Forgotten Muscle: AMC Javelin

   
   "Forgotten Muscle:  AMC Javelin"  
   
   We know about them Mustangs--those wild horses; plus, the Camaro, and of course the Corvette and mighty Barracuda.  But what we forget is the AMC Javelin; specifically:

"AMC Javelin AMX 401"

V-8; moreover, 401 cubic inches.

Power:  335 horses.

Torque:  430 lb-ft.

4 Speed manual.

Front engine/rear wheel drive.

Flat 6 seconds to sixty.

Quarter mile:  14.7 seconds.

Who claimed the ancients couldn't build shit?  Thus, watch:  Ancient Aliens. 

Don't Count Your Chickens . . .

   
   "Don't Count Your Chickens . . ."
   
Never count the mysterious chickadee
Until you've taken a kidney stone pee,
For though your patriarch pooped a heart attack--
This don't mean sister, you need an anti-depressant for a fluxing serotonin jack,
Though even an ascetic can fail to enter paradise,
If God's sense of keen dream is smitten by the fallen, strange but not nice;
Alas, Calvin armed with his theological point of predestination
Is like unto the Web of Wyrd and The Norns' temptation;
Thus, without hesitation, pluck out your own eye and hang on a tree,
For even the lesser gods can with a singular eye see;
Hence, love the Christ, love the Christ, love the Christ--
A Trinity:  Holy, Holy, Holy Lord, embarking into death can be a benevolent heist.  

Why Read James Joyce?

The lowly Saints of everyday

    
   "The lowly Saints of everyday"
   
   He works in the yard, and I doth protest.  It's hot, and you're old--I tell him such things.  But he persists in communicating with God in the garden of suburbia.  We don't always see eye to eye--who does?
   I feel his anxiety and tension, yet his corporeal self is withered, like unto a fading flower, though never in the image of Narcissus.  
   I cook and bake for him.  He likes whiskey and hard spirits, as did Hemingway.  I told him to write like that guy:  machine-gun sentences.  One.  Two.  Three.  Linear thinking, which I'm incapable of, questioning everything, and testing every spirit.
   We are not Starsky and Hutch, for we don't drive a "Striped Tomato" as Hutch had dubbed the monster Ford, that cool yet fiery Gran Torino.   
   It's all high horsepower 6 Cylinder engines nowadays, mostly, but they lack the manipulating rotation of torque produced by the behemoth big blocks of old.  Still, he loves working outside.  I keep an eye on him, even during his rants at the political news and the Bravo Sierra it doth spilleth on the quasi-airwaves of today. 

  

Sarah J. Connor--the Sheltie

   
   "Sarah J. Connor--the Sheltie"
   
   My name is Sarah J. Connor; I am a Shetland Sheepdog.  I have many nipples, but was spayed, for my owner, a wackadoodle named Jimmy, didn't want me to wear a diaper, go into heat, or have any raunchy boy dogs come sniffing around.  Good for the wackadoodle.
   Yeah, I loved Jimmy.  He took me for walks, let me chase lizards, and fed me real, live-action bacon--center cut, as it should be, unless you're a Jew or Muslim.
   I don't want to offend anybody, but nowadays--that's all that a person or dog can do.  If you tell a girl at the grocery market that she looks good in jeans--it's domestic terrorism or harassment.  If I take a stinky poop in the neighbor's yard, people will put me down or put a shock collar on me.  Yup, folks are real assholes.
   I always thought I lived in a free country; then, I realized--that's Canada.  America has gone down the tubes.  Poor General George, and they're even taking Old Hickory off the twenty dollar bill pretty soon.  That really pisses me off, for I live in Tennessee.  Why don't they just make a three dollar bill and put a chick on it?  Did any chicks fight in the Great American Wars like the men, or have the mystical initiative of Joan of Arc?  I don't think so.  But whatever.  And I like being a girl.  I'm just saying--it is America, and once was a free country without all the overwhelming security.  Yikes.  
   Yeah, I know I'm not perfect, nor are my opinions, but what soul didn't love it before girls grew the hanging scrotum?  Okay, I'm wrong again, for my name is Sarah J. Connor; still, that's fiction--like me.  Then again--there's always the knuckle-thrusting axiom of Hope Solo.  

Near Death Experience

   "Near Death Experience"
   
   One of my near-death-experiences, my favorite really, was in Little Rock, when I was in my late twenties.  The cleaning lady at the hospital, where I stayed for a week would say:  "But you're so young."
   I kept telling my physician about the blood loss; he wouldn't listen.  When I checked myself into the Emergency Room, and had lab work done--I had less than half the blood in my body; furthermore, my brother called me on the phone--heroically, I stated:  "Walk in the park."
   Next, I kept running to the bathroom, more blood shooting from my bowels, all hooked up to intravenous saline, among other things, and the nurses were laughing at me, saying with much weird mirth:  "There he goes again."
   When I finally got my transfusion of less than ichor, the nighttime nurse told me that she wanted to die when she lost control of her bowels.  Hell, didn't she know why I was there?  Of course, but like the bad guys in KARATE KID:  "No mercy."  
   Some are like unto Elijah and Enoch, becoming Twin Arch-Angels, going up into Heaven, as did the Virgin Mary, without corporeally passing.  I understand the Passion of Christ, in the sense of nearly bleeding to death.  In and out of consciousness.  But I didn't want to die, for the second X-Men movie had come out that day, and I was determined to be entertained before meeting my Maker.
   After major Cardiac Arrest, back in the day, people usually only lived for an approximate five to six years.  My Bio-Dad made it over twenty, and he told me that he saw the Light.  
   Will.  Will.  Will.  And he smoked and drank like a true Irishman.  
   It's all in God's Hands.  Or God puts it in yours.  Just shut up with the negativity, or karma may kick you in the ass, and I've been there.  Love, hope, have faith, and know the Passion of Christ--He did it for all of us!!!  Even the nasty ones.  

