Weredog Tart (32)

   
   "Weredog Tart (32)"
   
   Things were moving swiftly along with a quicksilver exodus from summer school for Siria and Lance; specifically, the teenage twosome had finished their academic purgatory, passed, and now both ready to receive their diplomas.  
   Noah and Mandy McGee were not proud, for what came next for their children?  Regardless, the adolescents were not worried about the states of their future, not putting pressure on themselves, yet still capable of crafting metaphorical diamonds--in the sense that Siria was ready to open up to Lance concerning her weredog status.
   Would he tell?  Be fabulously freaked and want to be turned, forever in touch with the supernatural himself?  And furthermore, Siria pondered the government, werewolf hunters, and all the uncanny things mentioned in the wisdom of the perpetually pondering underground.
   Still, she knew it wise to trust her best buddy.  To show him her canine suavity.  Hell, to marry the guy and wend Westwards, where freedom lurked by those thirsting to live a more antiquated and idealistic lifestyle among that mystical, American geography.  
   Sometimes, less is more, like Idaho or Oregon, and what wise fools do not look to the nature of the Northwest?   West is water, and North is Terra; thus, combine the two, and a magical sense of power takes hold of the traveler, him having an intrinsic arsenal of all the weapons and tools needed to survive within the mystic groove of things bizarre, forbidden to regular men, them phobic concerning Crusade, wanting an American Dream long lost save for the selfish, them misers miserably praising with lips, yet hearts as black as coal.

New Moon: August 2nd, 2016

   
   "New Moon:  August 2nd, 2016"
   
   Totally, Reagan had astrological intent and guidance when meeting with Mikhail Gorbachev; moreover, over freaking nuclear weapons; regardless, I am not that potent of a toxic avenger; nevertheless, there is truth and falsehoods in all things, yet a singular truth from the Son of David, in a sense.
   This August, on the 2nd--the New Moon in Leo, offering you chances at loyalty, creativity, dignity, and courage.  And after the New Moon--it does WAX, growing brighter and stronger, offering you more motherly intensity till birthed Full and Born again.
   The Virgin Mary with the Moon at Her feet--many historical depictions, showcasing purity and perfection--if we give Her a chance to offer the True reflection of Her Son.  
    

Weredog Tart (31)

   
   "Weredog Tart (31)"
   
   Siria was a bit disturbed that Lance had to go onto the anti-psychotics; moreover, that he had to read ALL of Ulysses in just a trinity of days; still, she was there to be a special friend and help her best buddy out--that's what dogs do.
   Furthermore, Siria was a bit pissed at Mr. Joyce, the author, for not kneeling down and praying for his mother when she was sick, but knew that Catholicism was always on the tip of his pen.  How can a man truly resist the love of Christ?  Come on now!
   Not your garden-variety demigod, but Son of the Most Mighty and True God of the Multiverse, tempted by the Adder with fortune, fame, pleasures, and Jesus was like:  "Nope."  Next, the Adder is like:  "Who is this guy?"
   Then, the angels came and ministered to Christ.
   Anyway, it wasn't a tough read after all.  And with a shamrock heart, Lance, even though a bit slow, engaged the literature with super sophistication, getting the Irish jive of it all.  It doesn't matter if you're small, as long as you got SPIRIT, especially the Holy Spirit.
   And who would want to tangle with G. Gordon Liddy or Bruce Lee?  That's a proud man's axiomatic defeat.
   Next, the two teens went out for some yogurt, getting the good bacteria; then, prepared for the next session of summer school; indeed--it was the dog days of summer.  

Weredog Tart (30)

   
   "Weredog Tart (30)"
   
   Lance was freaked; specifically, bad to the bone.  Put on anti-psychotics for his Catholic guilt concerning a link to his dead Dad; plus, summer school hit him with linguistic weird hardcore--he had to read Ulysses in a trinity of days, catch up, and remember the Irish bard who blew away the documenting English and their first class knowledge of it all, but they are wise concerning research on the pineal gland--them Brits know the brain of man.
   Lance was seeing spiders, especially a big, hairy tarantula crawling in his bedroom every morn when he woke.  A feminine entity, offering words, words, words; plus, more words.  And he dived deep into the doom of Leopold Bloom, but she loved him, yes, she loved him.
   Regardless, a misfit and malcontent, Lance had Siria.  Had a female friend taking him to the highest peaks of sublimity--in that she was freaking hot; moreover, a delicious tart, yet not adulterous in any Internet fashion; thus, he embraced her upon greeting urban Pittsburgh and the scent of steel now absent, though resonating with redemption, for futurity holds all the past in its loving hands.
   And what better than a hot girl that was a dog, a paradoxical perfume worn by the Otherworld, and he knew it best to be humbled and entertained by the beauty of creation.   

Weredog Tart (29)

   
   "Weredog Tart (29)"
  
Siria--her mother a cerebral astronomer;
Specifically, beyond Spinoza's Pantheism--no Bush League commoner;
Moreover, knowing that a Divine Justice System axiomatically exists,
Made her corporeal exodus, some might say, with a fool's blind bliss;
Nonetheless, nothing more dangerous than a fool for Christ,
As was Saint Francis--so adoring of Brother Wolf and totally iced--
It all reflects back on them, as justice goes,
For nothing outshines the Godhead--This in all colors, perpetually glows,
If sown on the fertility of eternal life,
Not swiftly scattered on the thorns of a promiscuous wife,
And while we all fall short of the Glory of God--
The purchase is merely a penny, costing a singular, honest nod.   

Weredog Tart (28)

   
   "Weredog Tart (28)"
   
Siria wended her somewhat wily way
To her room--so that she could devoutly meditate on the Rosary and further pray,
Knowing:  She had complete Absolution
Due to Corpus Christi and His loving institution;
Moreover, happy that Advent, after summer and autumn would be on Its Merry Way,
For Saint Nicholas of Myra and them bags of gold down the chimney would stay;
Next, Siria would give herself plenty of personal mirth and merry,
Showing the Virgin's Mirror of Justice to things so falsely scary.  

Weredog Tart (27)

   
   "Weredog Tart (27)"
   
   Lance was not at summer school, due to his Dad's funeral and such; moreover, Siria was again jeered and bullied, and even though a weredog now, she felt crappy and weak.  Not angry, just withered, like unto a wilting flower, or the true meaning of her name and reality of it all--a star-system, so bright, reminding of dogs being chased by malicious mailmen; alas, she went home to her Dad (Noah) in tears; next, the conversation began on the safety of an American home's sofa.

