Saint Raphael's Sense Of Humor

   
   "Saint Raphael's Sense of Humor"
   
   One of the Divine Seven Who stands before the Throne of Him--GOD HEALS, being the physician of the Almighty, and totally armed with a sense of humor.
   Having Ulcerative Colitis is bad enough.  Generic doctors not knowing that you CAN bleed to death from this, needing a transfusion of less than ichor, as I did, seeing the life fluid evacuated on newspaper, like a dog as OCD instructs, but a gift--a true gift.
   And with healing balm does Saint Raphael cure as mentioned in certain mystical texts; moreover, having psoriasis in your anal cavity, not being able to sit due to pain; plus, A SINCERE ANAL ITCH, which drives you completely crackers, until a benevolent physician arrives, and instead of just simply probing the butt cheeks with a light, but tells you to bend over, and opens the anal cavity, saying:  "This is angry psoriasis dude!"
   Next, a balm prescribed, and what can you do but laugh?  Baby wipes, but moisture; next, fungal possibilities, and what can you do but laugh?  Remicade infusions for years, moving to Humira, not to mention low blood sugar, sleep paralysis, almost dropping over in grocery stores, and sanitizing everything compulsively, urinating in jars as toilets seem nefarious, coated in the pubic hairs of demons--but what can you do but laugh?  
   Just hang in there, protect your dogs, love your Mom, and Jesus' Mom, for even He would say:  "You can mention nasty stuff about Me, but don't you dare talk bad about My Mother."  Saint Gabriel came to Her, not Martin Luther--heck, even Nietzsche knew this in his possible apostasy, or brilliant madness.  

Saints and snakes (5)

   
   "Saints and snakes (5)"
   
   McKelvy knelt down upon his/her knees and woefully wept at the lack of wealth in the hearts of those inhabiting the Earth.  Loquaciousness did not possess him/her at the moment, silent--like a Blue Jay knowing when to hold the hawk's mimic.
   Yet the Queen of Angels sparked alive next to McKelvy, Her glowing in brilliant-azure gelled with immaculate-white.  She then said:  "The heart is a selfish portion, mostly taking for itself before spreading the glory of life to others.  But My Son had the Sacred Heart, bleeding an obedient death, dismissing His Own Right to rule, knowing that belongs to the Father, in a matter of speaking."
   Remembering the Greatest Son of Man's Words, McKelvy sang:
   
   Holy, Holy, Holy Lord--
   I came not to send peace,
   But a sword.  

Saints and snakes (4)

   
   "Saints and snakes (4)"
   
   McKelvy had slayed the autistic boy's allegorical demon; moreover, restored the boy's therapy dog to life by way of the virginal, inviolate ivory-blade and the power of Arch-Angels contained within.
   McKelvy's next journey took him/her to a melancholy place, full of neglect, false testimony, unethical behavior, something that might disbar an officer of the reptilian court.
   In the valley, eastways from the City of Angels, resided a woman with neurological difficulty, her whisky-drinking husband (always scowling), and their son, demonized by disease, yet made strong by his religious ways; plus, a rarely-visiting sister.  The cruelly cognizant family made the son the scapegoat for all their problems as he took gentle, benevolent care of his mother--just check the blood-work, and that she still remains, even though his sister wanted to put her in a cheap facility, while asking her gimp-like brother for his pain medication at times, having her own porn collection, and being infected by having sown her spiritual seed on non-fertile grounds; specifically, thorny ground, where corporeal pleasures and Satan take you away from acts of sublimity, causing you to offer up false testimony, deny the sick, calling them lazy--utter ethics gone sour, like the grapes of wrath.
   McKelvy would touch the father with healing, drive the demon out of the sister, and take the mother and son into the Otherworld.  It is a shame people fear beauty and love, appearing as if kicked in the face by a donkey or having a sunken skull, and their jealousy of flowers and good gardens cause them to stomp with sinister stupidity, not knowing the spending of wealth is relative, considering the bank account.
   McKelvy dropped to his/her knees, praised the Virgin:  "Mirror of justice, Singular Vessel of Devotion, Mystical Rose, Gate of Heaven, Queen of Angels, Queen of confessors--thank your for being as white as snow."    

Saint and snakes (3)

   
   "Saints and snakes (3)"
   
   McKelvy was collectively in tune with being an assiduous soul--all for his fabulous fidus Achates known as the Holy Trinity, One God; moreover, supported easily (upon his invocation) with an army of Arch-Angels at his side, knowing their power of potent physics, able to superposition their "essences" as the Good Doctor, Saint Thomas Aquinas mentioned they possessed; regardless, he would handle it himself, using the coyote's scent to relentlessly track the deadly demon off of Santa Monica Boulevard, oppressing a child raging internally, fueled by the autistic spectrum of a hidden rainbow beneath--a promise of power from the Otherworld, not a crutch, but an opossum's Totem energy, playing into the quicksand of death, yet resurrected, or ready to fight with fanged fury--if it came to that.
   McKelvy, neither man nor woman, was crafted by divine camouflage, hiding his/her ivory-blade within a trench coat's blue fabric, using his cane of cards, as gravity and determination of the damned thieved away a bit of his dexterity, yet once the ivory-blade's gemstone-crafted hilt was within his firm and true grip, having a pommel of eternal promises, the life of Arch-Angels promoted him to a state of higher constitution, an unearthly endurance to deal with those damning others, as the autistic boy was oblivious his therapy dog had been murdered by cyanide from a toxic peach pit:  first, dilated pupils; next, excessive salivation; furthermore, dizzy spells until fainting graveways.
  The peach pit was not a piquant treat offered by magnanimous hands, yet deadly contagion given by a greedy gamin having his pineal gland calcified by over-processed food and tapped into by the diabolical infusion of demons.
   McKelvy would pay the demon a visit, unsheathe his unsullied blade, gleaming like a tower of ivory, and into the soul of the hellbent, knowing:  reptiles strike out of jealousy, being envious and never wise, dooming themselves as God has determined.    