Snoopy's Brother: Spike

   
   "Snoopy's Brother:  Spike"
   
   Spike is very skinny.  He used to live with coyotes; as a result of their selfishness--they wouldn't share any food with him; hence, he moved to Needles, where his best friend became a cactus.
   A cactus has endurance.  Gives the essence of life.  And has needles, much like Spike's mustache, which is needle-like.
   A common trait with Snoopy is that Spike also writes.  Maybe he's not as fast on the typewriter as Snoopy, but he's able to craft a nice letter, mentioning that he's coming to visit the Peanuts Gallery.
   Mark Twain didn't like the typewriter.  I believe he thought it a nasty invention.  Kerouac was a master on the typewriter.  So is Snoopy--him still alive, surviving in the memories of myriads.  

Feeding the Monkey

   "Feeding the Monkey"
  
   There was no Atomic Consciousness for Leeza; indeed, to her belonged the archetype of a banana-eating mind, dulled and confused by what she could not fortunately fathom in the fresh fruits of the Divine.  No one is to blame, and Leeza had her own radio show in a local region of Oklahoma.  

* * * *

   She broadcast her bravado with a dragon's fiery selfishness of laid gold; moreover, she hated Hobbits and the rotation of Earth by the mere monkey man.  The non-evolved in a sense of style, for Leeza was a fashion critic, adoring the Beaver's blonde mother clothed in pumps and pearls.
   She had a daughter named Bonnie.  A kind and magnanimous soul, heavenbent on raising the dead and feeding the monkeys; plus, rabbits, and even mice, never trapping them, but adoring all animals, and drinking plenty of grape-flavored soda-pop.  
   The dualistic dichotomy of the two was counterpoise perfected.  And a mother's love, not jealousy of her daughter, well, that would allow for even a better union, outshining balance.
   Fortunately, the twosome engaged and embraced after their differing opinions saw the identity of equals.  For no soul is without the stovepipe hat of Lincoln; specifically, the cerebral and spiritual aspects underneath.  Did they love each other and ignite into a strange yet paradisal eternity?
   Of course; otherwise--it would not be worth mentioning.  God not spank, but save the Queen.      

Mirror of Justice

   
   "Mirror of Justice"
   
   In the LITANY OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN, we hear and invoke Her as the Mirror of Justice, like art depicting Her as the Moon, perpetually reflecting Her Son--Her loving and adoring Him like no other, as should we.
   So, when they look upon you with death and skulls, reflect it back onto them, adoring the Queen of Confessors, the Queen of Angels, the Tower of Ivory, for every soul has a right to choose Her Son, the Living Christ.
   And to further press onward, mentioning the original title of Darwin's mere theory:  On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life.  Still, we don't know what lurked in Darwin's heart.  We can't even cure the common cold.  We can't read the mind of dogs, but possibly, they can read ours.
   The late Christopher Hitchens, sometimes writing for Vanity Fair magazine, once boldly proclaimed:  "There is only one Race--the Human Race, for there are no different species of human." 
   We simply don't know save the true mystic, and even then--there are questions.  All we can do is absorb the sublimity of beauty in all things, even ugliness.  That is our duty as human beings.  

OCD versus being anal

   
   "OCD versus being anal"
   
They laugh and say they have OCD,
Making fun of your asymmetries like non-benevolent fairies under a mystic tree;
Regardless, because you merely align,
Does not mean that you have a condition that does perniciously malign.

* * * *

   Imagine involuntary and intrusive images.  A history of things you thought you did, but didn't.  A perpetual feeling of Catholic or Jewish guilt.  Beings from the Otherworld paying you visitations.
   Yes, we're clean.  Like Tobias, washing everyday and burying the dead, before Saint Raphael and the dog got him along on his journey.  A sneeze can travel very far.  Door handles and money are dirty; alas, the false images--or are they real?  Borderline psychosis?  
   Rituals, repetition, perpetual prayer, and infatuation with these possible mystical things.  But they make fun, thinking you just chase dust bunnies and purchase anal cream on a consistent basis.  
   Okay, that's fine.  But believe me--you don't want real OCD, especially with tics.  Whether this is coming from the medial temporal lobe or actual spiritual intervention--nobody really knows.  Yup, anti-psychotics can be like unto scientific exorcisms.  King David knowing humanity is almost as strong as angelity.  Every single day is a war.  Did I murder that guy they're talking about on television, for he looks familiar?  Did I run over somebody while driving?  And they still laugh at patients; next, go home and become wankers to their Bush League College Girls doing porn to empower themselves in a modern world.  Whatever.  It's all in the reflexes baby.  

Hues, Herbs; moreover, the Almighty

   
   "Hues, Herbs; moreover, the Almighty"
  
A 2nd colonoscopy showcased COMPLETE inflammation and ulceration of the large intestine--
Near death, without blood, a man's face with no lies, suffering is rarely clandestine;
Moreover, after alkaloid compounds in my suffering system,
The 3rd colonoscopy was disturbed, for nearly no inflammation in my bowel-like position;
Next, medicine thieved away, cause even the mighty soldier suffers addiction like a hungry tool;
Hence, my 4th colonoscopy displayed a polyp; plus, many centimeters of an active colitis ghoul;
Still, I did not seek a horse's solace from the street,
Forsaking any chance at addiction; plus, weary of the fuzz or the politically-controlled heat.
Therefore, we must use glowing colors and hues
To heal our corporeal anguish and blues,
Yet blue is communicative and can cool a body's nation; 
Moreover, green works with vibrant gyration;
Also, talk to God; indeed, talk to the Heavenly Family and Him, God--
Give the Almighty a faith-fueled nod.  