SIRIA
I hate my name Dad!  The kids are still calling me a terrorist, and I hate all the evil and violence in the world; however, I am guilty too.  And I wanna change my name to something normal, like Lucy, after Saint Lucy, her having saved her mother; then, not long ago, robbers stole her body or head or something.  Ugh, the world is so vile.  And the political climate.  Is Hillary a crook?  Is Trump like what the Prophet Daniel saw, the North driving the South out; next, the East gets involved?  SHIT DAD, I'm so freaked by everything!!!

NOAH
Well, the world does seem to be falling apart.  But keep your head up kiddo.  Lance seems like a nice friend--a swell Irish kid who is bruised himself.  You two will have a sublime synergy.  And it's only a month or so before the Steelers take to the turf.

SIRIA
But the freaking politics!  The fake religious people, those who haven't mortified their senses or revered God with fear.  And is He not the only one to fear?

NOAH
Yup.  So don't worry.  Just stay on His team.  King David slaying Goliath for bad-mouthing God is kinda a metaphor.  Men can kill evil giants, and Buffy can slay vampires and demons.  So, be tough, and put your faith in the Trinity.

SIRIA
That's it--I should change my name to Trinity.

NOAH
That me be a little weird too honey.

   Siria dropped her head and growled in despair.  

Weredog Tart (26)

   
   "Weredog Tart (26)"
   
Siria knew:
As a hot-dog weredog, she was puissantly potent, but not a cruel shrew;
Forsooth, she was fanged and ferocious,
Yet tame as a dame that guys did sweetly crush on and notice--
Erelong, she'd take the wheel
And pilot herself with Christ's wise appeal,
Though displayed regret for slaying a demon,
Praying for his spirit and body to reunite; specifically, have a soul born again, and smoothly even.  

Weredog Tart (25)

   
   "Weredog Tart (25)"
   
All was dandyism for Noah, him dressing in a shirt with a collar;
Next, Siria gave him a mellifluous shout and glorious holler,
For they were on their way to ancient Mass
Even though guitars and Protestantism had influenced since an approximate 16th Century sass,
And even Nietzsche in his Antichrist proclaimed he was no longer a German,
Disturbed by the wheels of something splintering into myriads of groups, such as Pee-wee Herman;
Regardless, for 1,600 years did the Catholics protect the Kingdom Divine,
A Vatican Library having all the secrets of verse and rhyme--
Them Romans before Saint Helena keeping every book, knowing the pages--them turning;
Thus, how is that history denied, yup--it is disturbing!
You don't thieve away the Holy Family;
You don't plant another tempting fig or apple tree;
Alas, corruption gets involved everywhere,
Even attempting to slay Saint Benedict, yet saved by a mystical raven's flight, so aware;
Still, Siria held no contempt,
Only wondering if she would get fleas from her shape-shifting events,
Being capable now, under any sliver of waning or waxing Moon--
Always able to generate the weredog boon.   

Firing Line with William F. Buckley Jr. "G. Gordon Liddy: An Enigma"

Weredog Tart (24)

   
   "Weredog Tart (24)"
   
   While Lance clumsily sauntered off to produce urination, and as a clean boy, probably would whiz on the mint-colored thing in the urinal, to fascinate himself by making his water turn pink or blue, Siria contemplated the supernatural essence of herself.  There had to be more out there.  And as John Donne mentioned:  "No man is an island, entire of itself."  Or something, for her summer school classes all seemed so crazy with everything going on.
   Regardless, she knew she was a mutt.  A weird creature.  Did she need a pack?  Canines thrive and are stronger with a pack.  But being an Omega would suck.
   But isolation?  Then she pondered Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder in Stir Crazy, where after locking Mr. Wilder in the dog house for a night or two, he said:  "Three more days, please, three more days."
   Yup, she was wired on weird, so much so that she figured she could handle being a lone wolf and golden retriever mix wending completely solo; next, Lance stumbled back into view, working on his button fly.   

Weredog Tart (23)

   
   "Weredog Tart (23)"
   
   Lance was like:  "In vino veritas."  
   Siria was like:  "I'm Catholic--what do you mean about wine?"
   Lance further pushed:  "Yeah, my overly sober, Irish Mom is probably giving your Dad the business for drinking, though he seems a sublime drunk--no offense."
   Siria pushed:  "He's not a drunk.  Wine to make man's heart happy did King David proclaim, and his son King Solomon with prescribing the downtrodden wine.  And all my Dad drinks is beer nowadays; plus, he is downtrodden.  Lost the love of his life--for real, not just words to get in her pants.  Watched her die slowly, there every moment, at her side while the help didn't help.  Held her hand, said prayers, and burned candles.  Willed her to live 7 years through it all, making her laugh, feeding her, brushing her, washing her, like in the French movie Amour; indeed, he was tested, but never broke."
   Lance nodded:  "Anyway, I guess the cops will be investigating my Dad's death.  The crap will hit the fan."
   Siria knew that wouldn't happen.  Fang marks from a weredog would stupefy the bumbling, brutal cops.  Yup, weredog lives matter and all that crap.  If only everyone had true love and loyalty--nope, they're out for themselves.   

Weredog Tart (22)

   
   "Weredog Tart (22)"
    
   Mandy McGee and Siria's Dad sat alone as the adolescents of this story-tell did wander through Steel City, hand in hand, speaking of purity, noticing the urban birds and all the wonders of the four winds blowing wherever they chose.
   Mandy asked:  "I never did get your name?"
   Siria's Dad with:  "It is Noah."
   Mandy further probed, noticing the brew in his hand:  "Early to drink.  And did God not tell the Hebrew Noah not to drink?"
   Noah replied:  "I am not here to save the animals; moreover, my heart is made happy by creamy lager.  Gee whiz, back in the day, there was Robin Hood Cream Ale made up here in this city--it stated on the steel can that men of adventure, well, their name is being called by the bow-slinging Englishman."
   Mandy snorted a giggle:  "All is for some, and some is not for all, but I can tell by your face that you are a kind and gentle man."
   Noah with, after a gulp of the lager and a mustache of foam:  "Life is too short to be a demon; plus, don't they know what they'll get in the end?  It's in both Scripture and myth--the poor and downtrodden shall be lifted, made white as snow, though tried, yet the wicked, well, we know how that ends."
   Mandy blushed, and was like:  "Yes.  Yes we do kind sir."   

Cursory, yet dreamed commensurable

   
   "Cursory, yet dreamed commensurable"
  
   Mercurial stream of consciousness or automatic; regardless, tears in the other room, false testimony, and sloths I pray for; plus, penetration of pineal pea by demonic wizardry.  
   Hence, take an hour or two before inhaling the breath of my Blog, for at first--there might be an explosion of Swamp Thing smog, and how touching with Adrienne Barbeau; specifically, so much better than crazy like me.  We are all things together, and so much better, yet protect your portion by sending it outwards.  