Saints and snakes (2)

   
   "Saints and snakes (2)"
   
   McKelvy, not doomed by the adversary, that inability to serve Adam (Man) as the Holy Trinity, One God suggested, morphing from the light into night-shade, adorned in scales, vibrating on sinister frequencies--all due to an inability to serve and protect man, causing curvaceous contagion and traumatic toxicity as pride did outshine obedience, wanting to craft further false testimony and the rest, giving the exploding Smurf-like gift of insidious surprise, warping most men into uncouth animals, and now hoping trans-humanism will save his fallen species.
   But McKelvy would have something to say, in utter silence, warped himself, though with the will of weirdness, using his ambiguous gifts as specters to haunt the fallen, and the ivory-gleaming blade forged inviolate, yet to offer sanguine certification of the Son of Man's axiomatic truth of long-suffering, loving it like a mad monk, knowing death belonged to him, igniting the sparkle of life without tentacles pulling downward into the venomous vault of vipers.  
   And he walked the streets of the City of Angels, gone to cosmetic implants, the falsehoods of brace-face, and the lack of loving ugliness, as McKelvy did, knowing:  beauty was with the downtrodden and asymmetrical, not knowing an architect of trickery save the coyote, having eyes to see and ears to hear:  "Ye shall know them by their fruits."
   And with his sniffer, so in tune with the trash, Saint Michael's communicative-blue giving him the gift of knowing, and Saint Gabriel's halo of white, offering words like a wasp's stinging Totem, though he only served the Lord, and those in tune with the fantastic frequency of luscious love.    

Saints and snakes (1)

   
   "Saints and snakes (1)"
   
   In withering withdrawal from night-shame, though finding the succor of Saints (preserve us), even then, the snakes infuse your pineal gland with submission save those infused by light, refusing to break, even unto death is their mastering mark, controlled by the psychotic love of God that King David possessed, so divine and praising, a son born of adultery, though that love, redeeming in Solomon and the myriads of Angels called for the will of weird, like burning myrrh does the will of the Holy Spirit, bringing forth the castrated pudendum of a Holy Trinity, One God.  
   McKelvy didn't care.  Brought forth from the pits of pandemonium unto the living earth, besmirched by madness and a greed spoken against by Pope Francis himself, sitting Benedict down, betrayed not was God by the Universal poverty of possession, especially including those spiritual things that haunt heavenly or hellways till death gifts or gives true disease.
   And everything is stolen by the coyote, like a sword forged by Arch-Angels to slay the fallen Arch-Angels, in a time and space that is relative, yet knowing:  there is no big freeze, for Al Gore has mentioned so; thus, McKelvy, damned by his altruistic intentions, would not give false testimony, but stand by the glowing arctic eyes of a Tower of Ivory, a House of Gold, a Morning Star, the Perimeter of Sublimity, and all for what?
   To not be swine controlled by controlled politicians and the lies of attorneys, yet into the quixotic insanity of TRUTH.  Let it be told!!!   

The Price Is Right: Spinning Wheels

   "The Price Is Right:  Spinning Wheels"
   
   Drew Carey's debut as host was:  October 12, 2007; however, Bob Barker is a game-show legend; plus, a Black Belt, as my Pap told me way back in them rock and roll 80's.
   I love when they spin the Big Wheel--like Stevie Nicks singing:  "Spinning Wheels...Crystal Perfection..."  Kinda/sorta reminds of Saint Teresa of Avila and her mystical INTERIOR CASTLE, wending your ascetic way into crystal caverns, and if you see a small reptile, don't bother with it, for it's not a massive dragon, but you never can tell.
   Anyway, the show was forged and produced by the television army of Bob Stewart, Mark Goodman, and Bill Todman.  It has brought happiness and glee to many seniors and disabled people throughout the years.    

Saint Roch; plus, laying on of the hands

   
   "Saint Roch; plus, laying on of the hands"
   
   Saint Roch, the Patron Saint of dogs, the falsely accused, and other things, well--he fought against the plague, assisted the poor, and was devoted to positive energy.  After getting the plague himself, he retreated into the woods to die, yet a holy hound found him, bringing him food, and licking his wounds until they healed.
   If someone is disabled, never offering them the positive sense of touch is a diabolical thing.  You must caress and put "your Kingdom of God within you" into them, much like a mere mutt does when it licks and loves, offering companionship and adoration--dogs and man have always lived side by side since the conception of human consciousness.  
   On the flip side, if a disabled person in a nursing home is cruelly tossed and turned, only touched for the purpose of the caretaker getting a paycheck; next, that negativity promotes the early death of the patient.  You gotta try; indeed, you gotta try.  Humanity needs the love of loving hands, rubbing, stroking, and not neglecting with the insidious intent of selfish malice.  
   What to do with a sick person?  Would you take them out in the backyard and shoot them in the head?  Plenty of people would, controlled by selfishness, only caring for themselves.  We know this, as Christ called the venomous Viper in the Fourth Gospel:  "The Prince of this world."  Yet Christ, knowing the Kingdom of God was within Him, stated:  "He has no power over Me."    

Yearning Apotheosis (12)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (12)"
   
   During another nightmarish craze in his locked facility--Britt Flynn passed away.  At first, he saw a luminous, white light encompassing all around; next, tentacles of blackness were grabbing at his spirit, pulling him into an abysmal pit.  He couldn't fight any longer, and the guilt of his life was dragging him down, making the black tentacles stronger.  
   Then, Sister Cindy knowing what was happening in her mystical dreams reached out to him, singing so sweetly to his departing spirit:  "Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you!"
   Britt Flynn's spirit heard clearly, and with acknowledgement that God is the only Good, the toxic tentacles released him, and he was taken into Papa's Arms.
   Sister Cindy did not weep in her curious slumber, yet smiled softly, knowing though not knowing, her spiritual charity had assisted in letting Britt Flynn know, and finally love the Trinity, releasing his guilt and shame, finding eternal solace and joy.  

