
As if a third eye or singular eye that receives and communicates like radio signals;
Moreover, the elderly ancients believed Hematite was related to Mars,
An iron based stone to heal blood disorders, as if healing from the stars.
Now we know Hematite is on the red planet's surface;
Thus, how did those dumb ancients know of such a mystical, galactic circus?   

Christ, Wicca, and G. Gordon Liddy

   
   "Christ, Wicca, and G. Gordon Liddy"   
   
   A Trinity of pure WILL!  Of course, the toughest scrapper in American History, the infamous though religiously Catholic G. Gordon Liddy, a master of the Latin language, being educated by the Jesuits, his autobiography was dubbed WILL, for he knew how to get things done.
   Named after Lord Byron, he was mad, bad, and dangerous to know.  Not near 6 foot tall, yet his physique transcended muscle--it was pure gristle.  An attorney, FBI guy, talk radio host, B movie actor, pilot, but best known for being a felon.
   Liddy didn't let this get him down.  He flipped it into a state of awesomeness.  He survived maximum security incarceration for years, all due to WILL.  He WILLED himself to survive!  And is one dude nobody wants to mess with--if they're wise.  Dude didn't bleed Kool-Aid, but the Ichor of the gods.
   And Wicca, while getting beyond the god and goddess, you have WILL.  You sincerely WILL it to happen.  But remember their mantra:  "Do no harm."
   And as for Christ--it was unearthly WILL in my opinion.  Christ never had a doubt about His Mighty Father.  He believed He could do it, and He did.  Water into wine, healing--you name it, and He sweetly did it.
   How was the most powerful God born?  Maybe He too Willed Himself into existence.  Like with Christ and the Resurrection.  It was a Divine Belief.  No Doubt.  Remember how He showed Peter the curse upon the fig tree as mentioned in the Gospel of Mark.  Here it is, KJV, MARK 11:24, wending with WILL and words, the demigod Rabbi boldly offered:  "Therefore I say unto you, what things soever ye desire, when ye pray, BELIEVE that ye receive them, and ye shall have them."
   Furthermore, The Living Christ wisely taught that if you don't forgive others; next, possibly, God will not forgive you; thus, there is Saintly alchemy in his instruction of WILL--better than the rest; indeed, His milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard--better than yours, better than yours . . . 

Love: Beyond socioeconomic status--for the wise man

    
   "Love:  Beyond socioeconomic status--for the wise man"
   
   They say many gods within the state of lesser polytheism used virgins; however, projected thousands of years before Christ for the Hebrews was a Holy Virgin stepping on a venomous adder.  
   The most potent and powerful God, the Abrahamic God, the One, True God, handpicked and selected the most inviolate of virgins.  Non-canonized Gospels speak of Her as a young adolescent put in special sanctuary, before the appearance of the Arch-Angel Gabriel, right out of the Multiverse and into our Milky Way Galaxy till Terra's foul surface.
  Almighty God loved a humble, poor handmaiden; furthermore, Christ, while He did love the tax collector, Matthew I believe, also took upon Himself love of the poor in spirit and the meek.  The adulterous too.  The devil-ridden.  Mary Magdalene.  And of course, fishermen.
   We can love anyone we want.  But are besmirched by the rigged system.  Yes, rigged.  Just remember, this Easter, after being tempted towards fame and glamour, Christ denounced it, being:  "Obedient, even unto death."  
    And if you don't have the imaginative process of belief; next, know:  Thomas Hardy.  Read JUDE THE OBSCURE college kids, and be prepared to be stupefied.  T.S. Eliot  called it:  "A work of sublimity."   

The Cult - Love

Existence Womb (76)

   
   "Existence Womb (76)"
   
   June had arrived.  And the big neon glitter was overhead out in East End--the boondocks of Little Rock, Arkansas.  Miriam and Buck were underneath the shimmering night sky.  The four winds were sincerely silent.  And there was no denying the existence of God.
   Buck didn't change under the glistening Full Moon.  The Strawberry Moon, as known by many, including the Algonquin Tribes.  Buck could manipulate and manufacture his wolf on command by glimpsing into the Holy Spirit's sparkly eyes--It living within, yet showcasing him glamour on the outside--if he needed it.
   Miriam was getting kinda fanged.  Could feel her incisors sharpening.  The inner coyote.  The little wolf.  Or, as some American Indian Tribes had more reverence for the many aspects of the coyote, the wolf was known as the big coyote.  And of course--there was the bizarre red wolf, a protected synergy of wolf and coyote residing in North Carolina.  But this was Arkansas, and Miriam could feel her poverty changing into something better than money--unearthly sublimity, and the miracle or possibility of all things related to the canine's mystical mesh with man.      

Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and Easter

   
   "Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and Easter"
   
   I've mentioned I'm a Catholic; nevertheless, one thing I learned from the Southern Baptists is the pure poetry of the King James Bible; thus, I will use it, mostly.  
   Sure, some say Peter "The Rock" was a bit jealous of the purified, healed woman named Mary Magdalene.  Woman:  A word used as a term of endearment at the time.  During the Passion, Christ looking down upon his inviolate Mother, saying:  "Woman, behold your Son."
   Anyway, plenty of weird and wild stuff forged from knocking Chief off the Tower, like Christ was married to Mary Magdalene, or that John, the Disciple he loved, the only one at the Crucifixion, had a homo-erotic relationship with Jesus.  Hogwash--like Christ casting devils into suicidal swine.  I still don't believe he ate a pork chop, even though breaking the food laws, as the Torah in the Flesh.
   But he let a doubting Thomas touch him after the Resurrection, yet not Mary Magdalene, as offered in Chapter 20 of the Gospel of John--like this:  "Jesus said unto her, Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father:  but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God."     