Weredog Tart (21)

   
   "Weredog Tart (21)"
   
   Siria, motherly Mandy, Lance, and a blushing father of the the weredog girl were all huddled around the tube, watching The Lone Ranger, the original show starring Clayton Moore as the masked man, and Jay Silverheels as the Mohawk, Tonto.  They had finished their yummy egg sandwiches.
   Moreover, all was gelling gregariously, until the jive-turkey journalism and the falsehoods of political news did arise, spilling the fake beans of American Mainstream Media.
   Siria knew the smart television was watching them.  She displayed her fangs, but was wise enough not to make the fur grow; plus, would they really dig her hairy beard?
   As time went on and communication continued--it was obvious that Siria's Dad and Mandy McGee were crushing on one another, as if kismet's kiss had scored a touchdown, or more properly, as it was the summer, knocked one out of the park, with the once All American crack of the baseball bat.   

Weredog Tart (20)

   
   "Weredog Tart (20)"
    
Siria interjected herself personally, professing:
"I hope all is well with egg sandwiches, them having kosher relish dressing."
Indeed, neither mother Mandy nor Lance did feel bumfuzzle,
Nor was it a dystopian daymare that did puzzle,
For Lance's Dad was like unto taradiddle,
Though a Yankee, not playing the fiddle.
So the threesome hugged; next, Siria's Dad awoke;
Then, like the Tarot Fool being the wisest joke;
Furthermore, the foursome, as if intrinsically knowing, spoke:  "Amen!!!"
Grace being given; thus:  La Sainte Vierge--Merci Bien.  

Weredog Tart (19)

   
   "Weredog Tart (19)"
    
   Mandy McGee, a mystic of sorts, knew Siria was what she was, so non-Irish, yet canine-like, having a brave heart.  It didn't bother her, the difference.  For there was no fear.  Not even after the macabre death of her husband--are not most deaths macabre?
   And Siria, with that canine telepathy, backed away, Lance suddenly appearing next to her, and the weredog girl retreated with magnanimous couth, verbally offering to Lance:  "It is for you."
   When Lance opened the door, greeted by the ghost of a mother, so alive with the same shamrock-green eyes, the twosome were pulled by mystic gravity into a loving embrace; next, the silent communication of azure blue, so metaphysical and psychological, in that it is in tune with vocal verse well read, besides this asymmetrical craft of humble words.
   And he melted with sadness, yet a fire of pink encompassed his beating heart, knowing the differences of life do indeed lead to FEAR and LIES and HATE and ENVY.
   We are all constructed by God.  Yet fear and envy separate us--you fools, we all have power as humans, yet none transcends the other.  He is handsome, he is funny, he is good in bed, he is good with oral lovemake, he is stunted yet charming.  Do not be proud!  Pride is a demon's gift.  Thinking you're actually better--that is contemptuous hubris which architects fear and envy and hate and false testimony.  
   No man is better save him who trusts in God.  Him having a wise fear of the Creator--this being the beginning of wisdom, and don't let it be the end, but morph it into courage, united with the Godhead and all that wholesome gravy of superb sublimity.
   Lance burst into tears of sadness and joy--a counterpoise crafted as a matter of relative fact.  His mother held him.  And while her kind, drunken father snoozed on the sofa, Siria understood the gifts of Adamkind.  

Weredog Tart (18)

   
   "Weredog Tart (18)"
   
   Siria attempted, or made a brave and courageous attempt to revive Lance and her Dad from drunken and melancholy slumber, with the smell of scrambled eggs, bleeding yellow, but mixed with the green goop of kosher relish, and a little ketchup from the state of Pennsylvania, rhyming with Transylvania, and she didn't even want to think about Bram Stoker's Irish guilt after penning such macabre bloods-sucking, before an American Bowie Knife offered heroic culmination, or so it seemed in her wacky world of cognizant reality.
   Shit--how was she supposed to explain to Lance that she bit his Dad's face off?  Loyalty from a Golden Retriever mixed with the Canis lupus Totem?  Bullshit.
   Regardless, Siria knew she was a meta-human now.  A hybrid already, yes--gentlemen prefer blondes, of course, but her arctic-blue eyes and mousy brown hair made her appear almost girl-next-doorish, but she was better than that--didn't lie, or better yet, give false testimony to cops about a pseudo-harassing neighbor, when she would be the one harassing, if it was solid gold, allegorically.
   So, toasting sourdough bread to architect further the egg sandwiches, she contemplated the mix of America.  The South importing minorities; next, pissed after Ulysses and Lincoln kicked ass; moreover, the divide of history, and what made America.  Not people.  Not drunken Paine and the astrological signs being a metaphor for the Twelve Disciples of Christ, but the actual Holy Spirit of 1776, when the first flag was forged from General George's illicit crop, and the history books leave that out too.  Summer school--more shit.
   Then, a hard, Irish knock at the door.  Her pineal gland knew.  That Third Eye highlighted by canine keen.  Oh, further shit.  And it wasn't even Steeler season in Pittsburgh.  Gotta be a Pirate 2day.    

Weredog Tart (17)

   
   "Weredog Tart (17)"
   
   Mandy McGee knew of mystical things, like the four-leaf clover; specifically, that fourth leaf representing the Virgin Mary, in her mind's eye, united to the Trinity, and bringing forth good luck--though nothing is good save God, even Christ would admit as much.
   Regardless, Mandy knew she too had to toughen up her son for what was to come.  Lance was innocent, skinny, though did have gristle; still, children born and put in incubation have lifelong problems; plus, her late husband would never allow a visit to a shrink to get a proper diagnosis; hence, Lance could be suffering from something truly monstrous, and still coping, actually being a bit strong, in a stealth-like manner; however, he still needed to be a mirror image of what Steel City once was.
   She went to one of the last bookstores in America--they are dwindling, yet futurity will open the pages once again, as vinyl too made a comeback.  Anyway, she bought a copy of G. Gordon Liddy's WILL, an autobiographical tale on not being afraid of your fears, but making your fears be afraid of you.  The boy was gonna weep at the loss of his father, even though it was a terrible relationship the twosome had, for Lance was all heart, and while that counted--he needed a macho mentor.  

