Blue Fox and Sister Chicken (2)

   
   "Blue Fox and Sister Chicken (2)"
   
   Everybody thought Blue Fox had it easy.  So damn foxy and handsome; however, that ignited the iniquity of jealousy; moreover, Blue Fox was a very humble Vulpes.
   Thus, having no friends, stabbed in the gut by circumstance, and being a luminous loner seemed like his doomed destiny.  The other animals just assumed he was severely vain and never gave him a chance.  Like people assume physicians are smart, when of course, they're prone to make a great number of mistakes due to lack of pity; alas, that is why the Bill Clinton Administration chose Dr. Jacob "Jack" Kevorkian as their Surgeon General and all.
   But Sister Chicken loved Blue Fox, especially for not eating her.  She felt sorry too that he could not chomp down on one of her blasphemous sisters like all the other foxes did, him meekly living on eggs, and breaking his back to be her friend.
   So, Sister Chicken decided to invite him on an adventure.  Possibly, she would suggest going to a river or stream, and maybe Blue Fox could gobble up some fish, which might ease his tummy pain.  
   Too, she wanted to be more than a mere fowl having only fowl friends; specifically, she desired an interesting friend.  She wondered if this made her selfish.  You see, Sister Chicken had a conscience, like the Holy Ghost running through her jive chicken soul.
   So, she dialed up Blue Fox on her cell phone and gently asked:  "Hey Blue Fox, wanna go fishing?"
   Blue Fox replied:  "Why not.  I love the glimmer of moonlight on an enchanted stream."
   Next, the adventure began.   

White Coyote

   
   "White Coyote"

   Northwards, Newfoundland specifically, there seems to be some white coyotes.  Possibly a romantic rendezvous between the pouncing power predator and a golden retriever.  All the evidence points in this direction.
   When wolves were hunted down in the Northeast, the coyote had more freedom and sprawling liberty; therefore, able to romp and roam towards the icy tundra.  Yet a rare breed; nevertheless, the mix in North America can be divine.  A mystical mutt can transcend the possibilities, yet a pure bred beast of beauty should remain in our revering hearts as well.
    The coyote just wants you to laugh.  Yes, there is unmasking the truth; moreover, seeing beyond the illusion crafted by monstrous corporations and control over the meek and poor in spirit.  Still, we must adapt as does the coyote.  It is in the animal's nature to survive with non-pernicious pranks, being the wise fool; specifically, the cerebral comedian, well-versed in truth with yips and yaps directed at Luna's reflecting love of a life-giving Daystar.
    Coyote hunts have been recorded for up to twenty hours.  Though mostly an agile pounce on a mouse, or even berries and melons to munch on.  More than an omnivore, for with suburban sprawl sparking the withdrawal of much wildlife, the coyote can eat trash, toxic waste from sewers, and yet still thrive in the gut, giving good fertilization to Mother Earth.
   There will always be negative people who shame or deny the coyote its true sublimity; at the same time, there will always be a bad dog at points of existence.  Yet following the path of truth, and adapting to the iniquity and negativity that might encompass you--this gives you the authority of the altruistic coyote.     

  

She-Ra; plus, Masters of the Universe

   
   "She-Ra; plus, Masters of the Universe"
   
   While attending Southern Baptist school in the nearly deep south of Arkansas, I was amazed, or marveled at their constriction of so much truth--even then, knowing, yet not knowing.
   One girl wasn't allowed to watch The Masters of the Universe, because there was only one Master of the Universe--the Multiverse really, but no details here baby.
   We were also forbidden rock and roll, dungeons & dragons; moreover, the uncouth, metaphorical grope of a woman's firm and symmetrical breasts as might suggest the adulterous fabric of country music.
   I still learned.  King James still the most poetic of them all.  But was ashamed for being there, due to the fact that I was Catholic, or as they said with implying insult:  Roman Catholic.
   And their constant weirdness over the Virgin Mother really pissed me off--as if she is nothing but a creepy witch.
   Alas, nope, I hold no grudge--that is a fool's negative eternity.  And there were sublime times, such as when in the 5th grade our teacher read aloud to us the work of C.S. Lewis; specifically, THE MAGICIAN'S NEPHEW, which is actually the first book in the series, or at least as the history and nature of the theological theme goes.
   So, God Bless them.  But God Bless all my Catholic teachers too.  The Nuns with the "I'll kick your skinny ass" guns.  Them tough, no-nonsense sisters of hungry humility.

The metaphysics of abnormality

   
   "The metaphysics of abnormality"
    
   Indiana Jones was no geologist.  University of Chicago and all that hyped shit.  An atheistic gravedigger finding the Holy Grail.  Get schooled.  Find your inner autodidact beyond the classroom, like the twisted yet honest Gore Vidal.  Verily, unlearn what you have learned in the quintessential bullshit of it all.  
   We don't know.  Leading causes of death in the States:  Physician and Nurse Error.  Yup,  That's how it goes.
   What did William Blake, a mere tradesman, say about the Industrial Revolution:  "Satanic slave mills that rob men of their imagination."
   Joyce, the Count, the Virgin--14 years to publication.  T.S. Eliot may not have had to encounter the whimsical whimper; indeed, Lord Bertrand Russell and the secretive affair, driving to make a dandy daisy.  What would Doc Holliday proclaim:  "You're a daisy if you do."
   We don't know the truth; we don't look for it.  It's all pseudo-science and the bizarre beyond, yet so cunning and true--if involved.
   But make that Johnny Football dream--make the millions and forsake your integrity.  That is the soul of man.  Reptilian-washed by invaders and the promotion of a Pineal Gland disturbed.
   This is life, and if Rose Quartz assists in the meekest of terms; then, LET IT BE!
   Crystals, communication--the ancients knew this.  Slave labor and copper chisels to forge the pyramids, right.  And a simplistic Hebrew anointed by Law and severe truth--is it too much?  Is it too much for you?  The mercy, the love, or Noah's release of the platinum dove?    