Arrogance, Humility; plus, Redemption

   
  
 "Arrogance, Humility; plus, Redemption"

   Went to Mass today, imbibing the Holy Eucharist.  The Priest spoke on arrogance and humility, saying:  "No one likes an arrogant soul."  Yet is that true, in this America?
   The famous in Hollywood and physicians speak of the heart taking blood for itself before offering it to the other organs.  Yet the Saints beg to differ.  Christ telling Papa:  "Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me; nevertheless, not My will, but Thine be done."  And salvation arriveth for the fools for Christ, such as Saint Francis dubbed himself.
   Verily, arrogance and pride are in high demand.  For their bigger milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard--better than yours.  And next:  they win a musical award or plaudits from earthly princes.
   Confidence, what?  Who is to be confident in anything save God?  Did you forge yourself into existence?
   But when arrogance is blasted due to the fibs of folly, we emasculate people, such as Johnny Manziel.  Yet, with all men--there is REDEMPTION!
   Only the Third Eye can see such things, glowing indigo, and sometimes with righteous shame, further chiseling an attitude of humility.  Did you not steal my sister's heart into your viper's den of demons?  Does a physician pride himself on brains, when antibiotics and anti-depressants are over-prescribed?  Furthermore, these men of medicine are one of the largest contributors to death, yet King David's ode to medical and benign herb gets you sodomized in the supposedly greatest country on Earth--so our pride claims.  
   But again:  there is always redemption, seen by such men as Twain, writing out of anger, yet finding humility, and getting to know Saint Joan, forgiving the sometimes tempting fairies under the tree.  We must bleed for others, lest Christ will not bleed for us.  And as He kinda/sorta and truly mentioned:  "You do not want to meet the Father without Me!"

Shmoo--quick facts

   
   "Shmoo--quick facts"
   
Architect:  Cartoonist, Al Capp.

Abilities:  

1.)  Lays eggs; plus, bottles of Grade A Milk.

2.)  Will gladly die for owner, morphing itself into a yummy steak.

3.)  Whiskers work better than toothpicks.

4.)  Produces offspring with more mercury than the average hare.  

5.)  Shmoos are too sublime for the purpose of humanity.  

Finnegans Wake and Crayons

   
   "Finnegans Wake and Crayons"
   
   Mr. James Joyce, the literary master of the 20th Century, sweetly surmised the only arms used by a bard are:  silence, exile, and cunning.  So near to being blind at times, like unto Milton and Homer, he had to write much of Finnegans Wake in bright, brilliant crayon.
   No apostrophe was used in the title, possibly, because this would mean Finnegan is an individual, and that he is dead (hence his wake).
   I fondly fancy his words in the book:  "First we feel.  Then we fall."
   Joyce might further say:  "A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery."
   Mr. James Joyce died due to a perforated ulcer, as goes the illusion-like biology of it all.   

Patriot Pigeon

   
   "Patriot Pigeon"

   Charlie Jones loved America.  Remembered how Kennedy got pissed when nuclear weapons were gonna be so close in Cuba.  Who would want to live with nukes so close?  But the Russians do. 
   Warsaw Pact crumbled.  Our nukes now positioned all over Eastern Europe.  And was it not Stalingrad and not D-Day that saved the day?  Approximately 25 million Russians died due to those Germans, but we don't care.  
   Trump is a KGB Operative--shows like The View will tell you.  And Hillary is just fine--no mortal head wound that gels with John's predictions of the Anti-Christ.
   What the hell is going on?  Why can't Pat Sajak be President?  Make it so!!!
   He served in Vietnam.  Spins a fancy wheel.  Tells jokes.  Entertains us.  Had a Late Night Talk Show.  
   Charlie Jones just wondered why things weren't fair.  What did Jack Kennedy boldly and smoothly proclaim:  "Life is not fair."  Well, whose fault is that?  The selfish people, yup.  
   Anyway, the carnival was coming to town.  They tried to clone Lincoln, but ended up with John Kerry instead.  Put a beard on that guy--he looks like Lincoln.  But he put splinters under his fingers to get the Purple Heart.  Lincoln had a stovepipe hat.  Hated prohibition.  Knew it led to suffering and crime.  
   So, John Kerry is not perfect; alas, Charlie Jones still hoped for Pat Sajak.  I get all this information from my elderly step-parent.  

Movie: Jane Wants a Boyfriend

   
   "Movie:  Jane Wants a Boyfriend"
   
   Like I've read and mentioned in these here Blogs, most people live normal lives, a little anxiety-ridden, but coping with cool; however, in one of every twenty houses, there's real melancholy shit going down, and nobody seems to care.
   In the movie:  Jane Wants a Boyfriend, we meet a young lady named Jane.  She has Asperger's and lives with her parents, perpetually watching the same movies over and over again.  Anyway, her parents and her live in Queens, New York, but the parents are moving; hence, enter her earthly and productive sister:  Bianca.
   Bianca has a boyfriend, and Jane needs to move in with her.  Bianca's boyfriend adores Jane, and does everything by way of his mortal power to help her have a sweet and lovely life.
   Ultimately, going on a series of dates, Jane finds the one, and of course, with ART--there is rarely defeatism, unlike real life, where family and friends rip you off due to your cerebral asymmetries.
   Bianca and Jane embrace at the end of the movie, the sisters admitting that they are totally best friends.  For every soul with shapeless people in their lives--this is a much watch movie!!!

The Karate Kid Mr Miyagi Confronts Sensei In Dojo

Mainstream Media & Truth

   
   "Mainstream Media & Truth"
   
   Can you make millions without a few dead bodies (at least metaphorically) residing in cement shoes at the bottom of a river?  Possibly.  However, can you not?
   We get angry at the smallest amounts of iniquity, when the titanic monster is upon us.  We starve the poor, celebrate capitalism and beauty, yet the wilted old man outshines in his humility and everlasting fever for the Almighty.
   All is relative; on the contrary, there are axioms.  The Big Bang, the Multiverse--whether smaller Universes were crafted from the expansion of space to its limitations, like little bubbles popping up on a loaf of bread baked to its capacity, forging other entities, or actually (maybe) having the Creator aspects, igniting our puny Universe, we don't know.  Like Jango Fett proclaimed:  "I'm just a simple man trying to make my way in the Universe."  And he was, yet he wasn't.  It's all true, yet fiction haunts, as does non-fiction.
   Angels are fallible.  People are controlled.  God is Good.  What to do?
   Have faith in sublimity.  Know Jude the Obscure is actual reality, yet so full of melancholy and hurt.  Aquinas seeing a vision so grand, he could no longer write again, yet having more script than the million words of Kerouac, some of which he claimed were dictated to him by the Holy Spirit Itself.
   Thus, trust in God.  Trust in true love.  Trust in luminous, magnanimous energy that cannot be destroyed.  Trust in a Man arriving in the Name of Love.  Yet as did His allegorical father (King David) do--sometimes we have to fight and rebuke.  It is all relative; still, axioms reside.  This is our ambiguous journey.  Not sloppy sex and banging a naked woman in a pile of a million dollars, for that fornication will fade, or haunt, as do the benevolent deeds of the esoteric folk humbled by dog-like loyalty.  Yet simplicity is God--in a Fatherly sense of chiseling us through discipline.  
     