Experience is useless, unless met with identical experience

    
   "Experience is useless, unless met with identical experience"
   
   Of course, certain philosophers knew this before, for there is nothing new under the Sun, as did mystics know this before, as has every man known everything before--in a matter of speaking.
   But truly, experience is useless unless met with identical experience.  Look at feudal Japan and the imperialistic, honorary samurai always fighting face to face.  His experience in battle was not ready for the shinobi (ninja).  A farmer, a slave, a man practicing the coyote's art of deception.  More than mere guerrilla warfare, but dressed as a clown or a cripple; next, stabbing the honorary samurai in the back or blowing pepper in his face--the samurai were not ready for this type of war, even though they had more experience in combat.
   Oh it's true--it's freaking axiomatic.  I won't get into Trump versus Hillary.  Republicans talk freedom, but won't allow the benign use of anti-oxidant, natural narcotic-like substances for the ill, and Democrats talk unity, but our America can't absorb the entire world without chaos ensuing.  
   Moreover, look at James Tiberius Kirk.  Yes, he had great experience in the bedroom with green-hued chicks.  But was he any good in carnally-handling the three headed, hot alien woman with four breasts--two on the back for dancing?  
   Furthermore, Bones wisely proclaiming:  "Damn't Jim, don't do it; she has got three heads for God's sake."   

Weredog Tart (16)

   
   "Weredog Tart (16)"
  
   Mandy McGee, once lost; now found, had a lucid dream; specifically, heard an angel's trumpeting sound.  So melancholy and non-communicative blue was her psychological hue.  A son birthed to corporeal animation by way of incubation; furthermore, fed through the head by a nourishing needle, and his father never getting enough from the boy, or more potently strong children from a wife's stagnate ovaries.
   Regardless, even though Mandy had exiled herself from the situation of matrimony, leaving a challenged son (Lance) behind to cope with a corrupt father, she was not guilty of abandonment, only sorrow and anguish.  Mr. McGee having screamed at her before she made her exodus:  "You are enabling the idiot--he needs to play football and be a man!"
   Lance was in Mandy's prayers daily, her invoking the guardianship of angles, always asking:  "Angels of God, our guardian dears--His love commits your synergy here; thus, ever this eternity be at my son's and my side--to light and guard; plus, to rule and guide.  Amen--In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit--please do hear it."
   So, upon waking to seeing her estranged husband's death, she dressed herself in casual garb; next, as if echo-location from angelity giving her symmetrical rules for a cradling intention, she rushed to her son's pinpointed direction.   

Wyatt Earp is my friend

Weredog Tart (15)

   
   "Weredog Tart (15)"
   
Siria swiftly bolted with quicksand dismay,
Slaying a man, though she was elegantly ethereal in a weredog way;
Moreover, a mellifluous sound did trumpet from justice-seeking angels around,
And the Pittsburgh morning was full of an iridescent look and sound--
Rainbows gleaming from a petty rain, giving limerance to her love of Steel City;
Thus, she dashed to Lance and Dad, both so metaphorically pretty,
Yet like a soul with social phobia, she didn't know how to completely explain
A death done out of loyalty; still, would this scenario be a harvest of sublime gain?    

Demonic Infestation

   
   "Demonic Infestation"

   All the hate; moreover, certain ax-wielding leprechauns and their greed proclaiming:  "It's my gold ya suckers--all mine!"  Christ, with the Sermon on the Mount, offering the Beatitudes, further knowing:  "He who is first shall be last; he who is last shall be first."  And as for the controlled, as the New Living Translation wends:  "I tell you the truth, they have received all the reward they will ever get."
   Are we lost unto hypnosis by Darwin confusing anthropology with demonology?  The unseen, so sophisticated in their shape-shifting glamour?  You will die.  You will meet the Maker.  And many NDE (Near Death Experiences) speak of blackness pulling the spirit away from the brilliant, platinum light of Love.  All things have an infinite number of possibilities, possibly.
   Such as the blind Milton, though putting down the fools for Christ (Franciscans), he mentioned the Adder being the inventor of gunpowder.  Live by the sword; next, die by the sword, as Christ explained.
   Why protest without charity?  Why hunger after an Earth filled with Saint Michael's toss of demons?  To seek God is to seek peace, and freedom, off the leash, but never far from your master, as goes the righteous Golden Retriever, so innately obedient, yet keen to cruel things.
   The Lord's Prayer says:  "On Earth as it is in Heaven."  Possibly, a mirror image of sorts, a galactic battle now; specifically, as Luna reflects the daystar, we are reflecting the Heavens--possibly another riot in the Celestial Realms.  
   Keep Christ's Sacred Heart in your heart, lay low, don't be tempted by a hot chick in a mini skirt while married, and why does she dress like that anyway?  Regardless, safeguard yourself with love and a humble habitat away from the monopoly of demonic control.  We will all know.  The veil shall be lifted.   Stupefaction for myriads, and solace for others.  Buy silver, get a crossbow, live in the country, though near a hospital, be prepared, and live a life of charity and never neglect the sick, selfishly praying for their swift deaths.   
   Dominus vobiscum, Et cum spiritu tuo.           

Weredog Tart (14)

   
   "Weredog Tart (14)"
   
Lance was full of hiraeth, wishing Mom were around,
Knowing his birth was a miracle by an Ivy League physician found;
Regardless, at home with an angry father,
The patriarch considering his son Lance Bantha fodder;
Thus, calling him a scrawny gimp with no brains or a Staubach arm--
He swung on his son, causing corporeal harm;
Specifically, a tooth knocked out and an eye black and blue--
It was ineffable, sticking on father and son like eternal glue;
As a result of this epoch not easily deleted,
Lance could do nothing save run; indeed, he retreated,
Sprinting the approximate ten miles to where Siria did reside,
In the suburbs next to Pittsburgh's illuminated side.
When he gave true testimony of what had happened,
Her fangs sprouted, and the depth of the truth she fathomed;
Hence, made him a seat on the sofa next to her drunken yet loving Dad;
Next, paid a visit to Lance's house, and his father, of her, was not glad,
Calling her an enabler of a soul destined for defeat;
Therefore, she sunk her incisors into his face, making him drop to his feet.
"Oh my Lord!  Oh my Lord!  Did I kill him?"
She cried and wailed, phobic concerning the wages of sin.

