Ali vs Foreman--my Yankee opinion

   
   "Ali vs Foreman--my Yankee opinion"
   
   All Saints' Eve--a day before, in the rhyme of the year 1974.  Make it like Hemingway, Mark.  No college--a 4 year vacation.  Not machine gun sentences, but a short, 3 shot burst.  1, 2, and 3.  I saw a fish.  It was a big fish.  I caught the fish.  I ate the fish.  The fish gave me spirit.  
   Foreman was bigger, uglier, meaner, nastier, had a German Shepherd on a chain, was stronger, saying:  "I gonna kill that pretty boy."  More or less.
   Africa, of that region, accepted the monstrous Foreman's dog, though it was unclean.  The children accepted Ali, and he looked like an adolescent in a state of glee.  Ali, a great philosopher, kinda/sorta preached:  "Repeat the mantra, and it shall happen."
   The BELL Rings!!!  Foreman--strong as an ox, slamming the svelte Ali--over, and over, and over, and over--Ali's hands up; plus, a dance here.  And a dance there.  No offense.  Hands up.  A mere dance.  Round after round.  Big, big, big, angry and mean Foreman beats the shit out of little Ali--so it appears in our Kool-Aid-drinking souls.
   Next, after many rounds.  Ali exits his corner.  Foreman, so big and strong--is simply exhausted.
   Then, Ali has his opening.  A jab here.  A jab there.  A dance.  A dodge.  A dance.  Another dodge. 
   Foreman can't hit shit.  Has made himself a sluggard due to anger and hate.  
   Ali.  Another jab.  A right.  Next, picks the bigger monster apart.  Picks him to crumbling pieces. 
   Ali has victory.  Nobody still believes.
   And Foreman becomes humbled, selling grills, and morphing into a magnanimous man of virtue and love.  A great man.  Ali prayed for his enemy with punches--in my humble opinion.
   Ali, a resting pulse of 50.  Parkinson's for over an easy decade.  Surviving.  The mantra.  Say it.  It comes true.  Believe it.  It comes true.  
   Be at rest CHAMP.  You are not arrogant.  You taught.  You gave.  You endured.  You were and totally are--beautiful.   

Thoracic Animus (23)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (23)"
   
   As Doc and a bemused Mutt exited the modified B-25 Mitchell, Mutt swiftly forgot to process the insidious snakes, for the tall, svelte blonde woman called Miramaxus approached with her laser rifle in a firm grip, and besides the symmetrical features of her chiseled face and her sunshine, cascading blonde; plus, full kissable lips and aqua-emerald eyes--he noticed her legs exposed from between a pair of white snow boots to a furry pair of what could be described as exercise shorts--her legs were tan, muscular, and extremely golden with a kiss of glisten like glitter, and as a werewheaten-terrier, he felt a bit nasty for wanting to hump, but immediately got control, having enough empathy to know that this angel deserved immaculate love--nothing less.
   The threesome made their salutations, shared a few chuckles with Doc's humor taking the lead, and then Miramaxus glared into Mutt's puppy dog eyes, saying:  "You deserve a bone after those cool heroics."    
    Mutt honestly replied:  "I didn't do anything, and was freaked."
   The angel further said:  "No, I mean for hanging out with this crazy cowboy."  Her pointing at Doc; next, they all chuckled again, and it felt like home for Mutt's depressed dog inside.  

Martina McBride - Independence Day lyrics

Jonah Hex | Trailer US (2010)

This will make no sense: TOUCH

   
   "This will make no sense:  TOUCH"
   
   When you're a Priest or Nun, cause you get none, and are celibate--it's called a discipline.  When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics and are not merely anal--it's a blessing.  Proof of the Illuminati's existence is that television physicians on the propaganda channels tell college girls not to douche; specifically, that the vaginal cavity is a self-cleaning oven--HOGWASH.  Gotta clean that sucker out sometimes, at least monthly, and use the kind without fragrance.  
   I sinned this week, thinking about carnal activity, but I cleansed and sanitized; next, went back to my angelic essence, and told it that I would listen, for I have friends, as did William Blake have breakfast with Arch-Angels every morning.  The fox condemns the trap, not himself--remember.
   My Grandmother's sloppy kisses, so clean as a whistle; plus, my Serbian Pap's beard scratch on my arm to make me laugh; moreover, my biological father's whiskey fresh scent hugging me with monstrous strength, and my skinny ass couldn't even breathe; next, my biological mother calming me as a youth by scratching my back, and my Golden Retriever giving me her belly to rub--this was TOUCH.  Like the Eucharist--Christ touching you, so softly and lovingly.  We all need touch.  We die without touch.  We may not all be social animals, but even a skunk needs touch.  Heck, even a golf ball needs kissed by wood.
   I miss my biological Dad.  If it wasn't for phobias and people's exploitation, though--through my fault, I would've been at his side every moment, happily allowing him to kick my ass.  I miss, most of all--his fatherly TOUCH.  