14 years of sublimity

   
   "14 years of sublimity"
   
   James Joyce, the 20th Century's most brilliant bard, fancied himself as a type of Count of Monte Cristo; specifically, an Irish slave to the imagination, hitting the English Queen's Language hard in the sanctimonious gut with his epic brilliance and admittance of his own corporeal truth through the wandering Jew, Leopold Bloom.
   Anyway, he would not kneel down and pray for his sick mother; nevertheless, Catholicism was always on the tip of his stream of consciousness quill, dipped truly, in the Blood of Christ.
   And was not the Virgin Herself mystically enchanted before Her Inviolate Ovaries were touched by the supernatural around Her 14th year?  Forged beforehand in the Book of Genesis, whether the mystical scribe was Moses or Ezra--who cares.  She steps on the adder's venomous bite; next, put in a holy sanctuary by Her parents due to revealing angelity and those scratches on the Godsmack that melts the cold hearts of men into marching Christian Soldiers, armed with benevolence and tamed by the Holy Spirit Herself.     
   What the French should call It:  La Saint-Esprit; indeed, Saint Jerome and his Latin tongue to camouflage dancing woman might have been a bit hasty.  But hell, he campaigned for the celibacy of the Priest, ascetically probing:  "Are these men afraid of sleeping in their beds alone at night?"
   And there is no hatred of femininity in Catholicism; moreover, the reverse.  They honor the Virgin with dignity.  They know She formed the fabric of Christ's Genetic Material in Her Sacred Womb; indeed, She is the egg-giver.  That was Her Blood and Tissue upon the cross at Calvary as well.  Yet possibly, only a celibate man, one who mimics Christ can obtain for the masses the divine art of the Transubstantiation.  
   Again, I will quote Jack Burton himself, the truck driver wisely knowing:  "Never can tell."  Save for the knocking mystic, that is.  

Guns N' Roses - 14 Years - Indiana '91

A Star-Spangled Heist

   
   "A Star-Spangled Heist"
   
   When you foolishly, or by extreme circumstance, get invovled and fall in with rednecks--you never know.   These folks I hung with during adolescence weren't complete hoods, mostly; regardless, there was this one Nordic kid.  Glimmering blue eyes with a prankster personality.
   Look, I was just the driver--if this happened.  And possibly, or possibly not.  Anyway, an XR 200 was involved.  A small level of cc's you think; on the contrary, that thing ran like a scalded dog.  Had plenty of low-end torque, a force that manipulates and causes rotation; plus, with dirt tires, you could lose any cop going off road or through someone's suburban backyard.
   So, this Nordic kid comes to me--we're about 16.  He says there's an American flag up the street, about a mile away upon the asphalt ballet that ran through the suburban-like vibe of it all with a country golf course and that kinda cosmopolitan shit.  Says he wants me to drive the motorcycle; next, he'll hop off and grab the flag, jump on back, and we'll speed away with rolling thunder, Old Glory blowing in the midnight air, underneath the effulgent Moon circling around Terra's toughness.  
   And we hung out with Vietnam dudes--our friends had Green Beret fathers.  So, Nordic kid scolded my first look of conscience and that of lacking adventure.  Told me:  "Boy, I'm gonna make a Veteran proud with what I do with that flag."
   It went down as planned.  I had the bike all the way open, throttling with an escape artist's determination, dodging danger with dexterity by way of the Honda-crafted dirt bike's wiry muscle.
   Nordic kid hung the flag on his wall.  Decades later he has further encased it within divine ornamentation, and it is in his living room, hanging on the wall, proudly on display for all the local ladies to glimpse before a patriotic shot at his privates.  Sex is big and sleazy in America.    
   Hell, it's America.  It's not about being depressed and being a robot.  Brave men honor the katana they took off the adversary during battle in WW 2.  Yup, it's different, yet all things are relative.  
   And as Christ axiomatically stated about your incoming karma:  "Blessed are the merciful, for they too shall obtain mercy."  Are you picking up what I'm putting down?  Get me?  

Slinging nocturnal newspapers in Nashville

   
   "Slinging nocturnal newspapers in Nashville"
   
   When they were passing out stupid--I thrived with excitement for some "no common sense" reason that has always been a piece of me.  And when the Nashville Banner offered me the position of District Manager for the Circulation Department in Williamson County, eagerly so--I turned it down to be the Assistant District Manager, out of humility and stupidity.
   As I walked out of my warehouse office on my first day, I met the "in charge" District Manager, an elderly, hard-drinking Tennessee guy named Jack.  In a gravely, chain-smoking voice he swiftly told me:  "Mark, I've been working for the paper for 30 years and ain't never had a vacation--I'll see you in 3 weeks."
    So, I was the quasi-District Manager anyway, but reaping less of a green harvest.
    As the Internet exploded due to Al Gore's technological architecture, he invented it, so I was informed by my Democrat brother, the paper folded, and as today goes--print media is dying with a withering whimper.
   So, I started working nights.  I'd listen to Coast to Coast AM, enjoying Art Bell and his spiritual science, like Einstein shaking hands with Aquinas, and the Good Doctor's synergy with modern erudition births a peace into the true fabric of space, time, and beyond--God, residing over yonder, within the Sublime Perimeter, keeping Heaven clean in meticulous and OCD fashion, washing with the fiery blade of Saint Michael all the iniquity from the House of the Lord.
   Nice times.  Poverty and her lovers, the Catholic Saints, know this suffering fact brings you closer to nature.  Not Hemingway shooting bulls, or the whole man against nature thing, but a reverence to gregariously gel and mystically merge with your moonlit surroundings.  
   I saw plenty of counterpoised skunks in their coloration, protective bucks, rabbits galore; however, my favorite sightings were of foxes and coyotes.  The coyotes always scrambling in a seemingly skittish manner, shy or skulking secretly, while the foxes liked to sweetly display their meals, the Vulpes vulpes (red fox) I witnessed for weeks in a row, giving me the most comical look with a big chicken in its mouth as I tossed the Tuesday news over his head, hitting the driveway perfectly.
   I used to love the comedy of my route list.  My favorite bizarre instruction for a newspaper toss was:  "Throw up in driveway."  And technically, my stomach contents never obeyed, yet as I take most things literally, I was tempted to puke upon the suburban sprawl of it all.  