Invocation to Saint Joan of Arc

   
   "Invocation to Saint Joan of Arc"
   
   Johnny Carson might say:  "Weird and wild stuff."  But the tradition of the Universal Church will not fade with a whimper into the night, not as long as the mystical knights of Almighty God ride alongside us.  Here's an invocation to Saint Joan of Arc--her Feast Day, May 30th.

   "Most extraordinary soldier, you insistently proclaim "Let God be served first!"  You began by winning many victories and received the plaudits of princes, but then you were given to the enemy and cruelly put to death.  Instill in us the desire to serve God first and perform our earthly tasks with that idea ever in our minds.  Amen."  

Teddy Roosevelt and Pete

   
   "Teddy Roosevelt and Pete"
  
   These tales are antiquated and ambiguous, as is Pete himself.
   Pete was one of Roosevelt's many dogs, for Teddy liked dogs.  If a man doesn't like animals, especially man's best friend, possibly he doesn't like people either.  Don't murderers usually get their start by slaughtering animals?
   Pete was maybe a Bull Terrier.  Too, he tore the pants off of a visiting French Ambassador at the White House.  And supposedly attacked two cops--they might've deserved it.
   Anyway, lore suggests Pete was transported to parts unknown for terrorizing the White House from 1905 to 1908.  So goes the myth and reality of it all.  

Guns n´Roses - 14 years (lyrics)

Flash: The Wiry Whippet (5)

   
   "Flash:  The Wiry Whippet (5)"
   
   Like a thief in the night, the prankster adolescents approached, carrying toilet paper, eggs, and even shaving cream--oh my, what was that for--were they gonna try and shave Henry's mustache off?  No, Henry loved his handlebar mustache!
   That ignited me to defense--the only way to play.  And with the Moon as my light, and my sniffer superior with insight, I sprinted at the kids, Scooper following, but only as a goofy, fun-loving Lab would, and the kids took off.  That simple.  Stand up with your intrinsic traits; next, the cradle will rock, and the baby sleeps, for we must muster ourselves, though never monstrous, unless of course we're monsters.
   Scooper was still chasing the kids, yelling at their retreat:  "Play with me!  Play with me!"
   Even love can chase away things.  
   So, I took my paw pads and sauntered back inside the house, sitting next to my Master, Henry--on this spooky Halloween night.  He continued to hand out candy to nicer children, always with a smile, and me at his side.  Some might say it was a pathetic life.  But what they don't know was:  I loved Henry, and would lay down my life for him.  Do you have anybody that would do that for you?  Or would they lock you away from grace and favor?
   Oh well, Scooper came back, all muddy, carrying a stick he found on the road.  It's how life goes, sometimes.   

Big Trouble in Little China - Elevator Scene

Flash: The Wiry Whippet (4)

   
   "Flash:  The Wiry Whippet (4)"
   
   I would not be guilty of apostasy concerning my Master, Henry; however, from time to time--I have strayed away from him, in the dashing direction of a running rabbit on the farmhouse's property; still, I would not abandon Henry's need for solid solace, the poor widower.  A lonely old man, hitting the hard stuff nightly to engage a more dulled nocturnal state of slumber.
   Why do humans drink?  To make their hearts happy?  To speak the truth?  To erase the resonating effects of bullies absent from their modern lives yet still haunting their mortified souls?  To be cool and cowboy-like, or think themselves so?  To face their reflection?  
   Henry dropped a beer on the hardwood floors one time--I licked it up and felt better; still, there is nothing like the taste of bacon.  Hey, it's not what goes into your mouth that makes you unclean, but what comes out of your heart.
   So, I found Scooper.  Told him what old Cooter had told me.  Kids wanted to pull a Halloween prank on our Master.  As a Lab-Mix, Scooper was all too goofy about it, saying:  "Golly, are we gonna make new friends with these people?"
   I was like:  "No, this is not play.  You don't play with vandals.  Poor Henry would have to clean up all the toilet paper in the trees; plus, wash the egg stains off his old truck and the house."
   Scooper, continually optimistic about making new friends didn't see my logic, stating:  "But one of them might be nice.  A kid conned into the prank, and we could make a new pal."
   I dropped my Whippet head, royally wondering how Labs were just so darn friendly.  Oh well, I guess that's why they make great service dogs--it takes all kinds, as the humans say.  

Flash: The Wiry Whippet (3)

   
   "Flash:  The Wiry Whippet (3)"
   
   Basset Hounds provide no false truths; specifically, it is in their truck-driving DNA to admit the facts--just the facts ma'am.  But people are controlled by Principalities and such--so there is always an esoteric part of the story, dismissed as pseudo-science by the mainstream media.
   Mental Illness versus Diabolical Possession--two facts:  Someone never exposed to a certain foreign language, I mean--never exposed!  Yet they cuss you out fluently with profane vulgarities in an unknown foreign language; next, if someone knows something about you (your secret) that you never verbally, or by writing admitted, and that person knows your mind-locked secret, yup.
   Still, I trusted Cooter, the Basset Hound, for we trust who we have to; plus, I loved the sweet Saint Roch.  Too, I loved my Master, Henry.  So what if kids were gonna roll and egg the house.  But I was just a dog.  Had to bite their ankles or something canine-like.  Wasn't it my duty to not let my Master be bullied?  

Flash: The Wiry Whippet (2)

   
   "Flash:  The Wiry Whippet (2)"
   
We all make mistakes, yet have treasures buried,
But dogs generally don't get married;
Regardless, I had a bone that I loved, especially its lamb-like flavor
That made me a lover--not a hater,
Yet when the Basset Hound named Cooter came from across the street,
Telling me the kids were planning a Halloween trick--not treat,
I felt depressed, wanting candy to eat;
Thus, I listened to Cooter and his insightful ears,
Which heard the rumors that adolescents were going to make my Master Henry have great fears;
Alas, I howled in melancholy but invented my own conclusion,
Which was:  Henry would be protected by my sublime intrusion
Into any plan
That would my Master damn.   