Yearning Apotheosis (11)

  
   "Yearning Apotheosis (11)"
   
   It was Sunday, and Britt Flynn was caged for having another nightmarish frenzy; moreover, Sister Cindy's vociferous intervention did not persuade his release this time, even though it was ignited with electric-blue communication; hence, she remembered when Christ did not heal at one point, having been "amazed" at their lack of faith; regardless, she held her head high unto the Lord and went to Mass as the peasant Nun she was.
   Furthermore, the pseudo-like sermon ignited her melancholy deeper, for the Priest had said that God did not answer Christ's prayer, when He mentioned:  "Father, do not let me drink of this cup, but Thy Will be done."  Did the Priest not know the Scriptures?  About tearing this house down, and it being rebuilt in a Trinity of days?  Or how nobody takes His life, but He gives it freely, openly admitting this before His obedience unto death?  Or how He denied the Adder's attempt to give Him fame and riches, knowing His doomed yet glorious ignition at Calvary?  Indeed, Sister Cindy was having a bad day, yet she knew the shocked and overly-sober Britt Flynn was even under more oppression from the camouflaged and fallen.
   She went to get pizza anyway.  Rubbing the Crucifix that hung boldly between her breasts, untouched by any man for a decade.  She only made love to the Trinity in an energy format; plus, the sublimity of the Celestial Hierarchy.  So, she had hope; moreover, faith.  Trust in God that Britt Flynn would find his Irish charm, and sweetly sane himself into only fearing God--the beginning of wisdom; next, adoration and love for the Father arrives, almost as if a friendship.
   She suffered in silence, though had victory, knowing the promised culmination of Adamkind, which is true life wending eternal for the laboring and faithful.     

Yearning Apotheosis (10)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (10)"
   
   After Sister Cindy's holy diatribe against Britt Flynn's unnecessary restraints, the pseudo-physician types morphed into pusillanimous pillows, for her sumptuous scapular kinda scared their secular balderdash, as if Darth Vader had said to them:  "Don't be too proud of this technological terror you've created Admiral, for the ability to destroy an entire planet is insignificant next to the power of the Force."
   Next, Sister Cindy took Britt Flynn to Mass, where they praised Papa, took the Blood and Body of Christ; then, off to the park, and as usual:  pizza with anchovies in the tummy.  
   Britt Flynn then looked in Sister Cindy's tough direction lovingly, saying:  "Thanks Sister."   

Yearning Apotheosis (9)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (9)"
   
   Sister Cindy had heard the warped testimony about Britt Flynn's monstrous misbehavior; as a result, she invoked Saint Roch, Patron Saint of dogs and the falsely accused.  Something was inside or outside of the non-seemingly brave Britt Flynn--something since youth, that had, and was, horrifically haunting him--it is not always THEIR faults, but mischievous Principalities or such, infecting the inviolate virtue of a once spotless Adam.
   Verily, Sister Cindy knew:  Till Death Do Us Part.
   As a servant of God, she was not about to throw away love.  If you love something--you keep it, even if it drains your energy and causes you pain.  To toss it into the trash--that is being an agent of evil; specifically, the easy, cotton candy way out--until you meet your Maker, and without His Son's sacrifice, Him being obedient even unto death--you do not want to meet the Maker (Father), as Christ Himself boldly exclaimed.
   But who believes all that bullshit?  It's America.  He who dies with the most wins, until . . .
   So, with a gallant pulse in her bouncing gait, like a quasi-flying Nun, Sister Cindy did what MOST do not do, she consoled Britt Flynn; next, gave the government-housing system a tongue lashing, rebuking their sin as Christ had commanded. 

Yearning Apotheosis (8)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (8)"
   
   Britt Flynn still harbored such unearthly feelings of uncanny guilt over his mother that he found no sweet solace in silent slumber, yet disturbing visions of watching her spike his Dad's drinks with antifreeze, before floating on her forces of freakishness into his bedroom, where she would bully his meacock soul into sinister sexuality; moreover, scold him afterwards if a dumb smile had not been painted on his puzzled countenance by her having ridden him like a creepy cowgirl on the not-so-sure saddle of a primordial yet loyal beast.
   Thus, Britt Flynn burst into tears upon waking, along with fulminating screams of anguish and bobsy-die.  The workers at the government-housing restrained him, as usual, and he felt weak for having no verbal attic salt that might suavely save him from the binding restraints.
   What could he do?  How could he live?  Where was Daddy?  Why hadn't Daddy slapped that bitch, and yes, you should be allowed to put your hands on a diabolical woman, as Clint Eastwood showed us in the cinematic display of movies way back in the 1970's.
   No one deserves hell on Earth, but unless armed with the falsehood of bravado, or working for reptiles, or one yourself--you will suffer, as did the Son of Man, due to his altruistic rebellion against the in-charge demonology of it all.  Want a target on your back?  Find God.  You will be hated and mocked till at least an allegorical crucifixion.     

Yearning Apotheosis (7) Necromancy?

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (7)  Necromancy?"
   
   Alone, always alone, save Sundays, and on special Holy Days, when Catholics talk to those alive in Christ--They Are Not Dead!!!
   Energy cannot die.  Of course, there are tricksters, liars, those wickedly proclaiming:  "I want my gold!"
   Is it wrong to invoke the Virgin?  Was and is She not the Ark of the Covenant?  Having held the LAW in Her Womb?  And is She not alive in Christ?  Are not the Saints?  
   Britt Flynn wanted nothing to do with evil--that was behind him, like Christ scolding Saint Peter for violence with the sword:  "Get behind me Satan."
   Yet Britt Flynn needed friends, not a Technological Revolution that robs men of their imaginations as trans-humanism has begun--we don't have to think anymore.  But the impoverished do.  They still use their cerebral capacities and human spirits.  
   Thus, Britt Flynn would talk to Christ.  He is not dead.  He is just waiting.  And your feelings may sincerely be hurt when you approach the Father, that Intelligent Designer upon death--if you do not possess His Magnanimous Cool.  Hence, Britt Flynn knew Saints have nothing save pure, sublime energy.  

Fight Club - This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time

1970 Datsun 240Z

   
   "1970 Datsun 240Z"
   
   I, as should we all, revere the eight-cylinder.  Strapping a 454 cubic inch motor on a wagon will outshine most things on the blacktop; however, there are agile and fiery six-cylinders, as well as fast and furious four-cylinders.  So, here goes:

1970 Datsun 240Z

4-Speed with an Inline (straight) six.  

Horsepower:  151.

Torque:  145 lb-ft.

0-6:  Mid 7's.

Quarter Mile:  16 seconds.

   Constructed to compete with cars such as the Triumph TR6, and regardless of its age--put a cowl induction on that antiquated Datsun; next, extra air flow into the carburetor; plus, some supertrapps sticking out the back to increase outtake--you got some wiry muscle.  