Weredog Tart (13)

   
   "Weredog Tart (13)"
   
   Siria and Lance were in the school's cafeteria, the obese yet friendly lunch lady scooping them a meatloaf gelled together by some type of possibly ectoplasmic mix, or so it seemed; plus, there were some greasy green beans and neon-lime jello to further fill the belly, all funded by the benevolent government, making sure the public school system had yummy stuff to further calcify the pineal glands of youth, shrinking the pea sized glands to a microscopic size--all so we don't know the rotten tomatoes of truth.   
   Lance played with his food, not eating save the mini carton of milk; however, Siria gobbled up her meatloaf, a supernatural digestive tract allowing for absorption of only the sublime ingredients, like the bread crumbs with a dash of herb for the service of man.
   After burping her consumption and a weird giggle of sorts, Lance looked at her oddly, until noticing those arctic-blue eyes that showcased the Otherworld, and she reached across the table and grasped his hand, feeling his suffering from a father putting too much pressure on his slow motion brain, due to incubation, and being fed by a tube through the brain, a mother to never hold him for over a month, and now lost, driven off by the same diabolical father that blamed him for it all.
   Out of nowhere she blurted:  "You should get a dog.  Golden Retrievers are great, sometimes exuberant, and if bred aggressively, they can show aggression, especially if they have brown noses."
   Lance, head down, said:  "My Dad wouldn't allow it."
   Siria offered:  "I'll be your dog; your best friend."
   Lance continued:  "You're no dog Siria.  You're freaking beautiful."
   Siria with:  "The world is bigger than most people know."  Then, she winked an arctic-blue at him, lashes so long and lovely.   

Weredog Tart (12)

   
   "Weredog Tart (12)"
   
   Siria, a little melancholy after hearing Lance's demonic dilemma of having a cruel patriarch, let out her anguished steam by gobbling up a rabbit on the ten mile trek homewards.  Once back to her suburban habitat, she waited for the Full "Buck" Moon to fade, but before it did, pooped out the hopping bunny, as if her system was working miracles within.  She looked to the heavens, sincerely saying:  "Saint Francis forgive me, but that little critter was yummy."
   As the daystar ignited, Siria shifted back into human form, running naked into her house, past a father closing his eyes, yelling:  "What the hell!?!"
   Siria got in some cut-off shorts, a fancy t-shirt that showcased the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and a pair of sneakers with no socks.  She marveled at her pulsating, meta-human energy; next, went downstairs, offering no explanation for her incoming nudity, and her father didn't probe her about it.  
   After a glass of milk, she got her backpack, went to the bus stop, and headed back to summer school.  Upon arrival, she noticed Lance walking her way, head down, wearing a crown of frowns, and felt a great empathy towards him; thus, she put a loving arm around his neck, kissed him on the cheek, and smiled some rabbit meat still in her glistening teeth.  He asked:  "What was that for?"
   She stated:  "I figured you could use a friend today."
   Him back with:  "Yeah, yeah I could."
   Hand in hand--they strutted into the steamy torture of summer school.  

Full "Buck" Moon: July 19th, 2016

   "Full "Buck" Moon:  July 19th, 2016"

   The Full "Buck" Moon will awesomely illuminate the skies this July 19th; on the other hand, sometimes known as the Full "Thunder" Moon due to thunderstorms being prone this time of year in the Americas.  

   And the Full "Buck" Moon refers to deer sprouting their antlers this time of year, offering protection and spiritual sanctuary for some by way of the Nordic Rune Algiz.  Algiz graces many with protection, if you are in the white elk's graces.  Elk and deer having much in common as cousins; however, elk are heavier, yet both have four-chambered stomachs filled with potent bacteria to digest the vegetation upon which they feed.

   So enjoy the Full "Buck" Moon or look for Pikachu or whatever the hell you are doing, wending further into the cyborg nation; moreover, I have nothing against cyborgs, for my biological father was one, totally.  

   

Weredog Tart (11)

   
   "Weredog Tart (11)"
   
   To the Colonial Americans, it was dubbed the Full Summer Moon, so full and with effulgent brilliance, lighting up the night sky along with the stars above glittering, offering further nighttime illumination; anyway, Siria intrinsically knew what was going to happen--could feel it in her bones; thus, dashed past Dad sleeping on the couch, making sure to take the Iron City beer out of his sleeping hand and set it on the local rag next to him.
   Next, she stripped down to her nakedness, went out into the backyard, and as Luna burst completely full--she was ignited into a hairy, golden-hued weredog, tail aimed high and happy, her further full of glee, smelling everything around, and while wanting to squat and piss on a great number of things, she remained cognizant in a human sense, and thought:  LANCE McGEE!
   She knew he lived about 10 miles from her central Pittsburgh location, in the low populated borough of Wilmerding, southeast of her exact location, but she was up for a long sprint.
   As if running with unearthly power, Siria, tongue hanging out like the great Michael Jordan, sniffed out Lance's little house, and paced out front, her sensitive ears picking up the verbal action inside.  A fatherly voice scolding his son, yelling:  "You dumb shit!  Summer school!  And your skinny ass is only playing second string, actually third, cause you're too stupid to remember the playbook.  Why can't you be a bad ass like the Pirates' Gerrit Cole!?!"
   Lance voiced:  "That's baseball Dad."
   His Dad commanded:  "You're still a dumb ass.  Do you want to end up a coal truck-driver like me?"
   Lance said:  "I was thinking about becoming a welder."
   His Dad laughed:  "Like the movie Flashdance.  You're such a pussy son."
   Siria couldn't help but growl, loudly.  Next, she dropped her canine head and humbly went back home, knowing it sucked to be truly human and without the gifts of charity and love from supposed family.  Tough love works not on the mentally challenged, unless you want to drive them to suicide.  

Weredog Tart (10)

   
   "Weredog Tart (10)"
    
   Justice is a dish best served cold, so Siria figured, and she liked a piece of spiced, refrigerated beef jerky, or a cold meatloaf sandwich with hot mustard; still, she figured to let it go--the pseudo-gifts of care-taking ignoring her matriarch's needs, her own back torn to pieces, but now as a weredog, put back together again, and there goes the myth of Humpty Dumpty, but he had high cholesterol and large amounts of glucose running through his egg-like veins.
   Siria was just happy to be watching the Cubs play, even though the Pirates whooped them a few days ago, and of course, born in Pittsburgh, she had that sense of neon nepotism, getting schooled and adored by the supernatural in Steel City.  Her father moving down from southern sour mash to Iron City brew, and her always sneaking a few.
   Plus, there was Lance McGee and his emerald-green eyes focusing in on her dreams, not enchanted or besmirched by her beauty, but taking it seriously, ready to let her off the leash, for she would always stay close, and never run away from true love.  Was it?  Yup.  She knew in her fast-beating heart that a guy with such glacial history would only adore her, frigid to the nonsense of Internet porn and girls with vaginal cavities the size of buckets, soon to be in need of tans-vaginal mesh due to all the coitus-craving partying and nonsense of not having a spiritual life.
   Next, Siria kissed her Dad on the forehead, and by instinct, buried a piece of beef liver in the backyard, keeping it blessed by Terra's regenerating tomb.  