City of Angels & Gumshoes--back in the day, baby!

   
   "City of Angels & Gumshoes--back in the day, baby!"

   Joe Mannix got his butt whooped every week at the pier, and thrown into the water, but he always came back for more.  In the words of Guns And Roses:  "I'm on the Night Train--I never learn."
   But Joe Mannix shouldn't have learned.  He was a rare breed.  Liked taking an ass-kicking, for he had Health Insurance.  As my biological mother said of my biological father:  "When he played college football, he used to hypnotize himself and let the other players put out their cigarettes on his back--just to get him pumped up as a running back, like a little John Riggins."  
   Back before LA became a sanctuary city--there were private eyes, rock and roll, and still during today:  The Rand Corporation.  But as the crazy guy says on Fox News:  "Would you want Dirty Sanchez living in your daughter's bedroom?  How's that gonna work out for your sanctuary?"  And my freaking family were immigrants, but the Serbs learned how to speak English, took the Pledge of Allegiance, and only spoke the Slavic Languages among themselves.
   So, don't be a cop.  Go old school.  Be your own man.  Be a private eye.  Drink beer, smoke a Lucky, nail a dame you love and wanna engage in matrimony, and say the OUR FATHER after some hicks roll you like they did Jim Rockford.  Get your ass kicked for the hell of it.  
   Too, don't carry a wussy 9-millimeter and spray prey with the high capacity, but go all cowboy, having a single action revolver.  But what the hell do I know?  I still watch cartoons, and 50 is knocking on the door.  

MANNIX [1967-1975]

Thoracic Animus (22)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (22)"
   
   Over the monstrous-sized continent of Antarctica, in an undisclosed region, Doc took the modified and classic B-25 Mitchell low over the glacial geography, and as the Nordic rune Isa enchants with a gleaming glow of beauty, frost can be slippery; moreover, traction lost, and Mutt looked down below to see unearthly laser fire from a tall blonde woman taking hits from teleporting lizards, but the crazy cowboy Doc defensively buzzed the violent scenario; next, as all reptiles strike angrily, a giant reptile-like creature was standing behind them in the cockpit, attempting to strangle Mutt, yet Doc simply pulled out his old-school, single action .357 Magnum, a Ruger--pointed it backwards, and blew the creature's head off, Mutt able to breathe again.
   Doc was like:  "In my last life, Texas Jack Vermillion taught me how to shoot, boy--and he was faster than old Doc Holliday."
   Mutt screamed:  "What the hell was that!?!"
   Doc like:  "That's hell on Earth, boy."
   Next, Doc cried out a "Yee-Haw" and buzzed the lascivious lizards, opening up his own can of butt whoop with a "Puff the Magic Dragon" scatter gun jury-rigged under the plane's nose, taking out all the hellions on the offensive against the blonde angel, her looking skyward, and saluting the twosome in the antiquated yet re-styled aircraft.
   Mutt was like:  "She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen--like a dream."
   Doc replied:  "That's Miramaxus.  She's a tunnel bunny.  Does covert work for the Nordic Confederacy, operating in singular style, cause she's got the agility of Spider-Man, son."
   All Mutt could think about was holding her war-torn shape of angelic essence in his arms, and never letting go; next, Doc smoothly landed on the ice, and she approached with a swift stride and glimmering smile.   

Thoracic Animus (21)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (21)"
   
   Miramaxus was a tall blonde from another world--not of this world, fighting with the Confederate Nordics in Antarctica against the leprous lizards.  Anyway, she was an angel, but had a guilt complex, for angels are fallible.  She attempted to arouse a married essence, due to the horrors of hostile war wearing down her loneliness, making her yearn for, or in the least, have communication with another soul of the opposite gender--in galactic terms.
   As a result, knowing many divine humans practiced mortification of the senses, she wanted to punish herself, for her sin, maybe scald her face, to stay inviolate and pure.  But as she attempted to burn herself with a flaming torch, the Great Nazarene super-positioned Himself in her direction, saying:  "Peace be with you.  As this is not your world--neither was it Mine, as you know, but you are rolling out the red carpet for My return; thus, fear not and look upon My cross, even as I willed Myself to die; next, willed myself to live again, in a transfigured state."
   Miramaxus didn't attempt to argue, but mourned the history of Calvary, yet accepted the Nazarene's obedience unto death, though cheating its sting, knowing He was the LIGHT, and will share it with the chosen.
  Therefor, Miramaxus got her laser rifle, and soldiered back up, into the macabre horrors of the angelic wars.  