The Anchorite

   
   "The Anchorite"
   
   Bobby didn't need the world; nonetheless, the world was nothing without him.  To imbibe the flesh of a demigod merged with True Authority, Papa; plus, that of the energy-flowing laser of love--the Good Ghost, that spirited aspect of the determined dove, seeking, behind the observing raven, so keen in its hope of foretold futurity.  Verily, God chose not swiftly, but wisely.  
   Bobby resided in the Pacific Northwest; specifically, North Portland, also known as the 5th Quadrant, where freedom determined by the King lived highly, that mighty David, slaying giants for mere blasphemy against his God, a true love, an ignited love for all things under that gifted and awesome authority--this is freedom's axiomatic right to rule.  
   But Bobby was no King David.  Who was?  The most read bard; plus, the best fighter without learning the hard way, like incarceration, but infused with meek neck break of an adder influencing the thoughts of men.
   And the Virgin, stepping on the head, adorned and ornamented in electric blue, so divine with aspiration to be included on the shamrock design, when it glowed azure before the healing peace of brilliant green.  Verily, Ireland deserves their freedom and respect.  Do not they have the most brilliant bard of the 20th Century in Joyce, admitting, admitting, admitting, that love is greater than the simplistic illusion of a mind haunted by gregarious girth-laced pea soup?  
   So, Bobby blessed himself, making the sign of the cross over his forehead; next, stumbled out into the streets, emaciated and keen, forged brilliant by the hardcore purity of himself, now.  

WARNING: Hanging out with the guys

   
   "WARNING:  Hanging out with the guys"
  
   Being a bit anti-social, yet in a state of ultra-sublimity mind you, I still have the personal history of engaging in locker room talk with guy friends at the pub before I hit my 40's.  It was totally toxic and severely sick.  Just plain, damn wrong.  But what the hell--we ARE guys!  Who gives a stinking rat's ass!?!  No politically correct blasphemy concerning our Bill of Rights.  
   Anyway, I was 33; moreover, still eyeing the ladies in tight jeans and short shorts in the rural aspects of Arkansas.  So one moonlit night, cruising in my creepy mini-van, I wended my weird way to the local tavern, pub, whatever, and ran into a crazy dude whose Dad owned a car dealership--they were filthy rich for Arkansas standards.  Unless of course you're Hillary Clinton and feed off of the reptilian money from atop the venomous volcano.
   So, we had a few domestic lagers; next, I ignited the evil and insidious flare of tobacco, and the symposium began on human sexuality--an anthropological kinda class for us Arkansas boys.
   Dude probed me with non-gay inquiry, asking:  "Hey Mark, you know what a Dirty Sanchez is?"
   Indeed, I did not, simply replying:  "Nope."
   He further ignited my intoxication by spilling the scatological beans about fecal matter and a girl's upper lip.  Hell, I was divinely disgusted.  Punished myself; specifically, mortified my senses by going home and engaging in ascetic prayer--yeah, an ascetic who smokes cigarettes, really?  Yup, anything is possible.
   So, that's hanging out with the guys.  Girls, don't let them do that shit to you.  Be a lady, unless of course you're steam-rolling over the minds of meek-minded men, royally emasculating bigger bums than me.   

Jesse James and the Green Berets

   
   "Jesse James and the Green Berets"
   
   Out in the bucolic boondocks, so pastoral and wickedly divine, the poverty pouring forth, yet the spirit of life and nature strong; plus, that of muscle car motors in the front yards; anyway, I knew a dude in that southern setting, a country boy named Jesse James--dude had a pet alligator.  I asked him if he could walk it on a leash.  He said:  "No, they're as dumb as shit."
   I held the alligator too.  It was in a water tank.  Weird crap.  Weirder than me.  His Dad with the Saint Andrew's Cross bumper sticker on the back of his beat up Cadillac; regardless, his Dad was tough--a Green Beret in Vietnam.  During training with a Drill Sergeant, they had a rubber knife with its blade marked black to prove if you could cut the muscular teacher.  Everybody failed save a Latino guy who was in a street gang from New York.
   Guy went at Sarge with the knife and Sarge went to block the dude's armed thrust; next, Latino dude flips the knife into his other hand and puts a black mark across the Sarge's throat.  Sarge was humbly like:  "Next."
   Indeed, you never know who you're messing with.  Whether an emaciated confederate soldier giving good fight or Doc Holliday only having 20% of his lung tissue functioning and yet still being able to gun down the cruelest of opprobrious thugs.  That's how it goes baby.  
   
   I'm a Green Beret; I drive a Chevrolet,
   Being Special Forces is one hell of a heyday . . .  

Attraction of the body, or heart?

"Attraction of the body, or heart?"
   
    "Wasn't much into book-learning."  Yup, said the King of Rock and Roll in a cheese stuffed movie in them early 1960's.  No heart chakra info needed, not just yet.  King David, a man after God's own heart, totally.
   Scald the woman with humility and be dignified, though a little quirky.  The mad monk, yet so tame and full of eagerness to get confronted.  Your reactions to encase the heart or scald the mind with perpetual icy cool.  You have a right to admire a person.  Love that soul without carnal cravings, shielded by the eternity of pulsating love through gaining a respect or even reverence from that person in eternal fashion.  
   Do some coyotes, or most mate for life?  Yet off tooling around and acting unlike tools; specifically, being themselves, alone or in a wild pack of Country Music, tobacco products, and small amounts of pilsner beer mixed with a mouse pounce.   
    King David would leave you to guard his concubines.  And while not having the intent of sleeping with them, and you wouldn't, not even the evil and loose ones, you might apprehend their admiration, which usurps orgasmic activity.  What a way to go for a Mahatma Madcap--hear me?  
    No, of course not; moreover, cavemen are mostly incapable of mustering telepathy.     