False Testimony; plus, True Harassment

   
   "False Testimony; plus, True Harassment"
   
   In the early 1990's, my family and myself moved to Franklin.  I was mortified to be shelled into such a constricting suburbia.
   I had been to plenty of physicians and priests; moreover, all they could deduce at the moment was Social Phobia and Agoraphobic tendencies.  Totally, I just wanted to deliver newspapers, write, read, and be left alone with my family; however, the neighbors had other ideas.
   The woman next door would just barge into our house and boisterously announce her proud presence.  I was mortified.  Once, on my way to deliver newspapers, she just bounced on in, without knocking, and I was in my underwear, getting changed.
   Things got worse.  They wanted me to start cutting their grass.  I didn't mind mowing the old lady's lawn across the street, for she was gentle and kind, but I was not about to be anybody's yard slave.
   They tried to pay me for it.  Called me on the phone numerous times, came to the door numerous times--I hid.  And when I did encounter them--I told them that I didn't want their money, yet they cruelly persisted in making me their boy.
   Their daughter was involved too.  She came over 4 times in one day, trying to give me money; I hid in stealth-like fashion.  Was just happy being a paperboy.  Too, the girl would have a guy over when her parents were out of town--all night long.  It sickened my Catholic celibacy.
   So, to take the edge off, I attempted to push them away--the art of deception.  Get rid of their intrusive, in-your-face style of neighboring.  I wrote a 90 page poem, using references that would conjure up literal offerings of her father's alcoholism.  It worked.  I didn't force her to read it, but put it on my property, and she retrieved it; next, gave false testimony to the police that I threatened suicide if she didn't retrieve it--bullcrap!!!
   My attorney called them Nazi-like.  And I didn't defend myself.  I couldn't publicly speak.  I couldn't even urinate in public.  It was all fabrication.
   Furthermore, she harassed my probation officer--he said we should get her for harassment.  I didn't; moreover, my probation officer adored me.  But I wasn't done.  Had to cement the fact that you don't fool with an Irishman.  James Joyce was with me.
   I don't walk with pride, but am humbled by life.  Though sometimes, you have to go shinobi.  You have to understand the Art of War.  And yes, I pray for my adversaries.  And all I want is to live in peace, without the mysteries of possible temptation concerning adultery crafted by their corporeal intrusions.  Just let me live in peace.  Still considering a Civil Lawsuit.  

Flash: The Wiry Whippet (1)

   
   "Flash:  The Wiry Whippet (1)"
   
   My name is Flash.  I'm a Whippet; specifically, a sprinter, not made for endurance though, but I got me some stamina when it comes to spirit.
   I'm a descendant of the famous Greyhound, originating in Great Britain.  I live on a farm.  There are roosters.  Don't bother them.  Don't want an angry spur in my direction.  Hens too, but they're nice.
   My Master's name is Henry--he's a nice Old-Timer.  A widower.  Has a shotgun to scare away the foxes and coyotes.  I hope he never hits one, for they're kinda like my brethren.
   Scooper is my buddy.  He's a Lab-Mix.  Mixed with a little weird.  Big and goofy.  Both of us are allowed in Henry's house, but Scooper's tail always wags, in perpetual motion, knocking things off of the coffee table and such.  Henry doesn't get mad though.  He's laid back.  Likes to watch women's soccer.
   Anyway, this is just the tale, not my tail, but the tale of a haunted Halloween, when Henry had to deal with some crazy kids plotting to egg and roll our farmhouse.  But it doesn't involve him using his shotgun.  That's only for predators.  And immature kids aren't predators, mostly.  Heck, it's America--a country of second chances.  

Ash Heap Hound (20)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (20)"

   I couldn't have been happier for Zoe and Conner--my little girl, always; plus, Conner--a nice, shy kid with a sweet set of wheels, and his baggage was zipped, very tight; however, I knew that when the rest of us slept he tore his garments, was tormented, and would never have made it without the united synergy of Zoe and her American Foxhound self--and they say opposites attract, yeah, maybe to kill each other.
   It was nice too, to have Zoe home.  She didn't mean to always be the rebel and not give love to her mother before the lady passed into the Otherworld; specifically, Zoe was a hypochondriac since the conception of her own consciousness.  And when you are a hypochondriac, you have every mental and supernatural disorder in the book.  It ultimately morphed her into an American Foxhound--even my mind has bent all the spoons in our kitchen drawer, and I wasn't even trying.
   So, before you turn your back on somebody, or bully, or think you're being clever, well, go ahead--do it.  You'll get yours in ways never perceived.  And if not, maybe a family member.  Be cruel and lazy about someone's asymmetrical self, and next:  a tumor on you or a loved one's nutsack, and you know how it feels, but because you're nasty, and ultra-sleazy with a non-standard porn collection, watching young girls embarrass themselves, not empower themselves, for money, that great American prize, putting people into public office, but death awaits with a smile for those folks--yes, He loves us, but every Creator can become bitter at the selfishness of His Creations, letting you think you're winning; next, BAM!!!  It hits you, but as justice, not like the sublime trial of Tobias.  And there was a dog in his story too, gotta love it.   Then again--I could be wrong, or not.  

Ash Heap Hound (19)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (19)"
   
   It was simple, and possibly--the simpler something is; next, the closer it is to God.  Conner's low-end torque turned Dwayne's Z-car to ash, metaphorically, in a 0-60 race.  It was over in 5 seconds.
   As Dwayne and his opulent and ostentatious status felt the truth of an impoverished girl like the Virgin Mary being remembered for every generation, as the physician Luke mentions in the Book, so did Dwayne realize--he would not be remembered by Zoe.
   So, Zoe and Conner went into the garage, joined Max, and in a backroom, they all watched the 1980's animation of Thundarr the Barbarian, where the strong man rode with Ookla, a Mok, kinda like Chewbacca, and an amiable pythoness dubbed Princess Ariel; plus, she was drawn very attractively. 
   It was a post-apocalyptic world, approximately around (3994 AD), and the threesome could not get enough of the animated power, watching a trinity of episodes.  There is allegory in most everything, and most of the time--it's magnanimous.  Let us hope this continues.  