Wuthering Heights--no zombies!

   
   "Wuthering Heights--no zombies!"  
   
Emily Bronte, using the pseudonym Ellis Bell
Wrote a singular piece, northwards away from the gates of hell;
Indeed, no zombies; still, critics called it a "fiend of a book"
Without a deeper, Thomas Hardy suffering-kinda look.
Emily was homesick--in a loving manner,
Being birthed from a patriarchal shamrock's mystical scanner,
Not "Darkly" though, nor quirky and mystically bizarre as Philip K. Dick,
And as did Jane Austen--
All self-taught writers are as popular as Boston.
New England zombies are sincerely nice--
Though they move mercurially in winter snow and ice;
As a result, turn over a library,
And have the free gift of being metaphorically merry,
For mirth and might come in tales,
Which are rooted in truth, where freedom sails.  

Catholics hated by the Ku Klux Klan

   
   "Catholics hated by the Ku Klux Klan" 
   
   We've heard the conspiracy theories concerning Jessie James' prolonged career as a robber due to his supposed attachment to a "Secret Society" that preserved its members; therefore, James and his gang were like Long Duk Dong (proper spelling BTW), in that they had Everlast due to an underground force of enslaving power--it possibly known as:  Knights of the Golden Circle.  
   Are these hate groups?  Like the KKK?  Regardless, people will always say shit about somebody else if not haunted by the Holy Spirit, and even then it can be theoretically negative--if the truth is truly nasty.   
   Everybody suffers.  Even the evil-doers.  The greedy.  The proud.  The pretentious pricks of American Society.  Who cares.  Make your hearts like gold.  And believe what you believe in; moreover, know what you believe in.
   Having attended Southern Baptist School for 3 years, as a Baptized Catholic, I saw the look of macabre horror on the faces of the teachers and preachers when mentioning the Virgin Mary--as if she was and is a witch.  Or that ALL of Her apparitions are demonic.  Even Saint Francis saw the Adversary in Christ's form.  Jack Burton would say:  "Never can tell."  Indeed, test most spirits.
   Anyway, to those Southern Baptists, and yes, you love the King James Bible and the glory of Zion--I fully understand and respect that.  But be reminded of LUKE'S GOSPEL, the Virgin Mother knowing:  "For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden:  for, behold, from henceforth, all generations shall call me blessed."  2 thousand years later--and She's still correct, sir!!! 
   Some Indiana Jones-like theologians even intellectually surmised that Mary Herself penned the Gospel, or that the physician Luke needed Her personal story of meeting the Arch-Angel Gabriel.  
   Just know:  People hate everybody!!!  Ask the Russians from WW2 and the many millions of innocent souls they lost, or the Jews and their tortured state.  You are not the only one in a state of suffering.  And possibly, others suffer even more.   

Existence Womb (75)

   
   "Existence Womb (75)"   
   
   It was a protracted process; nonetheless, they weren't caught.  Buck got street papers for identification, very strong work in illegal fabrication; next, got a job as a mechanic in Little Rock at a crappy, greasy garage out near East End--the freaking Boondocks.  
   Anyway, it was cool.  Owner let Miriam and him sleep above the garage--it was a little studio apartment thing, had that vibe, and Buck's wolf and Miriam's coyote instincts, growing stronger everyday, took care of the vermin that was prone to crawl around during nocturnal hours.   
   Buck did get the buzz-cut.  Miriam adored it, for his facial features now appeared larger, and more elegant--his celestial nose and serious dark eyes with flecks of forest green; plus, the high cheekbones made it all worthwhile to watch, constantly.  And she did.  Him.  Her lover.  Almost.  But the time was coming.
   She didn't go for the Irish, punk buzz-cut; still, took it pretty darn short.  A raven-haired Joan of Arc.  Both the Raven and Joan of Arc associated with sublime magic and mysterious mysticism. 
   It is not an evil thing to change.  Miriam had been realizing this since living the past two months out in rural Arkansas.  You can become better with God.  And even the coyote teaches, though prone to be cunning and secretive.  Moses was not David, and vice versa.  God, truly, loves us all.  Even the fallen, perhaps.  Yup, Miriam was blossoming betterways.  

That Guy Is A Toots

   
   "That Guy Is A Toots"
   
   Toots:  something like honey or babe; on the contrary, can have even more slang, meaning the person is a miscreant of sorts, whatever.
   Back in the day, when restaurants had packs of matches near the entrance/exit, and Bennigan's was all the jazzy rage, it being an Irish-themed, tavern-like eatery, where brawling was only on rare occasion, my Old Man (Dad) took me there for some Bud Heavy.
   My Dad was a lady's man.  Nordic in appearance, with blue eyes even more aglow with effulgence than that of Paul Newman--God rest his soul; furthermore, my Dad would always quote Newman from the flick BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID, comically saying:  "Who the hell are these guys?"  
    Anyway, as my lady's man bio-Dad and myself threw back John Barleycorn resurrected in the brew, a hot-looking blonde sat across from us at the bar.  My Dad was all confident smiles and cool as Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli "Fonzie" until a man addicted to dandyism sat down next to the hot lass.
   The lady pulled out a menthol, and my Dad searched his cigarette pocket for some sulfur-burning matches; however, the well-dressed man unsheathed a cigarette lighter covered in fancy bling; next, ignited the tart's coffin nail.  My Dad did not look happy.  He turned to me, and in a serious but jocular tone offered:  "Mark, that guy is a Toots."   Yup--in another realm, my Dad was punching that dandy dude out.  