Blue Fox and Sister Chicken

   
   "Blue Fox and Sister Chicken"
   
   Foxes, members of the family Canidae, which includes wolf-like and fox-like canids, that synergy of the tribe canini, being Latin for dogs, includes Vulpes, the Latin term for fox, of course.
   But Mr. Blue Fox was not Vulpes vulpes, a red fox--no, he was Dodger Blue.  A strangely cunning yet innocent beast, more of a spirit than an animal, loving the most bizarre of things, including Sister Chicken.
   Blue Fox didn't like chicken bones; they were tough on his intestinal tract.  After all--he wasn't a crazy coyote capable of eating a dirty baby diaper and then producing normal scat, no, he was just a weird fox, and didn't want a tummy ache; thus, he mainly lived on chicken eggs.
   Indeed, when intrinsically called to haunt the hen house during the nocturnal hours, he met with a hearty female chicken, her dubbing herself Sister Chicken because she was a sort of debutante in the domesticated fowl community, being a star, hanging the Moon, and laying the most luscious of ivory-white eggs.
   Sister Chicken told Blue Fox not to eat her; specifically, she was a bit phobic concerning the small and blue-hued fox upon their first meeting, not wanting to be his nighttime meal; however, after explaining to her that he didn't like chicken bones, she offered him two fresh eggs each night if he wouldn't gulp her or her sisters up inside his predatory belly.   Blue Fox thought it a great deal, and they shook on it.
   So, every night, whether the Moon was Full, New, waning, or waxing--under that neon glow of Luna's Daystar reflection, Blue Fox met with Sister Chicken, and she had his two eggs ready.  And yes, they were scrumptious and totally yummy, filling his sensitive stomach, and easily evacuated into symmetrical scat.  It was a friendship and deal forged in heaven to display the differences of creatures labelled this way or that way.  
   Yes, we are all the same, but different too, some like the darker Yankee Blue, while others still pull for the Dodgers and their homemade hot dogs near the Pacific Ocean, swirling with aquatic life in perpetual swim and mammalian snorkel.  

Virgin Mary Statue and Ireland

   
   "Virgin Mary Statue and Ireland"
   
   The only mythical thing about the word MYTH--is that it's a myth; specifically, myths are forged in axiomatic truth, kinda.
   Wending my way through quasi-mystics and all the rest on the Internet, my Search Engine has done its share of the bizarre--I found a story about a Virgin Mary Statue and kids on the Emerald Isle.  
   It basically informs that some eager for action adolescents were partying too hard, in a park near a Virgin Mary Statue; alas, never be bad in front of your spiritual mother; thus, the legendary lore tells of the Statue coming to life and kicking the iniquity out of the teenagers, hopefully giving them a taste of the Holy Ghost Itself.
   Regardless, these are more than mere metaphors, but the weird on its way.  Like Christ taking enough.  Dealing patiently, but returning boldly to cage the contagion, one glorious day.  
   We are all saved by a glimpse into the Otherworld, if the pursuit of the high life doesn't bring us down in the end, that is.  Thus, keep your eye on the prize.   

Crafting a strategy for your sickness

   
   "Crafting a strategy for your sickness"
  
We all fall ill;
Still, the greater the view, if we have the constitution to ascend a volcanic hill,
And with severely scatological stuff like Inflammatory Bowel Disease--
There are years of I.V. infusions while catching every cold and having to acquire ease;
Hence, be pious and patient; plus, never lie to a medical man;
Specifically, like the coyote--adapt and architect a courageous plan--
All is in God's Hands,
Yet we have the privilege to petition the Heavenly Lands
For grace and reflection--all that mystical jazz;
Indeed, God is the Author; still, we might ignite a sparkle with humble pizzazz.  

Dierks Bentley - I Hold On Lyrics

Canis rufus--argute

   
   "Canis rufus--argute"

   Meaning shrewd, this animal, merging the gray wolf Totem symbolism with the myriad of meanings behind the Totem representing the underfed, skinny, lean, garden-variety coyote is a predator/omnivore filled with loyalty and sagacity.
   It is likely to thrive, highly, in the Eastern United States, and having turned over aspects of my local library, I learned, was independently schooled really, that there is government protection for these sublime canine-like creatures in North Carolina.
   They say when werewolves see the bright, passionate color of red they morph into man-eating monsters; regardless, Carolina Blue protects and nurtures these friendly yet skittish animals, and we should be thankful for the myriad of acres they get to religiously roam freely without a sniper's control of the fox in the cathouse, or whatever--ya get me?
   It's just nice to know that certain furry friends still have the right to remain autonomous without bullying, here in this awesome America.   Yup, long live the Red Wolf.   

Yankee Harvest

   
   "Yankee Harvest"
   
When the rightly wild coyote, loose and free, was in New York observed--
It was viewed over Grant's Tomb, not barking; moreover, not a yip-like word;
Nevertheless, with a head full of stalking curiosity,
The crafty coyote wended its weird way to the Lincoln Center with agile velocity;
Indeed, the coyote is severely swift, running up to 43;
Alas, be first wise, as Alexander Pope did write and surmise under the azure sea;
Regardless, have a beer for the General; furthermore, remember the flag,
For the Stars and Stripes boast of Liberty's brag.   

Bluebird and the crafty coyote--optimism in mistake

   
   "Bluebird and the crafty coyote--optimism in mistake"
   
Wishing with mud-colored feathers, the sad bird desires to shimmer Dodger Blue,
Diving into a sparkly lake to infuse the darker than azure hue;
Hence, because of belief and will; plus, a crazy dream
The bird morphs blue with elegant gleam.
The coyote sees--he too wishes to glow with the shine of blue,
And so repeats the birds steps and his fur is made the shame shade and hue,
Yet now he becomes proud of his cool mane, forging a mistake--
A lesson in hubris does revenge with natural paint,
Returning back to his stealthy camouflaged self, with a load of humility;
However, crafty as ever with cerebral luminosity.   

Camouflage Baseball Hats???

    
   "Camouflage Baseball Hats???"
    
   Bernie knows:  You need a .30-06 if residing in the radiant aspects of bucolic America, like rural Vermont or the thunderous Dakotas; regardless, you don't need a .30-06 if devouring the urban life in Pittsburgh, unless on safari every now and then.  He gets it.  A D-minus from the NRA.
   The Deer Hunter, a metaphor now, more than a movie; thus, I command its verbal font as so; moreover:  "This is this!  This is this!"
   Do you get me?  Drive a taxi when Hanoi Rocks?  
   Still, the rich getting richer.  The top.  How weird.  And everybody deserves respect, but to the dead--only truth, like Voltaire would recommend.  
   The Northern Europeans, and possibly, being a bizarre bit Nordic myself--I get the vibe.  Health Care for every soul--you will get sick in life, severely so, unless hit by a car or something ludicrous and viciously violent on four wheels, or the mercurial muscle machine crafted in futurity.   
   Just a Free America.  Once Again.  Like I used to say:  "It's a Free Country."
   Now:  Is it?
   Just wear the gear of your choice, splattered by the secretive hunt of it all.  You are everybody warped into a singular nation yet retaining autonomy.  Us, America.  And hell, I like Canada too.   