Weredog Tart (9)

   
   "Weredog Tart (9)"
   
   The bus ride was quaint and yet so cool.  Lance smelling of a spicy aftershave with a Captain Hook type of roll on deodorant, allowing him the spice of man under his blonde though hairy pits--heck, his eyebrows were yellow gold; thus, it had to be so in other places, as his khaki shorts displayed blonde-like curls as well, highlighted by a pair of year round moccasins.  
   Lance was glued to Siria as they exited the bus, him following her symmetrical tail, it being lead by the scents and smells of downtown Pittsburgh, so many delicious yet stank snorts of glee for Siria as she probed the eateries until hungrily approaching a chili dog swine-house, where they served kosher meats--no swine to be filled with demonic, suicidal activity--at least for them pigs known by the Christ, assisting in their launch downwards.
   So, Lance and Siria sat politely on a picnic-type of table, the daystar shining downwards, yet not melting Siria's arctic-blue eyes, those frosty entrances to a singular soul haunted by a weredog--and Lance and his shamrock-green stare were sincerely made sweet and subservient, making sure to wipe her canine mouth with dozens of napkin strokes.  

Weredog Tart (8)

   
   "Weredog Tart (8)"
   
   Lance sat down next to Siria with icy cool, having no lunch as he was from the wrong side of the tracks, grabbing only a can of this or that here and there.  Siria swallowed some of the white bread, salami, and extra mayo with a canine gulp; next, glared hard into his pretty boy, shamrock-green eyes, noticing his mane of sunshine yellow, and he glued his vibrant-green orbs onto her arctic-blue--the twosome caught in a game of strategic telepathy.  Then, the conversation ignited.

SIRIA
You're the school's backup quarterback.  Never talked to me once--why here, why now?

LANCE
I haven't spoken yet.  But let me say, doing school work and memorizing the entire offensive playbook, in Pittsburgh no less, is tough on a guy, and I never noticed you till now--here, stuck in the stink of summer school.  But believe me girl--you should have been noticed, my mistake.

SIRIA
You're the only one who doesn't give me creepy looks, I like that.

LANCE
Well we should make it official and get a chili dog sometime--my treat.

SIRIA
No suspicion detected.  Her instincts said he was just a nice guy; plus, smelled like cheap yet clean aftershave.  Okay.  Tomorrow is hump day, and I mean that in the cleanest sense.  We can take the bus downtown and get some meat, beans, sauce, and a bun to wrap it in.

LANCE
A puzzled look on his face.  Just like that?

SIRIA
I'm not easy; I just know a decent dude when I see one--somebody who seems to smell and act very clean.  Nice hair by the way--eyes too.  Siria got up and started to walk off, but turned around real swiftly.  After school, remember.

LANCE
How could I ever forget? 

Weredog Tart (7)

   
   "Weredog Tart (7)"
   
   The blonde and brave, that Nordic-looking kid, ancestors migrating downwards, to the Emerald Isle; next, like Kennedy, caught the BOAT and came to America.
   Lance McGee was a verbal and shinobi-like scrapper.  A skinny and spiritually chiseled  type of punk, full of suspicion, yet clever enough to know a demon.  His shamrock-green eyes keen upon the approach and retreat of Siria, her sitting to his left hind quarter area of the classroom, like G. Gordon Liddy eating that portion of a rat, knowing to face your fears and confront them.
   Thus, while the rest of the school dismissed Siria in awkward jealousy, Lance would not.  He would follow, not stalk her.  Just keep his eyeballs glued to that fine set of runaway sticks she had, so golden hued in the summer sunshine, like a hot chick cranking the neon-yellow ball at Wimbledon.
   He saw her eating lunch in the cafeteria.  A salami sandwich he figured, and it looked to be lathered in the ripe spoil of mayonnaise.  How could he resist?  He forced himself, and made a brave QB pass.  

Weredog Tart (6)

   
   "Weredog Tart (6)"
   
   Siria danced and dashed to her creative writing class, needing to shoot a bull to get short, machine gun bursts of literature out on the page with squid ink or whatever.  The teacher read her dog scratched perspective:

"I'm Catholic.  Protestants scare me, for they say the Virgin Mary is a witch, and that Her apparitions are demonic, and that we worship Her.  But we only honor Her, feeling bad for what we did to Her Awesome Son--God's Son too, get me!!!  Regardless, Tim Tebow may not make it into the pro-football Hall of Fame, but the Halls of Heaven, for he got shafted on Earth's cruel turf, winning most games as a QB starter; next, turns down movies, helps the downtrodden in alien areas--I freaking love Protestants now.  Candace Cameron is cool too.  But still:  I have the Angels and Saints, and while not infallible, they truly lead to God, in mysterious ways, that Trinity, that Godhead.  That mercy upon us."

   The teacher proclaimed:  "Miss Siria--this is public school--you can't talk about that here."

   Siria howled, pulled out a rancorously spiced  piece of beef jerky, and took a yummy, uncouth bite; next, strutted out, towards a future detention.  Some kid in class went:  "Dudes, that girl is a delicious tart!"    

Weredog Tart (5)

   
   "Weredog Tart (5)"
   
   Back in summer school, within the urban decay of it all, and the boys stripped Siria with their pornographic eyes as she sauntered inside the classroom full of canine power, feeling their nasty glares, tongues sticking out, snickers, whispers, and utter envy of her beauty.  And she totally thought:  "Then God created douchebags." 
   She took her seat with eloquent sizzle through the air, crowning the public schools and their crappy pseudo-sophistication and fabrications on history by way of a buttocks finely sitting; next, opened up her algebra book, ignoring the glares of horny boys, focused on the teacher, barely able to speak English, and absorbed the synergy of letters and numbers dancing on the chalkboard--do they still have those things?
    

Weredog Tart (4)

   
   "Weredog Tart (4)"
    
   These were no longer the pangs of birth for Siria--her bleeding hand suddenly healing as she rushed inside, her Dad in a deep slumber due to the hardcore effects of sour mash; next, Siria sprinted upstairs to the bathroom, brushed her mousy brown hair out of her arctic-blue eyes, got an introspective glimpse inside her complete self, her soul, seeing the spirit that animated her body gregariously gel with a sublime golden retriever mixed with a wolf.
   She figured to herself:  "This is cool stuff."
   Now knowing she had the defense to deal with summer school, algebra, and a mother's ghost living on the outskirts of Heaven, where the grass was always green and an azure noon held fast daily.
   Siria thanked Saint Jude, this leading to praise for the Trinity, as all the Saints and Angels lead to the great galore that is God.  Yet the rest of the world, in a greedy dream about themselves; still, the pangs of birth, a galactic revolution of revelation rising upon them save the fools for Christ.
   Siria went downstairs, sat next to her Dad, taking his drunken hand, and whispered in his ear:  "I love you Daddy.  We are steel together."  