Yearning Apotheosis (6)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (6)"
   
   Britt Flynn and Sister Cindy had reverence during Mass, silent and still as the Transubstantiation took place before their mortal eyes; next, they imbibed the Body of Christ, and went for their walk in the park.
   Britt had endured a tough week of isolation, as always, though finding solace in the truth of the Bible, and the metaphors of science fiction writers.  But the guilt.  The lack of energy.  The desire to die, and be with his Dad, and his True Father.  He told this to Sister Cindy, and she knew he was suicidal; as a result, she told him a paradoxical story, containing both humor and severe suffering, saying:  "At hospice one day, while I was changing a diaper for one of my patients, a large poop fell out; next, the therapy dog tried to eat it while I was escorting the patient to the toilet, and I started yelling at Sister Mary to stop the dog.  I was greatly disturbed at first; then, I realized God must have a sense of humor, for I was just so relieved that my patient was able to have a healthy bowel evacuation."
   Britt Flynn asked:  "You're saying I should see the humor in things?"
   Sister Cindy grabbed his arm, the walk came to a stop, she looked him in his Irish eyes and lovingly said:  "You will be with your Father, and my Father, and all of humanity's Father soon enough.  Just pray.  Pray without ceasing, and laugh at how a peasant Virgin was chosen by the Almighty to become the Gate of Heaven--to bring forth our Lord.  God could've picked a fancy princess, but He chose the lowest, as He usually does.  Read the first chapter of Luke's Gospel.  It is truly Good News about the Mother of God, and how She gets a bit loopy, so sweetly, an announces Her meeting with Saint Gabriel to Her cousin Elizabeth."
   Britt Flynn would do so.  

Yearning Apotheosis (5)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (5)"
   
   Britt Flynn was back in his government-housing, silent and pondering as the night was alive outside his locked chambers.  He knew he had sinned; thus, the wages of death--the forced, though sometimes enjoyable molestation by his mother, and he had paid in full.
   Moreover, he was humbled now.  Like Saint Francis always was.  Yet Joan of Arc--was she bloodthirsty, being beyond humility, or in a noble state, fighting to save her homeland?  And King David differed than the perpetually-washing Levite Aaron, armed with a Staff of God, topaz on his breastplate, among other things that I will not mention.  There are many differing personalities that inherit the Energy of the Almighty, yet none are reptiles--even though Christ said:  "Be as cunning as serpents, yet as innocent as doves."
   Britt Flynn was neither.  Yet Sister Cindy would infuse him with something special.  She had that altruistic energy.  Was no reptile, or working for them in a filthy rich corporation.  And Britt Flynn knew he could admit such things to his shrink--for who was going to believe a mad eunuch?  

Yearning Apotheosis (4)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (4)"
   
Sister Cindy and Britt Flynn delicately digested their pizza covered in savory anchovies,
By way of a walk in the park, though not carrying band equipment like tattooed roadies;
Regardless, their hearts made a joyful noise unto the Luminous Lord,
Knowing Saint Michael will "Be Back" with his flaming sword;
Moreover, all shall see the Son of Man coming down from the Clouds of Heaven;
Plus, those Divine Angelic Entities standing before the Almighty's Throne--all Seven!
Them able to superposition their grace using physics unknown,
Which would give Einstein a headache if only corporeally known--
So just as did Saint Raphael superposition itself, walking alongside Tobias and a mere dog--  
Sister Cindy and Britt Flynn enjoyed their walk, finding a Federal Reserve Note behind a log.
A small favor from the Goodness of God--
Him being Super-Symmetrical, and can be an impenetrable shield, if given David's praising nod.  

Yearning Apotheosis (3)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (3)"
   
   Sister Cindy, after Mass had found culmination and the Virgin Mary was sincerely invoked by way of the mighty Rosary, sought out the poor, little man known as Britt--the Priest had informed her of him.  She humbly, yet with suavity and cool, approached, as if on a holy mission, near an ivory-white statue of Our Lady outside of the Catholic Church; next, the conversation sparked.

CINDY
You're Britt Flynn--are you not?

BRITT
Yes Sister.  He felt no wolf-like suspicion, only love and arctic cool.

CINDY
I've heard your story; moreover, the torrid tales of your suffering and trauma.  You don't have to be a veteran to be disabled.

BRITT
Are we not all soldiers for Christ?  Is not Saint Michael invoked for exorcism; plus, Saint Joan for strength and steel?

CINDY
You know the Universal Saints--I like you.

BRITT
I like the Trinity--it gives me spiritual fuel to exist.

CINDY
And you will always exist in time and space--Christ is the Author of Life, even before theoretical physicists believed us to be living in a programmed hologram--but it's all synonymous--isn't it?  Now, come have lunch with me.  We can get pizza with anchovies.

BRITT
Fishers of men, huh?  I like it.

   The twosome made their way to a pizza parlor, and Britt got a beer, Sister Cindy not minding.  

The Cult - Brother Wolf, Sister Moon

Yearning Apotheosis (2)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (2)"
   
   Cindy Simpson used to be your garden-variety, ALL AMERICAN GIRL.  Got her undergraduate education, drank heavily and carnally partied while using illicit substances; next, after working as a banker, her conscience ignited to a form of spiritual life; specifically, the Virgin Mary (Queen of Angels) appeared to her vivid imagination, glowing in platinum white and azure blue.  Therefore, Cindy was inspired to throw the past out of the haunted window, and become a Dominican Nun.
   The Dominicans were founded by Saint Dominic, them mystically morphing into an Order of Preachers; plus, associated with dogs.  Domini Canes is a play on the Latin language that kinda/sorta means:  "Hounds of the Lord."
   Cindy loved working at hospice and holding the hands of those corporeally ill; next, their holy-crafted spirits giving flight towards the Almighty Maker.  She fed them optimism in a Christian sense, having prayed over many that had passed away into the Otherworld.  
   Little did Cindy know, she was about to make a new friend.  At Catholic Mass on Sunday morning, she encountered an emaciated, lonely-looking man sitting humbly at the back of the Church; furthermore, she felt an intrinsic desire to speak to him--his name was:  Britt Flynn, the anti-hero of this story.  And the Pillars of Heaven would soon shake with Divine Inspiration.  