My Church Maren Morris lyrics

Pink Moon--April, 2016

   
   "Pink Moon--April, 2016"
   
   The Full Moon in Scorpio?  Possibly.  Check the physics of balance in your life; she is far from Terra's spherical nature, yet still glimmers with glistening gleam, and can light the path for true Lycanthropy--if it's not the kind that gets you locked up in the county pokey.
   Furthermore, a scorpion, a terrestrial arachnid, most varieties anyway, can influence their toxic sting, putting as much or as little as they need into you to defeat an adversary or get an easy, naked lunch.  Like a hungry, greasy man eating a cheeseburger with loads of Miracle Whip--him easily imbibing the dead cow and carbohydrate monster, even with a kosher pickle in a caveman way; still, he could rather munch elegantly, digesting with proper delicacy and consuming ease.
   So, remember to balance positivewaaaays.  The werewolf is not modern Urban Fantasy.  Sex hungry, carnivorous for human flesh, and just plain nasty.  No, the Native American Totems show the Wolf as loyal, friendly, and yet suspicious.  But can you blame him?  And without the Wolf to control the prancing animals; next, all the foliage is eaten and perishes without the benefit of Canis lupus; then, there is nothing but boring Mafia-like Vampire stories to be read for the eager adolescent to transcend his lonely high school days.   
   So take in the far away Moon, appearing still strong lately.  And possibly, you too will feel the power of a loyal dog, anointed by an aspect of the Heavens themselves.   

Jesus and the Cadillac

   
   "Jesus and the Cadillac"
    
   My Pap told me this in the late 1980's--the joke taking place approximately in the early 1960's, something he heard along the work line, when Dobie Gillis was All the Rage, driving coal trucks and pumping the brakes, my Pap.  It went like this, BTW, he was a Pittsburgh man, born and bred; anyway, here goes:
   After the strategic art of mystic Mass, a Priest finds a Lady's purse; next, looks through the purse to make a noble attempt to identify her.   Finds a driver's license and a pack of cigarettes.  He calls her; moreover, tells her about her lost treasure, and she wends her way to the Catholic Church to pick up her precious materials.
   When she arrives, the Priest gives the Lady a classy but sanctimonious look, saying:  "You know, the Virgin Mary never smoked."
   She took the purse with a firm grip; then, hotly yet humbly retorted:  "And Jesus Christ never drove a Cadillac."
   Yup, that was from a Serbian Pap, back in the Virginia days.   

STAR WARS - OBI WAN AND JANGO FETT TALK

Existence Womb (100)

   
   "Existence Womb (100)"
   
   In another dimension maybe, a singular spot on the Multiversal wax of many things wends the weird of the Chief, but that's how he got through life--by being bizarre.  He was frazzled and yet heroic.
   Regardless, that spot, Miriam and Buck in luminous lovemake, for the sake of reproduction, at least--I'll give them people that.  Both touched by the Holy Spirit.  Conceiving and bringing forth the fruit of life.  
   The fruit of Miriam's womb--the womb:  so much like life, feeding us our eternal aspects, forging them now on this field of play.  Buck knew a secret:  The Holy Ghost adored football, as a blonde cheerleader, so cheesy and old-fashioned America, where no pearls and pumps haunt with the evil beaver nowadays.
   So, the synergy of them in a muscle car.  Playing like a coyote and a wolf, till the fabric of freedom is woven, by that female entity, the spider, saving King David from treacherous follow.
   It is all together.  These people were not defeatists.  They just looked that way.  So depraved and desperate, feeling the anguish of death upon them all the clicking time.  Thus, they talked to dogs.   
   

Existence Womb (99)

   
   "Existence Womb (99)"
   
   They had a MAC-10 on Dr. Luke--an antiquated weapon, possibly crafted in 1964, though time too can be relative, and Dr. Luke, the good physician, succumbed to the "eating lead" of it all.
   He got this letter in a padded cell, for his posterity; moreover, his protection--even though he was a threat to the government's underground machine, he was a leaking-genius for them.  So goes:
   
   A needle through the hymen; next, cut from the belly--a virgin birth.  Your daughter to be the true ONE.  The ONE to give birth to the Celestial Child, a male, that could be injected by our super-science means.  A half-breed.  A Hybrid.  A Man in Black beyond the normality of the weirdness that it admits.  Yup, Dr. Luke, you can have it all.  A Grandchild that is a demigod of science.  
   
                                                                                 . . .  Your Friends In The Black . . .

Existence Womb (98)

   
   "Existence Womb (98)"
   
   Buck was under heavy fire from over-sized craniums; regardless, he dodged and ducked with telepathic agility, remembering Thursday, from the Rosary, the Luminous Mysteries, and the Proclamation of the Kingdom, knowing:  "He who will not accept the Kingdom of Heaven as a little child will not enter it."
   Buck didn't know if he was correct in his holy meditation; next, split an over-sized cranium in half by a cerebral-forged wolf howl.  He would rescue Miriam's Dad, the physician, Dr. Luke.  
   
* * * * * * *

   Miriam was in the fuchsia-hued Boss 429, surmising that Buck went to the Florida swamps, where the government was conducting craziness, and her Dad was involved; thus, she floored her instincts in that specific direction.   

Existence Womb (97)

   
   "Existence Womb (97)"
   
Buck was covert operations and all that camouflaged crap,
Hid in the sweaty Florida swamps, fanged for the passionate attack;
Specifically, he was "wolfed-out" in all of the ancient canine's galore,
Ready to rescue Dr. Luke--enforce the good physician to intently score
A recognition of love for his forgotten daughter,
Never offering her up as the virginal lamb to the government's spookish slaughter,
Yet Buck perceived that there were alien grays on pretentious patrol;
However, they could not Godsmack his dog-like telepathy into their crystal skull,
For the incredible wolf was loyal, though suspicious, but always a friend,
Only thinking conspiracy concerning a copperhead's venomous overextend. 