Existence Womb (74)

   
   "Existence Womb (74)"
   
   Miriam and Buck had hot-wired a 2006 MINI Cooper, turbo.  They drove hundreds of miles, her still ornamented in wet granny panties, and Buck's human face still having the glow of an angry and suspicious wolf.  It was silence.  No mercy.  Like a potently painful evacuation of the bowels from a disturbed colon; regardless, the made it to Tuscaloosa, having the serendipity of stumbling upon a rural habitat with a clothes line having a summer dress that fit Miriam, and a pair of overalls in confederate gray denim for Buck.  Plus, there was a new model Mustang, lighting Buck's eyes up brilliantly, his effulgent face happy to thieve the car, and they were off--for Arkansas.
   
BUCK
When we get to Razorback Nation---
  
MIRIAM
Razorback what?  I thought we were going to Arkansas?
  
BUCK
That's the nickname.  They love the Hogs like ascetics adore God Almighty.  Anyway, it's their football mascot, and we need to get some Razorback shirts, blend in--I'll give myself a buzz cut, and we'll do our best to lay low.
  
MIRIAM
Hey, I want a buzz cut too.  Not going back to that psycho pokey.  I'll look like one of them Irish/Lesbian Rockers from the 1990's.   I'm ready for a change.  A coyote change.
  
BUCK
And what adapts best to change?
  
MIRIAM
The coyote, of course.  As long as it's not a trick.
  
BUCK
Talk to God.  Know your inner coyote.  You may have an ace up your sleeve after all.     

Existence Womb (73)

   
   "Existence Womb (73)"
   
   With furious fangs, Buck ripped away Miriam's straight-jacket, revealing her in only a t-shirt and some granny panties--it was a good look, he slowly thought.
   Anyway, the alarms were boisterously buzzing within the government prison, and Miriam grasped her coyote cool, following Buck's mercurial strut the hell out of there.  He tore apart many guards, resisting their bullet power with uncanny resilience, his teeth the only objects to inflict any penetrative harm.
   Miriam grabbed a fallen guard's gun, simple .45 Colt--American made.  Now, feeling like a semi-automatic Doc Holliday, waaaay beyond the antiquated miles of single shot action, she exploded bullets at anything coming towards her, and soon, Buck and herself were out amid the galactic night, a full Moon raging brilliantly, beaming the Daystar's life upon nocturnal Terra.
   Buck immediately chewed a hole through a safety fence, denying its electric shock, and Miriam was cautious yet swift in getting through without being electrically charged any further than the human body already was.
   Then, they ran.  Her scatterfeet like Hermes reborn, keeping a steady gallop with Buck; next, as they faded from the unjust incarceration, she heard his telepathy tell her:  "We're going to Little Rock, Arkansas.  Second poorest state in the Union, and plenty of underground dwellings till we have this figured out.  Gotta steal a car first.  I can hot-wire a blender ya know."
   Miriam, activated by the action and juice of it all, in a state of bizarre jubilation offered:  "Damn, I think I pissed in my granny panties."    

Existence Womb (72)

   
   "Existence Womb (72)"
    
   Buck cut off his telepathic link with lovely, young Miriam.  Didn't want E.T. and their mega-minding probing to have spied upon the conversation; still, dogs and reptiles are much, much different--it's a fact of species.  Having a language, telepathically, that sincerely varied from one other.
   Too, Miriam had the Tungsten implant.  And there was no concern for the Templar werewolf to worry.  Hell, G. Gordon Liddy wouldn't give a rat's ass--in fact, he captured and killed a rat, eating its hind-quarter to escape any inner phobia; plus, Christ, Wicca, and Mr. Liddy had a singular axiom in their possession--it was Will; moreover, Christ's peace, and Wicca with the mantra:  "Do no harm."
   Thus, Buck looked into the Holy Spirit's Eyes, that female dove, igniting him wolfways, ornamenting him with much dog power, and a mysticism beyond the art of fable.
   His clothes torn to pieces on the floor, Buck willed himself to pass through the steel door, denying its metaphysical properties by harnessing the Trinity's assisting glory.  Next, he could smell sweet Miriam.  Her intact virginity, her fear, her wily sense of humor--and it was on.
   Running down the hall on all fours, he dodged guards and absorbed their useless gunfire; next, took a chunk outta a couple assholes, them brainwashed to serve an iniquitous, secret society of America, keeping the truth with uncouth, instead of doing the Ronald Reagan, giving us a chance to know and fight.
   Then, the sublimity and monstrous might of the tame werewolf knocked Miriam's padded cell door down and saw her surprise, wrapped in a straight jacket.  He wanted to say something cool through his wolfy fangs, but as a now American, influenced slightly by modern art and film, all he could think to verbally offer was:  "Come with me if you want to live."   