Yearning Apotheosis (1)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (1)"
   
   My title is Britt Flynn; specifically--that's my name, in this Universe amidst the Multiverse.  My Dad was Irish, like the only Catholic President of these here States--John F. Kennedy.  But Daddy didn't get an eternal torch over his grave; my nasty mother cremated him, lessening him more than the English did to Saint Joan of Arc--but energy (spirit) never dies, and can be resurrected or implanted in bio-mechanical or purely corporeal forms.
   Mom poisoned Dad with antifreeze.  She molested me too, when I hit my adolescent years.  Her creamy vaginal cavity giving me epididymitis, causing me pain for years in my scrotum, and I never saw a Doc; thus, after years of hurting in them balls, I developed testicular cancer, it's possible, and now I'm what you might call:  Eunuch.  Sucks to be me, right?
   Mom ultimately smeared herself to death, or the fallen adder was calling her for a reincarnated genesis of more destruction; regardless, I go to Catholic Mass, read science fiction in my government-housed facility, and use tobacco products that are smokeless.  It's my freaking life, and all I can do is talk to Christ.  He's nice.  Obedient even unto death, not needing fame or corporations to sponsor a possible capitalistic greed, and even them radio show hosts call Pope Francis a socialist; thus, I'd like to swing on those selfish bastards.  They don't know pain.  Don't know the toxicity of drama.  The dollar keeps them safe, and I'm on the outskirts of Heaven, even here, living among the demonically deranged.   

GLX: Mustang Mystery

   
   "GLX:  Mustang Mystery"
  
Piloting my ambiguous, 1980's GLX Stang,
I got pulled over by a Deputy Dawg, him old enough to recall astronaut Tang;
Specifically, it was 1989 and Heavy Metal was soul music;
Moreover, the cop was sincerely stupefied, yet weirdly lucid,
Asking, seriously:  "What the hell is a GLX?"
It gave his pseudo-detective state an automotive hex;
Indeed, a 255 cubic-inched, 4.2 liter V-8--
Ford's greatest eight-cylinder mistake;
Regardless, he let me go with a polite warning for spinning my tires--
No V-8 exists in time and space without igniting a bit of blacktop fires.     

1964 Pontiac GTO

   
   "1964 Pontiac GTO"
   
   Considered by many to be the first massively-produced muscle car, the 1964 Pontiac GTO (Gran Turismo Omologata) was and is--a ghostly myth of muscle, yet it royally resonates with real and regal speed reality.  And no disrespect to the 1957 Chevy--that is more of a classic though.
   
Standard Engine:  389 cubic inches.

Horsepower:  325.

Torque:  428 lb-ft.

0-60:  An approximate 7 seconds.

Quarter Mile:  Near 100 miles-per-hour.

   But what nobody understands concerning the eight cylinder motor is:  the potent performance concerning wending your way up the geography of high asphalt hills.  When that four barrel of old opens up, it simply pulls you to the top, way beyond the turbo-charged six or four cylinder motors of today, sucking up all that extra power, yet without the "Great Eight" number of cylinders, there is a lack of muscularity and stable performance; nonetheless, with today's mercurial six and four cylinders, things remain relative, and ya never know.  As the villainous Max said in Schwarzenegger's movie RAW DEAL:  "Depends on the driver."    

Full Harvest Moon: September 16, 2016

   
   "Full Harvest Moon:  September 16, 2016"
   
   The Full Harvest Moon is the most brilliant reflection of the Moon mirroring the Sun (it can be argued); plus, closest to the autmnal equinox.  This large-seeming glimpse of nighttime Luna offered illumination to farmers in the old days, giving them the light necessary to reap the rewards of their crops; thus, it is truly harvest time.
   Maybe appearing a bit orange, which signifies abundance and prosperity--heck, it's gotta be true, for an approximate week before the Full Harvest Moon waxes to completion, the Big Orange will take to Terra's turf and engage Virginia Tech in a grindhouse game, where the Bristol Motor Speedway has purchased a super-plethora of beer for the myriads in attendance.  And is not beer John Barleycorn resurrected in every glass, bottle, or cup?  Don't drink it through a straw dudes.
   Too, armed with such effulgent luminosity, the Full Harvest Moon gives werewolves a little extra burst of mystical power.  Supposedly, they can run near 70 miles-per-hour during such a dazzling ignition of Luna; therefore, if you're being chased by a Lycanthrope in your car, you may want to crank it up to eighty, hoping you have an 8 Cylinder, or a turbo-charged 6 or 4 cylinder.
   

Truck-Driving & King David

   
   "Truck-Driving & King David"
   
   Being a voyager, or even worse--a freaking pilot of an automobile making the attempt to transcend an eighteen-wheeler is strictly intense; thus, get a muscle car, or pass with as much macho muster available; next, hug the outer, surrounding line, and be on your merry way.
   Or you can hug a truck.  Get behind the eighteen-wheeler and do the turtle dance of a mere seventy miles-per-hour; specifically, you'll make innocent and decent time.  But with navigation systems speaking robotically to us, doing all the thinking, shit--this is trans-humanism.  But what the freaking hell.  Plug it into the brain--in the next score of years; then:  downloading Ivy League Education, approximately twelve minute.  Moreover:  downloading Bush League Education, an estimated thirty seconds; plus, you get to drink and carnally engage sorority sisters in the virtual sludge match.  It's cool though.  
   We disintegrate our heroes--slay them actually; then, we build new models, yet your iPhone 5 still dreams lest you demolish its technological wizardry.
   But of King David--and a bard on the CB Radio would he be, back in the SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT days, outpacing a singular, monstrous gravity-sucking eighteen-wheeler with vociferous verse and the pure energy of a Holy Spirit, dictating:  (PSALMS 31:24)  "Be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord."
   And I still wish Jack Burton was driving . . .   