Country Boy Can Survive - Hank Williams Jr. ( w/lyrics )

Existence Womb (96)

   
   "Existence Womb (96)"

   Miriam was puffing away; next, extinguished her cherry, rubbing it out on a Saint Andrew's Cross ashtray in the greasy garage.  Afterwards, she went out into the humid and sticky Arkansas morning, the Moon near its full glow of neon cheese.  She glanced at the monster Boss 429, was a bit consoled, thought of Buck, and prayed to the Godhead that he was gonna be okay.  Too, she said a prayer for her Dad's safety, forgiving.  Enter Freddy, all sparkly in her coat of shimmering yellow gelled with sparkly orange, those golden eyes focused on teenage Miriam, now almost eighteen.

FREDDY
Fear not; He will be with you till the end of time; moreover, you have forgiven your father; thus, your sins too will be forgiven.

MIRIAM
You're so Christ-like for a coyote.

FREDDY
It's all merged and gelled together.  Too, the Great Coyote's return will announce the Son of Man coming down from the clouds of heaven.

MIRIAM
When will it all happen?  All this garbage and anguish in life fade away?

FREDDY
When the reptile is in the cage for a thousand years.  People will have time to get their scat together.

MIRIAM
So, what's on your agenda Freddy, this morning?

FREDDY
Find a specter of a mouse to pounce on; then, get some REM sleep, hoping to dream sweetly of influencing your sense of comedy and relief.

MIRIAM
Yeah, I could use some relief.

FREDDY
Take some Pepto-Bismol; next, you'll poop a big pink log.

MIRIAM
How gross Freddy, and for a lady like you.

FREDDY
I'm just like a dog after all--gee whiz, get with the program girl.  

Existence Womb (95)

   
   "Existence Womb (95)"
   
Miriam didn't mourn into the gloom of dark blue;
On the contrary, she imbibed the azure glow of the Good Ghost's hue,
Seeing the female flame ignite, encompassing all around,
And Miriam attempted to inhale within its holy sound,
Igniting a better, more merciful humanity,
Keeping promises as the Rainbow was originally forged to be;
Alas, a target for nefarious things now always on the back
Of Christ's Soldiers, for evil always wants to sadistically attack,
Yet Saint Michael so bold and having amazing might,
With a sword of fire, perpetually ready to make good fight;
Thus, Miriam prayed for Buck and her Dad's safe return
To a harbor of safety, where more love could their family live to learn.   

Existence Womb (94)

   
   "Existence Womb (94)"
   
   Buck recalled the MAD MAX movie--the real one, down in Aussie Land with the striving Catholic, Mad Mel himself, hearing:  "Last of the V-8's Max!!!  Last of the V-8's!!!"  
   Furthermore, Buck knew that his SS 350 was no small block; regardless, the old-fashioned, outdated rules of the Queen's Language may offer BS about that, but in Buck's mind--a 350 was purely on its way to being a big block; specifically, an axiomatic big block, offering both low end torque; plus, top speed terror.    
   He opened up the four barrel, that ultra double pumper doing the angry pit bull rumble and all, giving him quality top end speed, beyond the enemies of Burt Reynolds himself. 
  
* * * * * * *

   Miriam awoke with a saliva drenched yawn, lit up a smoke, inhaled the anti-oxidant toxins, that paradox of the Red Man's wit; next, saw the letter Buck left for her--it reading:
   
   Beloved Miriam,
Sorry, but I gotta cruise, and fast.  We must forgive your father.  I've gone to rescue him.  Listen to Freddy, and stay away from whiskey-drinking cooters.
                                                                Yours in True Love, Buck
  
   She was like:  "WTF?"  

Existence Womb (93)

   
   "Existence Womb (93)"

   Miriam was sleeping soundly; indeed, every since her Dad, Dr. Luke had removed the implant behind her ear, the Sleep Paralysis had not affected her.  Buck noticed more, she cooed like a pigeon dove during the nocturnal hours, so sweetly and sublime.
   Too, Buck pondered the coyote's mantra:  "All is sacred; nothing is sacred."  Thus, he pondered further, diving deep into the psychological weirdness of her Dad; moreover, all that he had done for his daughter, as well as Buck himself.  The man couldn't help he turned rogue.  The government probably had more than just a simple gun on him; therefore, Buck decided:  RESCUE.
   Should Miriam come with him?  Nope, way dangerous cloak and dagger crap.  Moreover, she would be okay, out here, in the bucolic backwoods of Little Rock, Arkansas, where the worst she would encounter was a cooter with too much whiskey in his system--though alcohol makes people do the dumbest things, way more than your average narcotics.
    Hence, Buck penned a quasi-Dear John letter to Miriam, and went on his way.  His canine telepathy had pinpointed the approximate location of her father, and it would be nice, if he was successful in his rescue attempt, to reforge the trinity of a family resurrected.
   Next, he gently kissed Miriam on the forehead, hoping she wouldn't take the fuchsia-hued Boss 429 on any personal adventures, and then he gallantly departed in the SS 350, heading towards the Florida swamps.

Grandma Bertha: Everybody's poop stinks

   
   "Grandma Bertha:  Everybody's poop stinks"
    
   Big Bertha.  Bert.  The Air Force.  Wide Track.  She went by many names; plus, Bag Lady, as her husband, my Pap used to playfully say.
   I used to drive cross country during the beginning of my 16th year.  A stormy adolescence.  The mental weirdness started however, way before adolescence.  At the spawn of my consciousness I was fully aware of pubic hairs on toilet seats, Sleep Paralysis, and Social Phobia.
   Anyway, they all said I didn't try.  Hell, I did more than try, was on the road before Kerouac dropped out of college.  Been on every part of 40--both West and East.  California to Virginia, by the time I was 18.  Saw plenty of bizarre stuff.  
   So, when I drove the approximate 1,000 miles from Little Rock to Richmond, anchoring down on Grandma Bertha's pseudo-suburbia, she'd hug me like no other, saying:  "Lift your head up Mark; everybody's SHIT stinks."  
   Now I know--she was right.  But people with money cloak their shit.  Or are given a freebie.  Hey, it's a fruitcake America, and no longer a free country.  You can even get arrested for writing poetry with no clear and present danger, no fighting words, even if it's ambiguous.  
   So, when the vivid imagery arrives to me, or hallucinations, or possibly mysticism, and I see Saint Raphael marching boldly, blonde hair blowing in the breeze--yup, hold your head up my man, for everybody's shit stinks.  And mostly, more than yours, unless you're them.     