Guns N' Roses - Civil War [Live Farm Aid 1990 HD]

The Cult - She Sells Sanctuary

Existence Womb (71)

   
   "Existence Womb (71)"
   
   Miriam remembered herself turning over a library, doing the self-taught, sloppy magic of intellectual pondering; as a result, she thought:  Coyote Medicine.
   She remembered the canine was with her, in the past.  In a sense of the gut.  The fool.  Still, a true survivor.  Keep all your life's crap in that hanging downward tail.  Keep chasing the Road Runner like Wile E. Coyote--you will achieve by crazy, foolish, and a trickster's means.
   Surely, she was prettier than Caitlyn Jenner, but not to all people.  Some say that Dennis Rodman wanted to date her--that was the word going around the nuthouse.  She could telepathically hear the other inmates and their Pop-Culture humor, kinda.  Or was laughing to survive, another coyote thing.
   So, she reached out to Buck.  Painted his face in white marble within the theater of her own isolated mind.  Calling:  "Buck!  Buck, hear me!"  Over and over.
   Like the magic of the crow and raven, somewhat associated with coyote wisdom and intellect, she heard him call back:  "It's about time little girl.  I'm locked up in the Florida swamps, and so are you--I can feel your girly presence."
   Miriam back with:  "I'll seduce somebody when they bring me in my medicine; I'll find you.  We'll make it."
   Buck, getting a sense of wolfish strength responded:  "Of course we'll make it.  We're official weirdos."   

Existence Womb (70)

   
   "Existence Womb (70)"
   
   Miriam didn't bother herself further.  Yup, pure anguish.  The gruel.  The shit.  The stink of toxic captivity.  
   She could hear Buck calling.  Howling, gently, in her mind's eye.  That singular eye of the burning candle.  That third eye specter upon the forehead.  Christ's eye.  And she wished she had a piece of tumbled Bloodstone.
   Nevertheless, Miriam didn't bother with the smudge of lost fudge--the fun stuff.  She was incarcerated.  Fed high doses of bullshit; plus, no contact, not even with other bat shit crazy people.
   She pondered:  "Did I give birth?  A fast gestation, hmm?  Do I even get my period anymore?"
   It was all macabre, yet tasted like a sense of humor.  The werewolf saving her from aliens.  The ancient-astronaut axiom of it all.  And she was glad.  Even in a straight-jacket, drinking chicken broth through a lime-green striped straw.   
    

Existence Womb (69)

   
   "Existence Womb (69)"
   
   Buck could smell the lizard skin in the air.  Deported deep down in the Florida swamps, at some strange government-organized prison for weirdos and werewolves.  Kept trying to give him Haldol so that he couldn't change.  He knew their info on him was no good.  He wasn't a garden-variety werewolf, and they didn't know.  He played along, and knew that Doctor Luke sold out--not on everything.  He was still giving Buck a chance to be a hero and save Miriam from manipulated melodrama.
   And he wondered about her--though rarely used his telepathy, in case the gray/human government hybrids might be able to monitor his cerebral projections.  Regardless, he would find freedom.  And he would locate little, lost Miriam.  Let himself fall in love and still adore the Black Madonna with chaste integrity, at least.
   Buck had the power and potency of a wolf.  He was meant to be a lone one for over a millennium, but now a new force of nature was calling, and it was called life.  He had hid at the junkyard too long; plus, trusted Doctor Luke, once a physician spook himself.  Not again.  Not this year.   

Existence Womb (68)

    
   "Existence Womb (68)"
    
   Miriam was a monster--infused by reptilians and angels.  A Celestial Hierarchy gone bizarrely crazy; regardless, she hung in there--was a cliche, a trooper.  Did the Proust thing.
   When Proust's mother died--he could not leave the house.  Had a job at a library, showed up once in 365 days.  Was fired, kinda.  A physician, an attorney, or a priest--nothing else was acceptable--follow me. 
   Proust adored his mother.  Wore a fur coat.  William Carlos Williams, a physician poet, took notes upon James Joyce and Proust meeting--about truffles.
   Miriam wondered aloud.  Could she be heard above the cage?  The isolation of no rape?  The terror of "Sleep Paralysis" gone unsung?  Alone?  So alone.  Adorned in a straight jacket?  
   Where the fuck was Buck?  A good, theological question.  And she meant not to curse upon the already profane Earth, yet:  "He shall have no foul in his mouth."   
    

6 Man Football

   
   "6 Man Football"   
   
My gremlin days--what a mind-smacking fudge--what a braniac's lie!!!
All County Crazy--in the glimpse of a neurotic eye;
Regardless, go through the Slow Motion Zombie--
Your Grandma smokes Luckies and drinks a plethora of ground-up coffee;
Still, you didn't even attend high school;
Specifically, Dylan and Brenda make you feel uncool;
Thus, disregard the math and accept the "Bright Light" hit of a helmet that does ignite,
A good hockey fight;
Next, never say never to Canadian Football,
For even Moon, Theismann, and Flutie had to hear the Great White North's CALL.  

Trump & Bernie's Truth

   
   "Trump & Bernie's Truth"
   
   Under 50,000 dollars, Trump disavows yearly tax on you as a couple; moreover, a health care plan that fuels the masses.  Look, Trump in sub-culture--he has paid off poor people's mortgages; indeed, many underground fables about Trump helping the poor man.
   Regardless, yes, Bernie, in a political duel with Joseph, second under Pharaoh, making a flat tax; still, Bernie will squeeze the rich man, making corporate crap evaporate--if you wanna pay more; next, free college and health care.
  Nothing is free they told you?  What about Spiritus Sancti--all that heavenly glee?
  It exists.  The truth.  Salvation comes from the Jews, Christ told the Samaritan woman, and Bernie has the benevolence of a Messiah gone peaceways.  
   In my opinion, Hillary is psychotic, not totally bad, but has those crazy eyes re-imagined on SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, and her handlers manipulate smoothness.
   I just know:  I want someone who is honest, even in sin, as long as they preserve that axiomatic truth of their personal bravery throughout this hellhole known as Earth.    