Mystic McDonald's

   
   "Mystic McDonald's"
   
   Splintered by rapid disease encompassing around, I find no total solace, yet peculiar frequencies occasionally vibrate with sublime sound.  And at Mickey D's do I always find things that sincerely amaze me.  Yes, like a contestant on WHEEL OF FORTUNE--I am fascinated by simple, shiny things.  And we all have "Bankrupt" and "Lose a Turn" on our spinning wheels of perpetuity.  
   So alone, as always, or possibly not, because nobody can see my friends--I notice the old and withered; plus, the Mexican workers covered in green grass and labor-like dirt, but what caught my eye today, during my omnivorous involvement with a Big Mac, was:  an older, completely bald man, with wire-rimmed glasses, walking with an unstable gait, simply ordering a coffee; next, taking a seat in front of me, shaking as he drank his hot beverage; furthermore, hands clicking on the table; specifically, he was not neuro-typical.  Are you neuro-typical?  Just a go-getter with no demonic villains attempting to slay you since birth?  
   Regardless, I prayed for him.  To have the Energy of God, Multi-Hued, Surrounding--and that he may be reminded upon his next entrance of these magical marvels.  Maybe he too will not be alone, making friends with the Angels and Saints--them always pointing to the Trinity.  
   God Bless McDonald's.  Quiet, quick, and for some reason--easy on my bowels, what the hell--I like it.     

Tex-Mex Guy (7)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (7)"
   
   With Curtis riding shotgun, buckled in by way of the Holy Spirit--the Tex-Mex Guy floored it to the sublime, yet fiction-like utopia of the suburban habitats, making sure the nacho cheese didn't get cold and sticky, him wanting it to be hot and lathery, able to be fully dipped into with a corn-crafted chip; therefore, he further ignited the power of  the five liter, the fuel injection system sending him in a tire-burning scurry past a recently ignited green light, and he was mercurially on his way.
   The giggly, rich girl, after receiving her hot and steamy dish, tipped him a crispy Abe Lincoln, and the Tex-Mex Guy was all smiles; next, Celina offered a text upon the screen of his cheap Smart Phone, it read:
  
Hey Tex-Mex Guy.  I think; moreover, I KNOW that I'm falling for you.  We should seriously consider getting serious.  Call me when you're off work.

   Saint Joan appeared in the back of the Mustang, though not sitting upon the steamy fajitas, and said:  "See Adami, your burning celibacy has allowed you to rise with corporeal resurrection.  God Bless the folks like you."  And she gave him a fling upon his cheesy sombrero--him then totally knowing:  friends can be anywhere and anything, as long as they're friendly and love you--and if you love them back.

Tex-Mex Guy (6)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (6)"

   The Tex-Mex Guy enjoyed the vibrations of yesterday, when sophisticated Celina kissed his lips before he powered the five liter away; next, Curtis howled a Hound Dog's goodbye, and the Tex-Mex Guy would bet that suave Celina was not cherry tart pie, but so alive in body and vehement spirit--her own synergy, a classic--in novellas untold.
   Back at home, simply surrounded by modesty and the antiquated devices of yesteryear's technology, the Tex-Mex Guy and Curtis slept till a busy Tuesday morn, when more fajitas would be made; plus, nacho cheese and the hunger for a blended cuisine, as goes the flow of our corporeal energy's mien; nevertheless, we all have the right, to keep them Northern Europeans in blonde and angelic flight--not that a brunette can't be an angel, but totally not a Bush League college girl who is getting vodka shots drank out of her nasty navel.
   

Tex-Mex Guy (5)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (5)"
   
   In the five liter Mustang, armed with 302 cubic inches that actually had some serious top-end potential--Celina sang Spanglish to the Tex-Mex Guy and Curtis, knowing Hispanic Bloggers use ALL CAPS--not to be rude, but to offer a higher-vibrating frequency, like this:
   
Tex-Mex Guy--why don't ya ARRIBA LA RAZA?
And kick the silly smooch out of that dude's turbo-powered Honda?
I would HASTA LA VISTA BAMBINO--yet making it never--
Not being AGOBIO by the eternal clock-tick that sometimes brings a hectic forever.
She, about me, has a BOCAZAS; indeed,
All concerns God's time and speed.

Tex-Mex Guy (4)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (4)"
  
   Andy Samberg's Storks flick got the attention of a boring-day Celina.  Yes, it was Labor Day, and her hot Hispanic ass worked itself to the core at the local gas station/grocery market, where she seemed to perpetually labor.  But regardless of her lethargic feelings, she dialed up the Tex-Mex Guy's number, hoping he would engage her in a smooth dialogue, which would then lead to the journey of a harmless but hopeful date--no drama, just two souls igniting each other with positive energy; thus, upon him answering his telephone--she got positively giddy inside; next, the Guy explained how Curtis and him had been sweetly snoozing; hence, a twinge of guilt hit her guilty gut, knowing this guy was the best Tex-Mex delivery dude in the city and that he might need some silent slumber, but--she went for it, proclaiming:  "Come on Tex-Mex Guy.  It's a family and seemingly adorable movie--I hear.  Take me for a date!?!"
   The Tex-Mex Guy and Curtis figured:  "Why not."  Too, they told her so.  And after some BRUTE aftershave and quick scrub of his teeth; plus, a dab of mustache wax--the Tex-Mex Guy and Curtis exited the apartment, onto the asphalt ballet of Phoenix heat, but with total cool they entered the five liter Mustang and cranked on the air.  It was gonna be a restful day, for there was a noble babe involved, displaying a sublime sense of lovely spirit.  

Tex-Mex Guy (3)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (3)"

   The Tex-Mex Guy was alone on his futon, petting the synergy-like slobber of Curtis upon his khaki pants; moreover, Saint Joan wasn't there--she was not always around to heavenly haunt him into pure energy, unless he called, or she knocked politely.  
   Too, Tex-Mex Guy had his transistor radio playing, fueled by them ancient batteries that Robert Conrad dared you to knock off, along with that obviously divine chip on his chiseled shoulder.  It was Labor Day, and the Phoenix papers basically said about local events:  "Just go to the movies."
   Tex-Mex Guy and the Basset Hound Curtis knew that entertainment crap was high-dollar, for just a tub of buttered popcorn could give you the rectal squirts; plus, set you back a half-tank of gas; thus, he just chilled and pondered himself.
   His last name was Adami--an Italian surname basically meaning:  the son of Adam.  Kinda like Christ referred to Himself as:  the Son of Man.  Furthermore, The Tex-Mex Guy knew he blended in with his highly Hispanic community, for even the Italian man named Columbus, well--his mighty journey was financed by the Spanish--and did they then not produce offspring with the South American Tribes, giving us modernization below the border?  Of course.
   Moreover, as a Catholic, The Tex-Mex Guy's favorite ship used by Columbus was the La Santa Maria--the most magnificent ship of them all.  So, even though he was American--in a quiet, meek way--he celebrated his Italian heritage; next, blessed himself, put a piece of Swedish Snus under his lip, spooned with Curtis, and took a nap while the AM Frequencies enchanted with a political dream.