Weredog Tart (3)

   
   "Weredog Tart (3)"
   
   Siria became a bit shocked, forgetting her stare down upon the city of Pittsburgh haunted by steel, smoke, and dreams, an Iron City's reverie immediately deleted as the teenage girl with the weird name glanced down the hill of her backyard and looked upon a golden colored, wolf-like creature. What made it even more bizarre, yet quixotic, was that the creature danced to her; next, initiated verbal speech.
  
WOLF-LIKE CREATURE
Hey Siria, getting bullied at summer school for your name, the modern times, maybe the end times, and because you flunked algebra, not liking the association of numbers and letters?

SIRIA
Who the hell are you?  Urinating in her lime-green and best pair of panties, but keeping her cool, the beer helping, which she dropped upon the green grass, foam flowing.

WOLF-LIKE CREATURE
Don't worry mate.  I'm part Canis lupus familiaris--a golden retriever mixed with a mystical and nice werewolf.  I instinctively adore water sports; moreover, I am an active type of dog.  Love play; plus, helping the disabled.  I can even do complicated algebra.  And I'm gonna bite you.  Hold still as I approach--fear not and the mutation will set in with savage sublimity.  Approached.

SIRIA
Oh my gosh . . .  Accepted, as she was frozen in place, like a quicksand dream, and the bite was on her hand, oozing forth the art of future transfiguration.  

Weredog Tart (2)

   
   "Weredog Tart (2)"
   
   Siria hated the armchair quarterback.  Like when her Mom was departing, off to the Otherworld, and the pseudo-physicians misdiagnosed; next, caretakers shocking with sloth-like maintenance, though they had a mouth, and could hornswoggle--that's what quasi-intellectuals do.
   But Siria had extravagant empathy for Dad now--him finally, knowing.
   The whispers, the behind the back, and yet Siria was never really pissed, for it was too disastrous to see her mother sitting in piss and shit without intervening and doing what was axiomatically right, like research.  Her own doctors, not the bullshit of clinical psychology, for she had Catholicism, which mirrors the Truth--the love and mercy; plus, getting mobility and wasting yourself for the love of others.  Feeding, wiping, medicating, carrying, watching bowel evacuation up close, more than any medical student, and still be strong.
   It was Friday night.  The Moon was lovely and full over Pittsburgh.  Siria sat in the suburbs, cranked open a beer some dude bought her--an attractive girl can get anything.
   She felt the summer wind howl and an entity approach, intangible yet so real, as is the mystery of God, but this one was armed with fur, fangs, and fright.  

Weredog Tart (1)

   
   "Weredog Tart (1)"
   
   Siria wasn't pleased with her name due to the modern times.  Even though crowned in mousy brown hair with arctic blue eyes, she was harassed by her summer school classmates, writing nasty notes to her, spelling her name Syria, and dubbing her a terrorist.
   Siria didn't hang her glow downwards save to grow the vegetation beneath her feet.  Drink a few beers underneath the heat of our Moon's daystar reflection, squat and make a good piss, like a dog--her name related to Sirius, the brightest star-system in the Earth's nocturnal sky, a dog star; specifically, Sun-bright, glowing and with effulgent shine.
   But being a teenager is tough.  Security.  Cops.  More cops.  Psychologists.  Bullshit.  All she needed was some urban fantasy paperbacks, a few beers on the weekend, her weekly Judo classes, and a perpetual motion towards a destiny determined to adore the antiquated gifts of Christ, no longer adhered to as the birth pains have ignited, and only those able to pass the painful kidney stones of existence will be peacefully delivered.
   Too, she was pulling for the Cubs this year even though residing in Pittsburgh all her eighteen years.  Hell (as for the Cubs), an eternity of being an underdog deserves some cheer, baby.  

Liberty's Sparkle (85) Epilogue

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (85) Epilogue"
   
   Liberty realizing the shift in the Irish Bard's infamous and yet famous, ever-told soul, not surgically precise, but robotics might be even more one day, possibly; still, the slur of her own observations, highlighted by golden pilsner that was resurrected in her every day wake, her offering:  "A drop every minute for stumblestone Davy; a rise every morning out of standfast dick."   Her own vinyl record--it played well, even backwards.
   But there would be no solemn reverie for Liberty in the near futurity of it all, so accepting, igniting her indigo fire to keep the trailer trash away, yet embracing those made platinum by dire circumstance, as if protected by guardians from the Otherworld.
   And Bobby Rook, in the straight direction of capturing her Queen, across the entire board until a keel loosed upon a small geography, with some visits to the ocean's buoyant drift, making love in an infinite number of ways save insertion of selfishness; indeed, always adoring, and the whispers of weird behind their backs, yet behind, as they zoomed in the singular direction of God, like us all, and He remembered Liberty and Bobby Rook and the whole gang, even the sleazy trailer women, never not continuing rising the Sun of mercy over every soul, for even a dwarf can punch a giant in the nutsac; thus, Liberty let loose upon the Earth, giving golden glow, stardust eternal, and the smile on many faces of tiny little people, so large as David was always a King, knowing they would gamble for His garments, yet only terrified of God, as was Liberty intrinsically, not wanting to taste the quill's possible Godsmack.  Carry on extra-crispy Colonel Sanders, yes, carry on . . . 

Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

Liberty's Sparkle (84)

   
 
   "Liberty's Sparkle (84)"
   
   After the swine was gracefully toasted and cooked according to the rosemary and its beneficial awesomeness, Liberty and Bobby Rook separated their synergy of possible carnal copulation, mounting the bunk beds in singular fashion, though Spanky on her downwards bunk.
   And she went into a deep sense of Rapid-Eye-Movement, even though smeared in shots of whiskey from the trailer girls, the sophisticated sour mash egging her onward, till completion of competition; nevertheless, deep down inside, Liberty only liked to play for fun.
   She dreamed of her late husband Tom--him no longer affected by the hyperactivity of OCD with Tics, but so solemn and controlled, saying:  "Bobby Rook moves straight--do not remove his anchor that is deep into the sublimity of God's Heavenly Harbor; regardless, love and adore him, totally knowing:  even a singular kiss from your honey stained lips is enough to keep him warm through an entire winter.  You are freedom Liberty, and make it be."
   Liberty, free enough to not really know the physician-like aspects of Christ, those Four Sacred Chambers beating for True Love, like a high school band wanting Dylan and Brenda to have FOREVER at the prom, and some people brag of their college days, yet Liberty still in the metaphorically haunting times of high school, remembering:  all the bullshit, yet adversaries so close by, and keenly yet cautiously knowing:  even though the angels are with us--this does not mean we should act as fools.  
   She prayed.  Really intensely.  And Bobby Rook snoozed away the nocturnal night, her having Spanky and his loving drool to hold onto, her unknowingly saying clearly:  "Domini canis."  Next, further into the sea of dreams, splashing her waking remembrance with super-reality as the Daystar was ignited.   