Ol Red - Blake Shelton(Lyrics)

ULYSSES and Urology

   
   "ULYSSES and Urology"
   
   If you experience pain in the scrotum, whether celibate and hairy, or sexually shaved for adulterous surgery--it is anguish ridden; moreover, if your Urologist hasn't read the metaphorical elongation of ULYSSES, comprehending the male attachment to his own corporeal equipment, however constructed; next, you might consider trusting in your faith, dealing patiently with having your urethra probed, or a simple yet terrifying ultrasound on your sacs of testosterone.  Sometime, all we can do is laugh at life's circumstances.  "Roll the dice and take your chances."  We all try to be like our heroes.  We better.   

Archie and Meathead on theology

   
   "Archie and Meathead on theology"
   
   We know Christ's Mother was inviolate, undefiled, Tower of Ivory; plus, House of Gold.  Possibly being from the Tribe of Levi; specifically, so pure and holy, having religious duty, able to approach the Ark of the Covenant back before Indiana Jones recovered it.
   And as Archie and Meathead bantered back and forth on an old ALL IN THE FAMILY episode, the topic of the Hebrews came up.
   Meathead said:  "Archie, Jesus was Jewish."
   Archie bluntly responded:  "Only on His Mother's side of the family."   
   Can we even talk like this anymore?  Is nothing funny save sloppy sex nowadays?  Look, there was only one perfect man--and you are not Him.  None of us are.  Till he arriveth again.     

Coyote Blue and the Kraut

   
   "Coyote Blue and the Kraut"
   
I have no real friends; plus, my Dad just died--
The Old Man got alcohol poisoning from issues driving him to transcend pie-eyed;
Regardless, he was a hard-working, steeled Pittsburgh man--
Left me a 1956 Chevy, which was not the plan
For Chevrolet--their 1955's and 1957's were the shit--
Oh yeah, it's 1958 Pittsburgh, and I'm not on a Flux Capacitor trip,
And my dog named Blue gives us great synergy,
Offering a playful, social activity,
Gravitating beyond phobias that used to keep me inside,
Where when Blue's Mom mated with a Coyote on the turf's joyride.
I've raised him since a pup, with an asymmetrical German mind,
Knowing Martin Luther is in Heaven, having followed Christ's mystical hind.
And my Mom named Michaela plays the part of the grieving widow,
A flaxen-haired lover of Bifrost--to the realm of the gods it does go.
Yeah, I dig my Catholic truths and pagan whispers from all of my life,
But having blonde hair and blue eyes in 1958--I'm always in a fight.
Especially since my name is German, and so am I--
Trust me, I'm a decent soul, but I've been served my humble pie,
But since Korea, I'm not that shy.   

Killer Tomatoes!

   
   "Killer Tomatoes!"
   
I'm fragile, easily fractured, and a bit bizarrely brittle;
Nonetheless, I eat sardines with soft bones, morphing myself beyond muscle--total gristle;
Alas, living, mostly, on bananas and good bacteria yogurt,
I honorably attempt to heal a gut feeling--never on instinct hurt.
Oh, how I'm freaked by:  RETURN OF THE KILLER TOMATOES!
Specifically, when George Clooney had synergy with B-Movies, residing in grottos.
Oh well, the tomato and its anti-oxidant zest does churn the burn;
Hence, I engage the elegant cucumber, and how with digestion it does peacefully learn.  

The Holy Spirit is feminine?

   
   "The Holy Spirit is feminine?"
   
Concerning grammatical gender,
The Holy Spirit, that Holy Dove, is an effulgent light so vivid yet tender;
Regardless, in Hebrew and Aramaic sound
It seems feminine, as if with God and Christ having gelled and been lovingly found;
Still, the Greek does neuter the word,
And in Latin, it is He being the "Helper" for the spiritually disturbed--
Saint Jerome around the 4th Century
Couldn't halt pondering dancing women so corporeally lovely;
Thus, he learned the Hebrew script,
Forging the Vulgate, further expressing that the Blood of Christ needs to be sipped.
At any rate of how the Holy Dove comes to thee--
The Paraclete is a comforter, not rotten fruit from a forbidden tree,
And there was a mystical man having a galactic twin--his name was Mani,
Possibly claiming to be the "Helper" that Christ said was holy luminosity;
Alas, they beheaded Mani; next, stuffed his body with straw,
Hanging it on a gate--many saw;
Regardless, we must all energetically love, floating above,
Like Noah's release of the platinum dove.   

Grandmas and Bullying

   
   "Grandmas and Bullying"
   
   Neither of my Grandmas accepted the humility of bullying; alas, Christ with the Crown of Thorns, meditation upon the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Holy Rosary and on that particular suffering equates to a love of humiliations; still, they, the elderly females, took no shit.
   Grandma King was English/Irish, and Dad told me she stood up to truculent neighbors armed with animosity concerning her slow-moving age--the steeled lady, holding her own.
   Grandma Bertha, had a witch bottle, like Nancy Reagan, potent with the forces of the Milky Way Galaxy, filling it with pins, needles, wine, and possibly a hefty urination.
  I adore the Irish and their Celtic Knot, that Endless, Mystical Transfiguration of Regeneration.  We must all be Doc Holliday at some point, even having a friend in Wyatt Earp, his cunning wisdom knowing that a gimp can gunslay the best of them, and that standing up for yourself against a wicked commentary aimed to take control and iniquitously aim your compulsions into a mortification of the senses beyond the Saints, well, that is hideous, and deserves Saint Patrick's wolfmake; plus, the shield and sword of Saint Michael himself, a fighting angel, armed with unearthly steel, like Tungsten, and beyond the scratch of defeat.     