Tex-Mex Guy (2)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (2)"  
   
   It was Friday night in Phoenix, Saint Joan had risen from the ashes, more than a mere relic, but an ultra-spirit--a forever flux of fabulous energy; moreover, with a ten dollar tip from a seasoned citizen who most likely enjoyed Roy Roger reruns, the Tex-Mex Guy, Curtis, and Saint Joan went to a local, hole-in-the-wall bar.  He would only drink two Coronas, without the usually unwashed lime that can contain nasty bacteria, it further being contaminated by a non-hand-washing waitress; anyway, leaving Curtis in the muscular Mustang outside, windows halfway rolled down for ventilation, Saint Joan and the sombrero-wearing mystic entered the bar.  Like Shane and Han Solo, the Tex-Mex Guy sat in the back, able to view his encompassing environment.  Saint Joan muttered voices to him, and all the loose ladies glanced in his Doctor Strange position, wondering if he was cool or a mere crank; regardless, one brave senorita approached--long, vibrant hair, black-hued, and almond-shaped chocolate-brown eyes, with a buxom build to match her facial beauty.  She asked him if she could sit, he said, "Yes."  She then introduced herself as Celina; next, sat down elegantly, with the agile, nine-lives mobility of a wild cat.
  
CELINA
Who are you talking to handsome?

TEX-MEX GUY
Nothing imperative.  You are very stunning.  Are you Catholic?

CELINA
A Jesus freak at a bar--I like you already.  Yeah, I'm a cafeteria Catholic--I attend Mass on Christmas and Easter, pray here and there--why do you ask?

TEX-MEX GUY
The New Testament tells me to test every spirit, that energy within the body.

CELINA
Do you like my body?

TEX-MEX GUY
I like both your body and spirit.  You are a Virgo.

CELINA
How did you know that?

TEX-MEX GUY
My friend told me.

CELINA
I'd like to meet this friend.

TEX-MEX GUY
All you have to do to reach a Saint--is call them.

CELINA
Wow--you're a bring home to Daddy type.

   It was a lovely night, with moderate, responsible alcohol consumption and phone numbers exchanged.  The Tex-Mex Guy then exited the drinking establishment, blushing, and blessing himself underneath his cheesy sombrero.  Curtis greeted him with glee when he boarded the muscle car.   

Tex-Mex Guy (1)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (1)"
   
   He resided out in the scalding yet dry heat of Arizona, clearing up his armpit psoriasis, not down in Old Orleans, where the resonating vibrations of Saint Joan of Arc are highly gyrating on the mystical frequencies, arriving swifter, many times so, than the speed of light, like unto immediate Internet service; specifically, the Tex-Mex guy called, through cerebral focus, that particular Saint unto him, not selfishly, yet to assist him with the negatives and positives of life, knowing they (the Saints) have the ability to superposition themselves through time, space, and other dimensions, all due to them being supernaturally alive in Christ, being a magnanimous frequency of total reality; thus, Saint Joan was with his seemingly-perpetual delivery of:  chili con carne, fajitas, and cheesy nachos.
   So, piloting his 1987 five liter, 302 cubic inch Ford Mustang, no hatchback; furthermore, one of the LX models, it only taking six flat seconds to triumph towards sixty, him redesigning the intake with ram air induction, and having two supertrapps sticking out of the rear end for increased vehicular outtake--the Tex-Mex guy was a metaphorical Mercury concerning delivery.
   Too, the Tex-Mex guy wore an inauthentic sombrero, part of the blue-collar job's innate humility, moving swiftly past hot women in their Lexus turbo-models, and flashing a curved grin underneath a wiry mustache that displayed his sense of pseudo-dandyism, and a Basset Hound named Curtis alongside him in the passenger seat, buckled in by the influencing protection of Saints.  
   It was a modest yet content lifestyle, him affording cheap rent at a crappy apartment, using Swedish Snus to control his anxiety, and never thinking of Saint Joan in any creepy way, yet only to help save his impoverished sufferings--her, a gift from God, as Saints mostly are, the Saintly soldier being a Divine shield against the capitalistic roller-coaster ride that can wither away a healthy corporeal existence--so it goes for the Tex-Mex Guy, anyway.     

Razorback Games & Catholic Mass

   
   "Razorback Games & Catholic Mass"
  
   If you goeth to see the sublime swine--them royally cool Hogs in Arkansas, you might be a bit confused while attending the always epic display of the Arkansas Razorbacks.
   Arkansas:  A poor as crap State--I believe, the 2nd poorest in the Union.
   You gotta doeth Hog Calls, specifically:  "Woo Pig Sooie!!!"  Raising them hands to Hog Heaven, bringing the spirit of the mighty, tusked beast down upon the tough turf of shimmering green, though soon clothed in the passion of red; plus, the purity and peace of white.
   Like at Catholic Mass with the Nicene Creed manifesting into a "Peace be with you" that freaks out parishioners with Social Phobia; nevertheless, you must face that funky fear, making it afraid of you, for the Transubstantiation doth happen, and the Blood and Body of Christ become corporeally, not symbolically real--in my opinion:  only if the Priest is decent, or having an innocent, dove-like day.
   Yes, you can pray to the Holy Spirit.  It is part of the Trinity--singular yet more, but so true, even in theoretical physics--there are thinkers beyond you and me.  God Bless them.
   So, Catholic Mass and Hog Games both have ritual and repetition; moreover, TRADITION--gotta love it!    