Existence Womb (92)

   
   "Existence Womb (92)"
   
   Buck and Miriam were going old school.  A VHS machine hooked up to a black and white television with rabbit ears in their pad.  They found and rented Glenn Ford's JUBAL and DAY OF THE EVIL GUN, both silent and engaged in the classic Westerns.  When the tapes had culmination, their conversation began.

MIRIAM
I like how Mr. Ford quoted Christ's Beatitudes in that one movie.  Blessed are the merciful, for they too shall receive mercy.

BUCK
He was always an elegant and cool cowboy.  Not as bloodthirsty as Mr. Eastwood.

MIRIAM
It's a shame that nobody cares anymore.  About Christ, religion, ancient astronaut theory, all the things that offer us the truth.

BUCK
Your truth.  Taking care of an elderly mother with neurological distress--no help, yet not a soul in the world gave you credit.  Lifting, feeding, wiping, brushing, praying, dressing, loving.

MIRIAM
Why is that?

BUCK
The dollar.  The green.  Love of money--it's all that matters.  That and a girl who squirts, a psychosomatic tendency when she feels like a woman.

MIRIAM
What do you mean, squirts?

BUCK
Uh, don't worry about it.  Anyway, yeah, things tap into people's Pineal gland; next, they're affected by monstrous things, wear masks, and it's up to the wise coyote to teach with foolish wisdom.

MIRIAM
You think I'll make it Buck?  I mean, be ordinary like most other people?

BUCK
You mean stupid?  Nah, you'll never make it.

Existence Womb (91)

 
   "Existence Womb (91)"
    
   Miriam didn't saunter like cowboy Glenn Ford, him with his pretty boy, androgynous looks always riding into town; next, a married man's wife falls in love with him and her envious husband tries to gun him down with an angry Colt .45--no, Miriam ran like the four winds blowing in unison, up the garage stairs and into the pad, waking Buck with a stern and firm shake.  Thus, he awoke, and calmly so.
  
MIRIAM
Buck, I just met my animal guide--her name is Freddy, and she is a coyote!  A bit of a goofball, but not a drug runner, deceptive, or dangerous.  You were right about them having many Totem meanings.

BUCK
Yup.

MIRIAM
That's all you're gonna say?  Holy Fire--I just met my animal guide.

BUCK
You've encountered more.

MIRIAM
Sat on the futon next to Buck.  Lost a bit of her passion, getting meek and soft; still, inquisitive as always.  So, who is the Patron Saint of Coyotes?

BUCK
Chief Mojo Rising, of course.

   Miriam stuck her tongue out at him; then, giggled.  

Saint Roch--Patron Saint of dogs

   
   "Saint Roch--Patron Saint of dogs"

   I guess you could call this guy, the ROCK; however, we all know Christ said that was the mighty Saint Peter, the architect of the Universal Church.
   Anyhow, Saint Roch has much to do with lore and legend, yet truth always resides in such fantastic things for souls with eyes to see and ears to hear.
   Saint Roch was called to help treat victims of the Bubonic plague; moreover, he contracted it himself.  And like an American Indian, as my Grandpap would say, he went out into the woods to perish alone.  
   Alas, in a sublime way, he didn't perish, for a holy hound brought him food; plus, licked his wounds, healing them.  A simple man, with a simple friend; specifically, man's best friend.  
   Also, Patron Saint of bachelors and the falsely accused.  Get me!?!    

Existence Womb (90)

   
   "Existence Womb (90)"
   
   Miriam approached the coyote.  It sat and offered a friendly paw, like a trained house dog.  She willingly shook it, and could've sworn the coyote smiled innocently at her.
  
MIRIAM
I uh, kinda noticed you sound like a girl, but you said your name was Freddy.

FREDDY
Us coyotes are weird, but true.  And I am female.

MIRIAM
Are you here to tell me something?  I know you are.  

FREDDY
My friend Miriam--laugh at yourself and all the reptile scat in life.  Us coyotes have symmetrical bowel evacuation. We can live on mice, toxic waste, whatever--we're survivors, with a sense of humor.

MIRIAM
It's kinda hard to laugh.  Evil angels have harassed me, my Mom died, and my father is bananas.

FREDDY
Hundreds of thousands of people go missing each year.  You're not the only tortured soul.  Laugh them off; keep all your negativity in your tail; furthermore, grow a metaphorical tail and make it contain all the toxins in life.

MIRIAM
You are silly, but I trust your teachings.

FREDDY
Don't take life so seriously; you're a survivor.  Keep your faith.  Get some Rosary beads and continue your path to God, the Great Spirit.  You will learn to teach too, in a goofball way.  Show the haters themselves by imitating them--hold up a magic mirror to show them how they disrespect the elders and all that is holy.  You will be amazed at this uncanny power.  And remember Christ saying GET BEHIND ME Satan.  Of course, you never follow a coyote, and if they're behind you--it is their doom.

MIRIAM
Thank you.  Thank you for your wisdom.

FREDDY
My goofball wisdom.  Hey, how did Captain Hook die?

MIRIAM
What?  I don't know.

FREDDY
Jock itch.  And Miriam snorted a blinding giggle; plus, Freddy disappeared.