Shamrocks, Werewolves, and Saint Patrick

   
   "Shamrocks, Werewolves, and Saint Patrick"
    
Saint Patrick--so infused with anagogic mystery and magic,
Yet not in a sense of sorcery cruel, like with a torturous, technological gadget;
Regardless, using the shamrock's singular bloom of THREE
To express the Divine Trinity,
And if a four-leaf clover is good luck--
Possibly, the Virgin Mother having a gel, being with God in a state of mystical moonstruck.
And did Saint Patrick morph Welsh King Vereticus into a wolf?
Moreover, was Ireland's glistening green once dubbed Wolfland, filled with many a wolf?
Archaeological evidence on Ice Sheet reverberation over 30,000 years ago:  
Across Continental Europe to Ireland did the wolves on paw pads go;
Nevertheless, there is a plethora of plenty about fabulous fable and magical more,
Concerning the truthful lore of the Emerald Isle--Her once downtrodden and poor,
Yet having the best bard in the 20th Century,
Penning better than the English with language weaponry--
Whatever, have a pint or two of beer and ponder the love of Our Lady,
Knowing in the United States, Notre Dame is a great school, offering awesome theological gravy.   

The Cult - Big Neon Glitter (2009 Remastered)

My Uncle Bill

   
   "My Uncle Bill"
   
   Didn't go to college--my Uncle Bill; nevertheless, he could do internal block work on a motor, and after enlistment, made an officer in the United States Army, all due to his intellectual cunning.
   Uncle Bill, my Dad said, went about 150 pounds; nonetheless, he could tear up a bar in Pittsburgh, and punch out plenty of dangerous, drunken masters.  My Dad told me about his brother:  "That was one tough son of a bitch."
   My Dad played college football, a running back, linebacker, during the Iron Man days, when Frank Gifford commanded Terra's 100 yard green.   Anyway, people always counted Uncle Bill out.  Said he couldn't "control his liquor" and all that kinda bullshit.  What beloved, crazy Irish immigration.
   So, I guess if you destroy your liver by hard-drinking, and can control it, you are the linguistic genius of Jack Kerouac--if you can't--you are Faulkner, dropping a cerebral bomb on your own American South.
   Regardless, all my relatives need love--Christ boldly offered:  "Who are my brothers and sisters?--those that do the Will of God."  Still, Jesus knew:  We must forgive family, accept their bad ass toughness, enduring and braving all the bullshit of people ignorantly and stupidly surmising, without true intellect.  
   Love you Uncle Bill.  Wish you taught me how to fight.  I tell my son Francis--Uncle Bill was the toughest dude in the family.  Like I said--could tear a tavern apart.  And my Dad, a tough guy himself, was a bit phobic about rescuing his brother from the heat of the moment's brawl.    

Donatello's Black David, and Psalm 14

   
   "Donatello's Black David, and Psalm 14"   
   
   Michelangelo gets all the credit for sculpting David, the Bard/Fighter; on the contrary, Donatello's work is super-symmetrical, showing a lean, gristle-forged ectomorph in mystical fashion.  After beheading Goliath for an insult against the Hebrew God, David kept the giant's sword, using it for future battle.  Like little yet mighty Audie Murphy, the seed of Jesse was beyond fear of giants.  Be cautious of who you mess with, for all things are possible. 
   
PSALM 14:

1)  The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.  They are corrupt, they have done abominable works, there is none that doeth good.
2)  The LORD looked down from heaven upon the children of men, to see if there were any that did understand, and seek God.
3)  They are all gone aside, they are all together become filthy:  there is none that doeth good, no, not one.
4)  Have all the workers of iniquity no knowledge?  who eat up my people as they eat bread, and call not upon the LORD. 
5)  There were they in great fear:  for God is in the generation of the righteous.
6)  Ye have shamed the counsel of the poor, because the LORD is his refuge.
7)  Oh that the salvation of Israel were come out of Zion!  when the LORD bringeth back the captivity of his people, Jacob shall rejoice, and Israel shall be glad.  
  
Donatello's Black David:

Revelation 12:7-9; plus,13

   
   "Revelation 12:7-9; plus, 13"
   
   From the King James Version, having attended Southern Baptist School for 3 years, scholastically finding out:  They love Zion; moreover, the Word of God.  And for the believers in the reptilians, greys, and Nordics--here goes:
   
Revelation 12:7-9; plus, 13:
   
7)  And there was war in heaven:  Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels,
8)  And prevailed not; neither was there place found any more in heaven.
9)  And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world:  he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him.
13)  And when the dragon saw that he was cast unto the earth, he persecuted the woman which brought forth the man child.  

Mentally Ill-Fated In Web Of Wyrd

   
   "Mentally Ill-Fated In Web Of Wyrd"
  
Super-symmetrical frontal lobe stimulation
Does tend to increase shapeless cerebral capacity, for relaxation;
Moreover, they're self-medicating, you finite fool;
Specifically, no Orphic knowledge to most from Bush League school;
Alas, clinically insane is the felicitous name
For those having uncanny wisdom concerning the lesser gods and their game;
Plus, pain medication does not axiomatically subscribe to injecting heroin--
Only if you pursue the dragon, letting a reptilian win;
Nevertheless, there are morphine and cannabis receptors within corporeal mass--
We come from Terra's shimmering-green grass,
And to mercurially thieve away an individual's non-violent rights with an incarcerating indication,
Spawns a theocratic (Devilish), non-free American Nation.
Abe Lincoln knew:
"Prohibition is not taming of the shrew."
So live without mercy, thinking love is sloppy, frat-sex college;
Also, eat your Vaseline sandwiches and perish for lack of esoteric knowledge--
Many have imbibed things medicamentally and never hired a tramp-like moll--
So, sheath your guns in the ground, or like Adam fall,
For the sub-culture will never die,
Wisely knowing mercy; plus, that love outshines the establishment's rotten pie,
Aware of a glorious gimp's pain when the demons do revel,
Yet with Davidian Psalm is the playing-field made level;
Furthermore, Jesus Christ was a Jew--I guess so am I,
Having the crazy coyote of Woody Allen's singular eye.
Like Christ and Wicca knowing:
"A mystical glimpse into the Otherworld, and all the shit here overthrowing."  