Karate Kid - Wax on Wax off

Ash Heap Hound (18)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (18)"
   
   Zoe's true-love hunger to encompass Conner's heart led her to fight for her man, telling Dwayne and his fancy attire at the greasy garage, well--I'll put it into specs up against his Z-car, like this:
  
1970 LS6 (Lots of Speed) Chevelle.

Certain esoteric options provided, possibly:

450 Horsepower.

454 Cubic Inch behemoth.

500 lbs.-f.of torque.

Yet, would slide off of a curvy track;

Still,

On Big Block Highway--

Would even give a Boss 429 difficulty.

   Zoe didn't go on to say everything is relative.  Like a 1970 Boss 302 hitting 60 with ultra-swift agility, and yes, totally better on massaging the curves, for Dwayne's brain only considered style.
   Indeed, it is all relative, and again I usher in Mr. Miyagi:  "Wax on; wax off."  

Ash Heap Hound (17)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (17)"
   
   Conner knew Christ's Words from the Book; specifically, the Good News of Matthew:  "God maketh the Sun rise on the good and the evil."
   And Conner could not fathom why we oppress a young Olympian, yes 32 is young, for age is relative, and to die at 33, like possibly did the Christ, well--that's a young death.
    Do not the two people running for President have iniquity within them?  Are they without any morsel of sin?  Dead bodies, possibly, along the way, or not?  Yet they will lead our country.  Who is more of an embarrassment to the United States?
   Pray for your enemies.  Ignite them towards God, Conner knew; thus, he prayed for Dwayne, even though the dude simply wanted to lay the pipe in Zoe's decency, and for selfish reasons.
   Conner would not fight.  Would let the fight erupt around him.  Would watch as fools not involved in gladiatorial sports swung their bullshit.  Any thug can fight in an alley.  The true, righteous man fights with energy.  With prayer in spirit.  With love and hope.
   Logic is for the fool.  Yet logic grants cash in America.  Yet Conner knew--there is an infinite number of possibilities, and his money was on Intelligent, Loving Design, for our better state of resonating karma--if that makes sense, and it probably doesn't.  
   

Ash Heap Hound (16)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (16)"
   
   Simple axiom:  Horsepower sells cars; however, Torque wins races!!!
   Yeah, I liked the Japanese stuff; moreover, always had a fascination with Godzilla, especially when he fought King Kong--didn't like the part when King Kong swung him around by the tail, it kinda got me pissed.
   Anyway, so did this kid named Dwayne.  Fancy dresser.  Rich family.  Prestige simply handed to him.  And he had an eye on my daughter, Zoe.  This wasn't good for Conner or her.
   Came to her, boasting of his new Nissan Z, giving the specs, professing:  "3.7 liter with 332 horses pulling me, and a six-speed manual for quicksilver shifting."
   Zoe blew him off, and Conner just ignored him; nevertheless, like a pest, he kept coming to my garage, keeping his creepy eye on Zoe, flashing the dollar sign, that new God, that new wine in the hearts of us Americans.  I just prayed and believed that Zoe would continue blowing him off, or better yet, humble him with her 'Cuda.  

Big Trouble In Little China: It's All In The Reflexes

Ash Heap Hound (15)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (15)"
   
   And at Mass, the threesome sat, humbled, obedient, ears hearing the celibate Priest, him keenly knowing how to energize that capability, boldly proclaim:  "Who is man to be proud of anything such as himself?  Did not the Intelligent Design of the Trinity forge you into existence?  Is not the mercy of the Son, the Author of Life?  And did not His Holy Spirit haunt King David, even as a boy?  I say--it happened, as goes, as you are here today, not among the society of Philistines."
   Upon exiting, Zoe, Max, and Conner went to the Waffle House.  There was a beetle in the leathery booth.  How God has a sense of humor, making so much of life a form of the beetle.
   Still, knowing God is Spirit, and to worship His Energy as such, the threesome were still a bit selfish, wanting to fine tune their muscle cars.  The power of torque, manipulating and causing potent rotation, something willing something into existence, and that first state, willed itself.
   How holy--the Trinity, and the muscle car.  

Ash Heap Hound (14)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (14)"
  
   I was so happy to be home with Daddy.  Yet missed the scents and smells of the junkyard.  Spent my time working on my modified 'Cuda with the monster 383 block; plus, drag-racing Conner, just to 60, and for some reason--he always won.  That's me, Zoe, lost unto weird love.
   I always counted the days to the Full Moon.  When it wanes, things end--that can mean very bad things.  When it does wax, well, things get going--that can mean sublime things.  When it's FULL, I'm an American Foxhound!!!
   So, Daddy was so lovely.  Adored Conner, especially for not lusting over me, but treating me like a lady, for I treated him like a decent human being.  Didn't want his sex.  Didn't want his mind.  Just wanted to hang, and love him in that free-fall.  
   We all would take our muscle cars to Daddy's garage and work on them.  Conner and me got jobs delivering pizza.  We'd take home the crust and stuff, feeding it to the birds outside of Daddy's suburbia.  It was nice.  It was all so very, very nice.  

Ash Heap Hound (13)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (13)"
   
   Me:  Max Barduff, yup--I knew some stuff.  We all might know some truth, but most of us are in it for ourselves.  One man drinks cause he's an alcoholic and likes to party and get dirty sex; on the contrary, one man drinks to survive, and kicks the shit out of the southern army.  God forgive us all.

* * * * 

   But I knew Zoe was a dog; specifically, an American Foxhound.  Too, I knew Conner had more baggage, that he alone carried, than was mentioned by Zoe's observations of it all.
   His family.  The tricks.  The arrogance,  No confidence.  Hell, there was no other with more confidence, for Conner was the Iceman--it slid off of him, or he was too stupid to be depressed.
   Knew too he had bad shit in the gut.  Pooped on newspaper, like a dog.  Maybe that's why Zoe liked him.  Didn't think about getting laid.  Was raped by one woman, and it got to him.  The toxic gut, people always saying:  "You so skinny, boy."
   He should have known Christ commanded to rebuke, saying:  "You got an ugly countenance; plus, your heart is like unto worm-dirt."
   He carried his cross.  Had carried it for others.  Did what The Book had asked him to do.  Nobody knew.  Just kept putting him down, driving him to the junkyard.  He never stole.  He never failed to mortify his senses if wrong himself.  Do they?   Bleeding internally for years, and still that stupid grin, as if knowing:  at the hour of death, well, he's been there a few times.  Have you?  Will you cry when God puts the gun to your head?  Or will you save your tears for a loved one?  Which is wiser?
   I got out of my trance.  The energy was always there though.  You can't kill positive energy.  And the negative energy goes home in the end, to where it belongs. 
  