Existence Womb (89)

   
   "Existence Womb (89)"
   
   Miriam awoke, of course--hearing Buck's wolfman snores; moreover, to the yips and yaps of a wild dog calling.  
   She knew this was not strange, for nothing, after all she had witnessed on Terra's mystical surface, seemed strange or bizarre save the watermelon-busting comedian Gallagher; anyway, she crept with Native American stealth from the pad, wending her way downstairs into the garage; next, out in the hot and sticky Arkansas night, where underneath the shimmering wax of a glowing Moon, she spotted the canine noisemaker--it was a coyote.
   Thing looked a bit like a German Shepherd; however, a bit smaller and leaner, looked underfed, and its eyes glowed something yellow and keen, matching a coat of almost golden-hued fur elegantly mingled with glistening orange.
   "Come here."  The coyote stated boldly.  "But never follow me unless I instruct you to."
   Miriam was like:  "Who the heck are you?"
   "I'm Freddy; I'm your Animal Guide."   
   Miriam approached; specifically, without the spirit of fear within her.    

Saint Dominic--Dog of the Lord

   
   "Saint Dominic--Dog of the Lord"
   
   People always ask me:  "What's up with Catholics and the Virgin Mary?"
   They should read the first two Chapters of the Gospel of Luke; next, they'll know; regardless, I ask myself:  "What's up with Catholics and canines?"
   Saint Patrick and wolves, Saint Francis and wolves, and plenty more.  But what of Saint Dominic?
   He was the son of Blessed Joan.  His Mom had a mystical vision that her unborn child was a "dog" and that he would set the world on fire.  This is symbolized in art containing the Saint, by a dog with a torch in its mouth.  Domini canis--dog of the Lord.
   Anyway, Our Blessed Virgin Mother appeared with a wreath of roses, instructing him to say the Rosary everyday.  The dog, well, he did as he was told.  Who doesn't love and adore dogs?   
   Moreover, every Good Shepherd needs a sheep dog.  

Existence Womb (88)

   
   "Existence Womb (88)"
   
   Buck and Miriam were in high cotton, as the American South does brag of glee; anyway, cruising in the fuchsia-hued, monster Boss 429, Miriam piloting the quasi-aircraft, Buck decided to offer some Native American wisdom concerning her inner coyote.
   Indeed, Miriam did have the power of shape-shifting.  Of dealing and unmasking things unreal, yet so very tangible to the mystic.  So Buck began.
   "You need to know the story of the Coyote and the Buffalo."
   "What's that?  And it doesn't sound very Catholic?"  Miriam pondered out loud.
   Buck went on, giving the short version:  "Coyotes can be intrinsically devious; however, that is not always the case.  Regardless, Coyote made fun of a Buffalo skull, more or less.  And Buffalo was not happy upon a type of resurrection.  Coyote said he was sorry and would make new horns for the Buffalo to kill his competition.  Buffalo agreed, and did so.  Was happy, gifting the coyote a small cow as a friend, but telling Coyote to never eat him.  Well, of course the Coyote did--get me?"
   "What the heck was that?"  Miriam blurted inquisitively.
   Buck with:  "It's about keeping promises.  The Rainbow--God's promise to never destroy the World with water again and such.  Plus, Coyote could have friends if he kept his couth and cool."
   Miriam wondered aloud:  "Am I gonna shift like you--I mean coyoteways?"
   Buck added:  "If you keep your promises and retain the Holy Spirit inside; next, anything is possible."
   Miriam took it in, elegantly, and with seriousness.  Next, the teenage goofball came out, and she floored the Boss 429, throwing Buck back into his seat.  She let off quickly, slowing the situation down; next, said:  "I'll keep mine Buck.  My promises.  I'll always love the Holy Spirit.  You too."   

Existence Womb (87)

   
   "Existence Womb (87)"
   
   When Buck had the sweet serendipity of stumbling across an old cooter wanting to depart with his Boss 429, he drooled through his fangs; indeed, while preferring the small block--its mercurial bang out of the gates, he had really been in love with piloting the low-flying SS with the 350.  Thus, he bought the beat up Boss 429.
   Throughout the summer, Miriam and Buck restored the massive motor and the exterior of the car, painting it a fuchsia hue.  And Buck knew:  He should give the classic hot rod to Miriam.
   It wasn't that fast off the line, doing 60 in about seven seconds; however, being built for ultra-high speed cruising, the thing could run with NASCAR on the tracks, almost.  And he knew Miriam would never open up the massive four barrel to such intense top speeds; thus, he gifted it to her.
   She was so happy.  Blushed--it matching the sparkly paint job of the car.  And how could a teenager not want to brag a bit?  To manifest that spirit of bravado, saying:  "Mine is better than yours."
   Therefore, Miriam blurted to Buck:  "I got more motor than you wolfman."
   Buck grinned, knowing it was all in the fun spirit of the V-8 motor, and the glee that it brought to us well-preserved Americans.   

Existence Womb (86)

   
   "Existence Womb (86)"
    
   The Fourth of July had arrived in Arkansas, and that meant:  Out in the bucolic boondocks there be heavy artillery used by the youth, well, fireworks.
   Miriam convinced Buck to pick up some firecrackers and sparklers, just crude noise makers and fire that would shimmer and shine, reminding of mystical magic--in a sublime sense.
   Outside of their pad, they ignited the quasi-explosives, laughing and playing, while Buck imbibed one too many a pale lager, even stumbling once or twice, but keeping his uncanny cool and couth. 
   He kissed Miriam gently on the lips when the fun was done, causing her to blush and feel a sparkly tingle run up her backbone and into her blessed brain.  Next, the twosome retired to their pad, turned on the tube, watching the news and stuff, and Buck trying to figure out who all the late night talk show hosts were, and if they actually were funny--not like back in the early 80's when he enjoyed Johnny Carson in usually blue-tinted suits, the man getting more handsome as he aged; plus, more comedic, having reverence for his prolonged career in making people sweetly get the giggles.
   Miriam finally fell into the sea of dreams, a cigarette dangling from her sleeping grip, which Buck gently removed and curiously took a drag from, wondering how people enjoyed such things.
   Afterwards, he stripped his clothing off, morphed wolfways, and prowled the pastoral presence of East End Arkansas, noticing the possums and other little creatures just trying to endure and survive their unwanted lives.  The Moon was waxing fullways, and he wondered of the mysteries of God, thanking the Man upstairs for making him a Catholic and an American.  Next, just to play his canine part, he let out a howl at the encompassing cream of the glittering Milky Way, laughed like a smug coyote, and returned as Miriam's loyal protector.  Just a simple, no hassle day.  Thank God for peace, and he did.