Trump: Possibly, Islam Hates Us

   
   "Trump:  Possibly, Islam Hates Us"
   
   Not ambiguous a bit, in my opinion were Trump's words to Anderson Cooper; specifically, the devil is in the details, and axioms reside within the cerebral capacity of billionaires, sometimes.
   The Arch-Angel Gabriel teaching an amateur poet to read and write, giving the gift of the Koran, which basically informs:  "Life is over in the blink of an eye."  What Arch-Angelic linguistic wisdom.
   And it further instructs to keep your eye on the prize, that God knows every thought and glimpse into sin within every individual soul.  Christ, teaches the LORD'S PRAYER, giving reverie of His Father, claiming boldly and verbally that God already knows what you think; thus, say These Words.
   And even Christianity deplores America on some level.  The Internet porn, images harder to get rid of, more so than narcotic dependence, which can be flushed from the corporeal system.
   But Christians will not pick up the sword, yet supposedly, one bad ass mystic/visionary named William Blake, a mere tradesman to Fraiser Crane, knew Christ's Words:  "I came not to bring peace, but a sword."
   There is only that America should be apple pie again.  A Protestant Nation not further splintering, and a Catholic and Orthodox remembrance of the theological antiquities, beyond Donatello's "Black David" and all that well-sculpted jazz, constructing THE ART OF LOVE.  
   Damn, I sound like a freak'n hippie.    

Golden Girls -- Gonna Stuff a Chicken

Canadian Coyote

   
   "Canadian Coyote"
    
Canis Latrans--sure can into the beyond see,
All with afterlife orbs bizarre, a shape-shifting, Great White North made free;
Specifically, uniting the ill-fated,
And the many wolves with coyotes mated;
Thus, wends the better brain of the canine,
Offering a barking, playful lovemake--so telepathic, cerebral, and gelling with Effulgent Shine--
So get your inner coyote, if you dare a trick--get him honestly running,
Pouncing on rascally rodents; plus, knowing how to be cool and cunning,
Eating that floppy, marine-life Omega 3-filled fin
Of glacial sardines saluting--like Catholics on ancient Fridays skipping sin,
Going omnivorous instead of total carnivore,
Knowing even in "The City Of Angels" can toxic waste make a symmetrical scat score--
Never saw First Nations with so much unearthly might
Than the Totem-building shamans, architecting North American Light.  

Staying friends with ex-spouse

   
   "Staying friends with ex-spouse"
    
   Does Trump love the multiple ex?  I disavow any wisdom concerning the matter, for I am in misuse, morphing words into grammatical errors, making Kerouac proud that he fostered, and like a Buddha-styled, Catholic Saint lived with his Mom, and drank himself into euphoria, having a corporeal culmination met with completion of long-draft, a stream of consciousness lovemake.
   But no need to fight with ex.  Sure, a bit of animal-like animosity at ignition; next, a soft solace, marching towards the Platinum Dove, that Good Ghost, knowing God can insert a superior spiritual intellect into your life, and your ex in high heels, stumbling on park rocks with Camel cigarettes perpetually puffed--she is an adorable thing.  Not an emaciated, violated mutant of your mindmake, but a soul prayed for, knowing the adversary in Nordic Polytheism requires comedy.
   Moreover, this is a Universal Church thing.  A commitment to long-suffering and carnal misery--it's called marriage.  And the beauty is the Everlast--that Divine Endurance to say your "Act of Contrition" and Blast Off To God upon preparation for burial.
   So, yes, my ex cracks me up, and I worry about her carnal comedy; nevertheless, the only person you can control in life is yourself, and we are all, sometimes, a weird story written by the Hand of God.   

Emergency Room told me: "Eat a pickle."

   
   "Emergency Room told me:  "Eat a pickle."
    
   Years before, dandy dentist said:  "No need to worry about it."
   Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Oral Surgeons and Dentists, totally.  Next, big lump in my throat, speeding like a mercurial madman in a mini-van, one of 'em toaster vans, thinking my breathing would be cut off.  Then, Emergency Room Doc says:  "Eat a pickle."  They sent me home.
   It happened--removal of saliva duct stone.  An Internal Medicine Physician I've known for years, him fully aware I have OCD, immediately sent me to an Oral Surgeon.  It was a showdown in my oral cavity's corral.  Was Doc Holliday there?  I needed some whiskey.  Shot of Lidocaine-like substance; next, Doc and Nurse went in with sharp tools, glistening with soon-to-be gore.  
   I was just looking at the ceiling, trying not to make eye contact.  Doc was telling Nurse about his vacation.  Took about twenty minutes--he was having trouble getting a grip; then--he got it!!! 
   Dropped it in a little, metallic bowel the Nurse was cupping underneath her hands, as if holding the Blood of Christ--she did it with theological, not surgical precision.  It made a little "ding" sound.  

Post Script:  God Bless Nancy Reagan, and--for believing in things beyond.  There is Truth.     