Ash Heap Hound (12)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (12)"
   
   Me:  Conner McCall, well--I wasn't impressed.  Furthermore, (admitting) I don't understand the true mechanics of automobiles; moreover, would never be able to do internal block work; I am a novice, only knowing the literal specifications.  
   Yeah, Zoe's Dad was nice.  A place to stay.  A chance to make love to my crush, and to have it last until matrimony and beyond, maybe; however, Saint Paul may argue the point.  Regardless, Max and Zoe's cars didn't get the respect from my 1969 Mustang with a small block 302, only a two barrel, and merely a factory hood induction; nonetheless, I was a mercurial beast out of the hole; therefore, here's them, in my mind:

MAX:

1986 Buick Grand National (though he claimed he liked the Japanese shit).

V-6, turbocharged.

235 Horsepower.

A fiery, steroid induced motor; indeed, a true muscle car.

But . . .

ZOE:

Modified and ambiguous 'Cuda with a 383 block.

Performance Package, including:

High-Performance Drive-train.

Dual-exhaust, and non-functional hood scoop.

330 horses pulled that thing.

But . . .

   I just loved the Mustang.  Wild horses and all that shit, like me.  Whatever.  I need to focus on the relationships, and tear my compulsions away from literature and motors.

C.J. Box and BADLANDS

   
   "C.J. Box and BADLANDS"
   
   Being in a perpetual phase of moonstruck, no--not romantic love, but in a state of saddened awe for the Mother reflecting Her bleeding Son's brilliant salvation, I sauntered hunchback-style through my local grocery market dubbed PUBLIX.
   I am not concave, nor do I have curvature of the vertebrae, but a cerebral hyperactivity that hinders my posture; plus, the toxic stigma of being socially slow eternally haunts me, until my next manifestation of again, meaning my energy is forever; anyway, in that food-hunting market, I stumbled across the magazines and paperbacks, finding C.J. Box; specifically, his immortally cool novel:  BADLANDS.
   It was freaking $9.99, but I purchased it, for what is more sublime than a paperboy and a female cop from Montana?  It did NOT disappoint!!!
   The "slow" kid Kyle is sincerely heroic, outshining even William Wallace in the art of butch bravery.  And Cassie, the female cop with super-suave cool is totally solid; moreover, the literary culmination stings the heart with gladness for all of us--if we've lost loved ones, and we all have.  
   Too, the Teddy Roosevelt moments are heartfelt, feeding us spiritual strength, and a physical chance to always grow, no matter how corporeally warped we are; next, entrance into the Otherworld.
   To me--the book's metaphor is:  resilience.  I adored it.  Heck, might read it again, someday, when all is falling down around me, and I need a firecracker of hope to ignite my human sparkle.  

Ash Heap Hound (11)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (11)"

   My name is Max Barduff.  I'm an old timer, well, not really, but it gets me the chicks, well, not really, but ya gotta stay positive and shoot the bullshit sometimes.  I'm a widower after all, having a fondness for pilsner and liking to play cards, usually Solitaire with myself--I do most things by myself.
   Anyway, I was excited to hear from my blonde bombshell of a hobo-crusading daughter, Zoe.  She said she was coming home to Oregon, bringing a guy named Conner, who had psychological baggage, but carried it well, keeping a lock on it.
   I didn't mind if she liked an esoteric guy; I could use a magical grandchild down the road.  And I trusted Zoe in her carnal fashion, for she always held out for those guys with fancy and fabulous corporeal genes.  Hey, gotta keep the countenance of the Barduffs glimmering golden.
   Yeah, my hair was turning gray, and I had crow's feet--good.  Artists like lines and color.  I like being old, not distracted and stupid by way of a young brain perpetually thirsting for horny play.
   So, I cleaned up my suburban stronghold, gave Zoe a set of rules, and was thrilled to see her 'Cuda that carried a 383 block.  Owned a garage myself.  But I like foreign cars.  Japanese in particular.  Not rotary wankel, but a solid V-6  crowned with turbo, or even supercharged.  Did some racing when I was a kid.  Hell, it's America.  We are innate rebels.      

Ash Heap Hound (10)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (10)"
   
   Conner found me naked, scattering back to my trailer in search of garments.  Once concealed by my modest habitat, I heard him knocking on the door; next, I yelled:  "Getting dressed dude!"
   It was all too much.  Too extraordinary and bizarre, yet benign, if we put our heads together.  My Dad was still alive; plus, he lived in the utopia-like suburbs out West.  I could move back in, take Conner, and we could make a go of it.  I should've never left home on a hobo's crusade anyway, but maybe this was kismet's kiss--I was hungry for independence, and it led me to Conner.
   So, yup.  I would call Daddy; then, take Conner and his suave but sickly cool home with my American Foxhound self.  People take care of each other, especially if love is involved.  Get the joke, like Yemana told Barney Miller in them 1970's, saying:  "Being married is like having a horse with a broken leg.  You can shoot it, but that won't solve the problem."
   I had to take sublime action.  Daddy would understand.  

Ash Heap Hound (9)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (9)"
   
Supernaturally gifted with my macrosmatic doggy dodgeball,
I couldn't help but chase an erinaceous smell to the junkyard's wall--
A fence, rusted and smeared in the impoverished plague of Tetanus;
Thus, goes Conner in a sickly ash heap; specifically, him morbidly restless.
But Dudes!!!  The cool guy is a non-vile valetudinarian,
And I'm Catholic, honoring things Marian;
Regardless, I found myself naked, and human, next to the contagious fence;
Plus, Conner was approaching, all ninja-like, but had health only worth a pence.
Possibly, could he be into the art of deception?
Nah, and I wouldn't foxhound him with direption--
Only:  love, love, love--
For even an asymmetrical angel can gel with the Infallible Dove.   