Regret & Redemption

   
   "Regret & Redemption"
   
   We all have regrets--hell, even Trump admitted his own--that's moxie!
   Young and molested girls speak with a high, squeaky adolescent vernacular, as if they are only a piece of sass and trash; moreover, what rhymes with that.  Is it their fault for their uncouth actions?        No!  They were submitted to a type of sinister behavior, not like the sublime, Catholic, intellectual brainwash, where Aquinas "The Good Doctor" was regally read, but "victims" through iniquitous, carnal torture; thus, forgive them!
   I hate this Election!  Hillary, possibly false medical crap; plus, Trump, flat-out ego, yet it fits well.
   I miss Bernie.  I miss Johnny Football and Tim Tebow--yes Mr. Tebow, you should've been a Defensive End and given poetic justice to other quarterbacks, for you will always be an awesome quarterback, but maybe:  time to transcend.  And you can still tackle better than swing the bat--we adore your love of Christ.
   We all feel; then, we fall--as might James Joyce mention, and he did.  But we can get back up--even in the terminal stages.  We can become angels.  We can pamper and adore the sublimity of things, such as sweetly:  Jude the Obscure, giving chances beyond pragmatic reason.

POST SCRIPT:  I will not stop fixating upon the muscle car--whether heavy or lean.  The massive eight cylinder, or the turbo-charged six--even the super-charged four cylinder--I might give potential praise to that intrepid toy.  The automobile is my solace and sanctuary, though I'm phobic concerning driving.  Just stay cool.  Too, test every spirit.  

Our Lady--the Fighting Irish

   
   "Our Lady--the Fighting Irish"
   
   When you watch Notre Dame take to Terra's turf--you don't care if they win or lose--if you got them Lucky Charms in ya.
   The glistening glow off of the golden-hued helmets--it's mystically brilliant, them handling the pigskin with a leprechaun's love of gladiatorial sports.  Did you put on 'em pads when u were younger?  Or did ya become something second to hard hits, like a cop with a gun?  Didn't I mention Milton claimed the Viper invented gunpowder, and for the fallen?
   Can't a cop Billy Club a dude, like them old days in Boston?  Use the Blackjack attack instead of spraying prey?
   But it's a tough job--I hear.  There's always two sides to the lucky coin flip.  Still, if the cop played football as a kid--he might be more prone to heroically tackle a guy instead of making him "eat lead" like many cowards do.  But hey, it's all relative.
   Get it out of your system.  Put on the pads and make a direct hit--you'll see the light; moreover, possibly have neurological damage in the future, or not.
   Isn't God in charge of destiny anymore?  Regardless, it's always a fun-time to watch the Irish play with the pigskin.    

The Cult - Love (with lyrics)

Arcane Pontiac 301 Turbo

   
   "Arcane Pontiac 301 Turbo"
   
   I always figured, if Christ drove a muscle car--it would be a small block V-8, or something esoteric and mercurial out of the hole.  Anyway, here's a weird, little pseudo-ditty.
   With the Clean Air Act of 1970, certain federal emission standards were being spawned to help protect Mother Earth; moreover, this was before Al Gore came from the planet Uranus and invented the Internet.
   Thus, we get:  1980 & 1981 Trans Ams with Cabalistic displacement.
   The esoteric Pontiac:

301 cubic inches.

4.9 liter.   

Rated around:  210 horsepower.

Torque:  345 ft-lb?  (What!?!)  I could be mistaken.

First production Pontiac to utilize a turbo-charging system.

Regardless of performance--it's mysteriously cool.

But if you want muscle in small size, of course, nothing trumps the:

1987 Buick Grand National GNX!!!

A mere V-6, yet turbo-charged to the core!!!

Can hit 60 swifter than most of yesteryear and today--not even a Boss 429 wants to do the "quickstep" with that thing.  

Snoopy's Doghouse

   
   "Snoopy's Doghouse"
   
   Indeed, it is animated esotericism; moreover, Snoopy's Doghouse first made its showcase on September 4, 1951--or approximately so.  The philosophical Linus suggested that Snoopy sleep inside, which at times he did, instead of using his ears to perch upon the top; also, Linus stayed there for a night or two himself.
   Within was way weird but soooo cool.  Snoopy had a library larger than that of the Vatican.  It was a fourth-dimensional tesseract space, containing even a huge basement, CB radio, pool table, stereo, and bunk beds; plus, more--but only the true PEANUTS mystic knows such things.  
   Too, it had the ability of flight, and could travel back in time and engage the Red Baron in aviation combat.   
   This was one cool Doghouse, and even I would like to reside there, encompassed by all the loving gang save Lucy, but Snoopy could keep her in line.  That's my boy!   

Bitter Star

  

   "Bitter Star" 

   My name is Mary; I'm Catholic, of course.  Name has many meanings and variations.  I was humbled when I had my First Holy Communion, eating the Son of Man, as the Major Prophet Ezekiel might have said about himself.  And why would he say such a thing; next, repeated by Christ, Him a Master of the Old Testament, getting many of His wise lines from the likes of Moses, Isaiah, and of course King David, His metaphorical patriarch.
   Son of Man, huh?  Maybe He did have eyes to see and ears to hear, glimpsing easily beyond the electromagnetic spectrum of things, knowing:  all aren't the sons of men.
   His last words on the cross to the Disciple John were concerning His Mother's care; moreover, He had keen perception, and those who were not the sons of men feared His sight; plus, His awesome synergy with the all-encompassing power of the Holy Spirit. 
   Saint John declared Saint Michael tossed the others down onto Terra's terrain, and we're stuck here with them.  However, always a few Nordic-styled angels walking about to make sure things don't get too wondrously wacky.
   So, I was a janitor for a physician's office.  Mean old lady, like a viper, my boss, bossing me around; next, saying she lived by the Golden Rule.  Yeah, he with the gold makes the rules.
   Mary, the Queen of Angels was bitter, might Fyodor point to in The Brothers Karamazov, but I kept my mouth shut, mostly, knowing the Virgin's Litany concerning poverty and chastity.
   So, I kept away from the bodily juices of others, knowing:  some were not the sons of men.  Yeah, I saw a doctor and was on a plethora of pills; nevertheless, only here to serve the poor.
   Too, I watched PEANUTS cartoons, and fancied wholesome shows.  What was I to do, for I was just a janitor?  But you never can tell.  Frodo was a mere Hobbit.  I crack myself up, take the Eucharist, and feel the everlasting flow of the Trinity washing away my sins when I see a hot country music guy.  Heck, we're all human.  Most of us.