Saint Lucy's Healing Power

   
   "Saint Lucy's Healing Power"
   
Saint Lucy consecrated her virginity to the Almighty God;
As a result, her mother healed by a Divine Nod;
At any rate, refused marriage to a polytheistic pagan;
Next, endured eye-gouging, which proved the axiom of a cruel nation;
Regardless, eyes restored upon preparation for holy burial,
And during November in 1981, her mummified skeleton stolen--so weirdly terrible.  

Epididymitis--Boy!

    
   "Epididymitis--Boy!"
   
Epididymitis, let me basically tell ya boy:
"Outlawed Elephantiasis of the scrotal sac Mr. Rob Roy."
Indeed, like mercurially hit tennis balls in the abdomen punching,
Making you hate the corporeal cruel of exercise-styled running;
Hence, as if Kerouac, you must get on the road to the physician, thumbing,
Not eating the naked lunch of Burroughs, which to the strait-laced is mind-numbing.    

Candida--YUCK!!!

   
   
"Candida--YUCK!!!"
    
I ain't fooling 'bout taking Diflucan--
Had a yeast infection, metaphorically, on rear and in mouth--like Turkey with Putin;
Anyway, Candida or blazing bullshit beyond,
Sings the wild and weird of a physician's song,
Offering:  "No dudes with weirder sickness than you."
And I am Leopold Bloom--agoraphobically a counterpoise-like wandering Hebrew;
Thus, I read the "Taming of the Shrew"--
Throw it back to ALL the guys,
Taking care of you with hamburgers and fries.  

Yankee Fox

   
   "Yankee Fox"
   
"Vulpes vulpes" might an Emperor announce,
Knowing the red fox can pounce on a mouse,
Being the foxiest of foxes; plus, as the Northern Native Americans did know
Can inspire insight and wisdom to the elements overthrow;
Moreover, the art of invisibility---though nice to view and see,
Some might say a feline-like canine, but having coyote scat that is symmetrical and free
Of many intestinal problems--yup, surely more dog with mirth and glee--
And he's come down to Nashville, haunting the suburban sprawl,
Playing in the grassy lawns, making our amusement laugh tall--
A bit of an entertainer from years of my personal observation,
Throwing the morning news before the Internet trumped a print media nation.   

Donald Trump's esoteric mercy; plus, flax seed overdose

   
   "Donald Trump's esoteric mercy; plus, flax seed overdose"
    
   The "Donald" and his Tax Plan gives couples making under fifty thousand FREE yearly taxes; moreover, individuals, whether due to Leopold Bloom's "problem" or, if females, with creamy yeast infections from intrusive, frat party discharge--whatever, he's looking after the impoverished.
   Moreover, there are many pieces of underground lore concerning Trump assisting, financially, poor people he meet through the art of serendipity,  And Trump University?  Have you ever read Thomas Hardy's "Jude the Obscure" pseudo-educated people?  T.S. Eliot called it:  "A work of sublimity."  
   And knowing the effects of organic golden flax seed--I've abused it to have super-symmetrical bowel evacuation; on the contrary, I never contracted euphoria, though upon fecal release it was a glistening golden parachute--for the day.
   They say we're weird.  That Trump is an anomaly.  Of course--keep Putin guessing.  Make the freaking deals.  Show me the money Johnny Football; moreover--get some couth, and you will be great.  Canada is always a year's worth option, to get the pigskin think-tank back.
   Trump cannot be bought.  Hell, Air Force One hasn't the golden opulence of the Trump Aircraft; as a result, a conductor for the gods.  Did not Herod find Christ MAD?  Is this not an anomalous Capitalist with a coyote's bizarre heart, of teaching, esoterically?
   And no matter how weird he was--Gore Vidal knew:  "There is no esoteric knowledge in a college classroom."   
   

Saint Teresa of Avila and reptilians

   
   "Saint Teresa of Avila and reptilians"
    
To become a recognized Saint ain't easy,
Gotta deal with Catholic investigation, a tough venture--like with George and Weezy;
Regardless, Saint Teresa knew of the 7 crystal-like Chambers
Till mystical completion, where there are no haters;
Specifically, she describes reptiles on her ascetic-like trek,
Beyond Terra's metaphorical swampland that can be heck;
Indeed, not only an adder in the Garden of Eden,
Yet a Virgin's foot on the head of it--to stop it from breathing--
Way back in Genesis before Moses did literally know
Of how to the pesky, lesser gods overthrow.   

Existence Womb (67)

   
   "Existence Womb (67)"
    
   Miriam awoke in a rubber-walled room, encompassed in a straight jacket, within the southern states of America, where they have no pity or mercy.  Dr. Luke enters.
   
MIRIAM
Dad!  Dad!  What's going on?
  
DR. LUKE
You know I'm not your father.  You need to get a grip on reality and stop this psychotic nonsense--you murdered your mother after all.
  
MIRIAM
What!?!  I was in a reptilian craft, taken from Canada.  My Mom committed suicide.  And you're my Dad.

DR. LUKE
I'm increasing your medication.  You're in an institute for the criminally insane--and you sincerely deserve it.  Exits.  
  
MIRIAM
Buck.  Buck.  Please hear me great Templar Knight and werewolf fueled by the Holy Spirit,  Please hear and help me.
   
   Miriam began to cry, fully aware of the iniquity of life, remembering Reagan's words that THEY were among us, making a once divine Garden of Eden into a den of devils.  Next, Miriam heard the angels call:  "It's never over Sister Miriam.  Don't ever give up--not even at the hour of death."