Liberty's Sparkle (83)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (83)"
   
   The night was illuminated by a waxing Moon, so near completion and full of werewolf fever; regardless, the spirit of Liberty was feeling poor, so lovely and poor, as the Larry the Cable Guys in the mobile home park and their whiskey-drinking wives invited Bobby Rook and her to a snow-falling outdoor festival of imbibing alcohol and grilling rosemary graced swine.
   Bobby Rook, new paperboy in town, like Mercury delivering a modern day Town Crier; anyway, Bobby Rook was truly adored by the Larry the Cable Guys, but a few of the wicked wives and their gazing eyes, not upon Luna's neon cheese glow of reflection, but deep into the cerebral direction of the mysteriously fragile yet strong Bobby Rook, attempting to engage his countenance; next, command its glare upon their sultry souls, too damn incarnate--their eyes painted for enchantment, and Liberty figured they looked like Drag Queens--waaaay too much makeup and bravado, spilling themselves around her best friend, encompassing him with their hope of vaginal legacy, secretly shouting at his mind:  "Put your seed into my womb that might birth the best of men, somebody severely tested by sickness, poverty, stress, and loss, yet always standing with God, never losing faith."
   And Liberty got it--they loved Bobby Rook, and so did she, because no torturous trauma in life could thieve him away from adoring the Angels and Saints, which does lead to the Almighty Themselves, that Trinity of a Godhead, so delicious and truly Divine.
   So, in front of all the ladies, Liberty grabbed Bobby Rook by his Pea Coat, pulled him in close; then, she told him to close his eyes, and laid the smooch of her life on his full blown lips, them curious, but not quivering, accepting the ignition of romance, for whatever true reason.   

Liberty's Sparkle (82)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (82)"
   
   The soft sense of humor ridden though religious man, Bobby Rook, a child of God, sat upon the futon within the mobile home, Spanky drooling loving slobber on his left; next, Liberty on his right, so gorgeously golden and without any cruel dents in her soul's illustrious essence.  And he merged these thoughts unto their inviolate synergy.
   As if picking up on the quasi-telepathy of it all, imbibing his never-to-be fantasies of high romance and wet, sloppy kisses, Liberty leaned her blonde, silky hair upon Bobby Rook's shoulder--his buzz cut immediately leaning against it, forging a united soul, a sublime synergy, and Spanky puked up a rancid pile of some microwave popcorn with sprinkle-laced cheese mixed in; as a result, now a Trinity of a situation, and the Seahawks were playing upon the pictures crafted by the black and white with rabbit ears, making an America so easy, without concussion, yet preserving the gladiators and the impoverished for who they are, and the risks we all take upon being birthed into this weird world.  

American Dogs; plus, 4th of July

   
   "American Dogs; plus, 4th of July"
   
   Some pets get nervous left outside during the freedom of fireworks still freely flaring, in some parts of town--here and there, security trumping freedom more often nowadays--sometimes this is nasty.  
   Regardless, the Wild West and wild wolves, both desiring freedom, off the leash of it all; nevertheless, restriction always arrives.
   Yankee Doodle during 1775, having impact upon the American Revolution.  And UNCLE SAM, a national avatar of the United States, generally--him lending might during the War of 1812, being many men and possibly women within the Multiversal Existence of Everything crafted by the Creator, Him allowing us the Holy Spirit of 1776, possibly.   
   Just eat some kale with your poor man's Filet mignon, which is the Rib eye; otherwise, a nice piece of beef liver and a spinach salad with blue cheese dressing containing no carrageenan. 
   Happy Independence Day!!!   

Liberty's Sparkle (81)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (81)"
   
   The mad mojo of it all, Morrison axiomatically crooning:  "I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer; furthermore--the End is always near."  Liberty knew.  Knew it well.  Death.  The macabre visions of skeletons and bones.  But Christ carrying the Cross, King of the Jews, Pilate stating:  "I have written what I have written."  His letters, secret documents in the Vatican Library; indeed, maybe they should be secret.
   Liberty loved the new adoration from the Larry the Cable Guys.  Bobby Rook, new paperboy in town, in his mid-30's, yet so full of Balder and Christ, Christ always first, but is this:  Stream of consciousness life, or automatic writing.?
   And this one girl, crap in her stinking and many exotic pair of neon-pink panties; regardless, Bobby Rook would not fall straight of a freaking straight line.  Was bizarre, yup.  But not secretly or actually weirdly stupid.  Knew the mysteries.  Crazy enough to believe.  More than in himself--a disobedient way of existence.  His father yelling at him:  "You are Catholic!!!  You are special!!!"
   Wherever he was, Bobby Rook, and the Saints loving dogs and werewolves, lowered their heads unto the Virgin Mary, apologetic for all the opprobrium we cruelly laid upon Her inviolate Son, merged completely with the Holy Spirit, King David in PSALMS 51 begging it not to be taken from his bard/fighter essence--and it wasn't!  Donatello gives symmetrical construction, with Goliath's sword, it further placed in the young King's armory, for special purpose, knowing:  angels, a little better than us, but fear nothing save God, for ye are gods!!!     

Liberty's Sparkle (80)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (80)"
   
   Liberty was paging through books at the local library, igniting the autodidact within, hoping to emanate it outwards, the wise love, feeling sorry for her bombastic blasphemy towards man during political discussions with her deceased father, yes--there were political discussions, a hatred of invasion and W. Bush, but Liberty now knowing:  W. cradled a descendant of his Mother's Millie in his human arms the night before putting the canine down, so merciful and loving, it made her feel like shit for rebuking her fellow man, us all controlled on some level.
   Like the Elmore Leonard book she once read, having a criminal character in it, him wearing a t-shirt that boldly stated:  "It's nice to be nice."
   The shape-shifting faces of humanity, growing older, getting more perspective and infinite meanings, or you become simpler, possibly, so simple, that you are then closer to God, or not.
   Liberty could only love--make that attempt.  And Bobby Rook was doing dandy.  She was happy that she could afford for him the Pea Coat--heck, it's cold up here in Whitefish, Montana.