Ash Heap Hound (8)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (8)"
   
   Before the Sun ignited its awesome power and life-giving sustenance, I heard something weird by way of my American Foxhound ears; indeed, I first watched as Conner pulled out his phone, his eyes still glued heavenwards; next, he dialed a number, put the call on speaker, and a dude called Doctor Sampson answered.  Then, I listened to the phone call, disturbed and saddened by it all, and for my friend, the lovely Conner, but there was some good news for me in the conversation.  
  
DOC
Up early again, huh Conner?

CONNER
You know me Doc--I never sleep, not really.  Why is all this happening?

DOC
Well, insomnia and sleep paralysis are majorly misunderstood; plus, your severe social phobia conditions are almost agoraphobic-like.  You can't urinate in public, and God forbid you should have to make a bowel movement in public.  And I know, nobody without medical credentials understands this type of personal suffering, and even true physicians don't get it, sometimes.  

CONNER
I'm still reading, compulsively.  It's the only thing that makes me feel normal.  When Kerouac brought ON THE ROAD to his publisher, the publisher told him there were run-on sentences, uncanny rambling, and so forth; next, Kerouac grabbed the manuscript from his publisher's hands, telling the guy that those words were dictated to him by the Holy Spirit Itself.  And I'm writing short stories now too--to calm myself.  Ray Bradbury said people write short stories to have control over a type of environment.

DOC
Just hang in there Conner.  Who cares what people think.  And talk to that girl Zoe you have a crush on.  She may be a real good friend one day.  Okay, come see me tomorrow.  Gotta go.

CONNER
By Doc.  Glares back towards the changing heavens.  

Ash Heap Hound (7)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (7)"
   
   So yeah--I like squatted on every yummy-smelling piece of urinal attraction, but I won't get into my bowel evacuations--will save that for my private DIARY.
   So, my American Foxhound eyes looked through Conner's trailer window, watching as he patiently put down the PLAYBOY magazine and poured himself a cup of coffee; next, I got stealth-like, getting camouflaged by many-a-piece of torn apart automobiles, observing, like Socrates, as Conner exited his trailer, casually walking to the nucleus of the junkyard and glaring up at the glittering heavens above--my sense of keen, canine telepathy telling me that he was trying to somehow inhale the fiery stars.
   My dude Conner was an Ace--a high card, I mean.  No bluffing, no in-the-hole, just downright sexy and calmly cool with his sojourning circumstance of being besmirched by poverty, which had sweetly, and with Divine Intent, placed him next to me in an abyss of muscle cars and such.
   But I couldn't watch his caffeine fed stare at the big neon glitter all night, for the daystar was getting ready to rise, and my transformation back into Zoe (the human girl) was pretty weird.  Like a burst of corporeal stardust, that unearthly, yet so tangibly physical, like a morphing of mystical magic--if ya wanna use the term magic, though that upsets some people.  But know:  There are no dark incantations in my soul-like essence of energy, only a dog's sense of love and loyalty.   

Ash Heap Hound (6)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (6)"
   
   The Full Sturgeon Moon had become ignited aglow, like a spherical piece of sparkly cheese; moreover, I became a freaking American Foxhound--and yes, I'll keep throwing in the Beagle jokes, but like I've mentioned in the past of this haunted past, I liked Snoopy, and no birds hued with the shimmer of yellow floated by during the midnight hours.
   My nose was swift to scent.  I knew when and where to pee; plus, evacuate my doggy bowels.  I urinated on the tire of a 1987 Mustang GT, armed with the famous Five Liter--they refer to it on the streets as simply:  "The 5.0."
   Too, 1987 was the first year that Mustangs got across the board fuel injection on those behemoth small blocks, full of towering power.
   Anyway, on four paws I sauntered over to Conner's trailer.  He was reading a modern PLAYBOY magazine--they have clothes on the girls now--so it was cool  

JackBurtonPorkchopExpress

Ash Heap Hound (5)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (5)"
   
   I was fascinated during the wane of Luna, when all was normal, with no hound-like elasticity.  Yup, even read old copies of JUSTICE LEAGUE, thinking about Elongated Man, and how he drank that Gingo juice to give him his elongating powers.  And Plastic Man--I prefer in the flesh, not in the plastic; still, I understood why some dirty chicks dug him way back in the 1980's, when his variety show, of sorts, was on.
   So, I didn't stress, though my nose was sensitive to all the vandalizing vermin scurrying around my favorite junkyard.  But Conner came into my trailer with some cheap wine and a block of cheese.  I smartly asked:  "What, no crackers?"
   Then, felt like a fool for my competitive comedy; nevertheless, Conner was laid back, suave, and cool; plus, could use a wrench, and it was nice to have a nice friend.  Maybe one day--even more, like love would blossom.  A girl can only hope; moreover, Conner didn't grunt at the butcher in the meat section at the grocery market, like most guys do when scoping New York Strip--we shopped together at PIGGLY WIGGLY, and he was nothing but couth.  

Ash Heap Hound (4)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (4)"
   
   So me:  Zoe--I was like unto an American Foxhound when the Moon was waxing full.  Kind, loyal, a great family companion, yet I still wore a battery on my shoulder, always daring you to knock it off, and I guess that's cause I kinda looked like a Beagle, but hey--Snoopy was cool, and NO!!!  I'm not friends with any yellow birds.
   Anyway, that's my bizarrely strange secret.  But, about Conner--it was no secret.  I had a thing for him ever since he took his mighty wrench and knocked that creep in the mouth at the junkyard who was trying to up-skirt me with a Smart Phone's camera.  All kinda weirdos come to the royal junkyard, and not weird like me, but malevolent.  Just plain nasty thugs--into violence and shit; anyway, I mustered up my toxic cool and went to talk to Conner, him underneath the 1969 Mustang with the small but fiery 302 block--I probed:  "What are you doing my man?"  Then, I figured I sounded too butch, but he was cool, responding:  "Madame, I'm checking on the water pump."
   Just to get verbal confirmation from him that I was alive, and that he wasn't a dream--well, it was heartwarming.