The poetry of Jimmy Stewart : Beau

Thoracic Animus (20)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (20)"
   
   Doc had ignited the internal cockpit light, and having jury-rigged an auto-pilot off of his Smart Phone, adapting it further to take voice commands, he escorted Mutt into the fuselage made into a small dining area, where he had fresh salmon and sweet and sour glaze, going for the macrobiotic nutrition; anyway, after popping open a few Dr. Peppers, the feast began; then, the twosome burped up the carbonated colas.

DOC
Ya, Dr. Pepper is healthier than Coke, for it has the name Doctor in it.

MUTT
How long before you can make the jump to light speed?

DOC
Boy, what the hell you saying?

MUTT
Sorry--just always wanted to say that, and the time feels right.

DOC
Oh ya--like that old Obi-Wan in STAR WARS.  But boy, we going to Antarctica, not Han Solo's frigid Hoth.  And it's like that 1980's sci-fi flick, THA THANG.

MUTT
You mean, THE THING.

DOC
Don't give me that Yankee vernacular boy; I'm taking you to see angels and demons.  Hell, it's better than a John Wayne Western.  

MUTT
I was always partial to Jimmy Stewart--he was a wiry scrapper.  

Thoracic Animus (19)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (19)"
   
   Doc was all like:  "Boy, we gonna get them snakes, those shape-shifting bastards, even into the blondes with a frenzied frequency, but the true blondes emanate clean white and all the rest.  What did Jesus tell Pilate?  My world is not of this world.  He was a Pleiadian, in a sense, and He is here, in the Holy Spirit.  Don't wait for Him to come back, but ingest His platinum presence, and He will truly be with you.  That non-canonized Gospel of Thomas the doubter is wily and weird, making yourself a duplicate of Christ, a man becoming a woman, and a woman becoming a man; plus, the Oracle of Mary--love My Mother and you love Me--more or less.  Therefore, let it be!  Engage the opposite of the Holy Spectrum, but be of not two minds, though gel into gregarious glee--you hear me Mutt?"
   Mutt was chewing on his lips again at a high altitude, wishing the B-25 Mitchell was below the frozen ocean and all the rest, but he carried the werewheaten-terrier with dignified duty, knowing he had to bite some snake ass.  For a dog, even though Saint John the Eagle spoke against them, as they would eat the dead bodies off the cross if an Orthodox Jew didn't preserve even the criminals and wrap them in spice, but a domesticated dog is no less than a man following the Koran's instructions to eat cattle--we are killing hamburgers dude, and they got pickles on them.
   Mutt just trusted in Doc's two, old-school .357 Magnums, single action; moreover, his instincts to lick and kill snakes, loving blondes, and what guy doesn't love blondes, or girls, for there is Brad Pitt on the Big Screen, and the ladies swoon over his golden locks, like Christ's chestnut mane, as described by Pilate himself, and possibly hanging in the National Library of Congress.       

Lady Antebellum — Long Stretch Of Love (Lyrics)

Audience Reaction - Detention Center Shootout - Star Wars 1979 Re-Release

Lime-Green Machine: KDX 200

   
   "Lime-Green Machine:  KDX 200"
   
   When I had my Suzuki GN 250, or my two Ninja 250's, people always told me they were little kid bikes--"Bravo Sierra!"  I do rightfully exclaim.
   My Suzuki GN 250 could sprint to sixty as fast as a 1985 Camaro with a 305 small block and four barrel; plus, my Ninjas could hit sixty in five seconds and do near 115 MPH--this is not a little kid's bike, bucko.
   When I was 11 years of age, having a small Yamaha 80cc, some kid in Richmond let me drive his Kawasaki  KDX 80cc, and it ran like a little, scalded dog.  Moreover, I had the green eyes of jealousy over the Kawasaki's mean, lime-green radiance, it driving me to yearn hungrily to own one.  It has always been my dream to have such a potent enduro-type of on-and-off road cycle.
   The old-school KDX 200 is mean and alive in furious green.  It will hit sixty under seven seconds, and top out a little over 80 MPH.  I find no other cycle more aesthetically-pleasing; plus, in some cases, you're dealing with a 2-cycle, which causes superior velocity and more vibrating-energy--it offers more torque out of the hole, I'm talk'n.  
   I had an ethnically Nordic friend during my dropout of adolescence who had a Honda XR 200, and it was severely swift to sixty, but my GN 250 could take it, especially on the top end.  I had that little Suzuki up to 83 MPH on Hinson Road in Little Rock during 1988, blowing past the rich kids coming home from private school.  I was so shaken by the quicksilver of topping her out on a winding road, that after the race, I found a quiet patch of real estate and nervously smoked an unfiltered Lucky Strike, it ignited to life by a sulfur-stricken match, back in the days when they made matches--hey, it's toasted.  

Thoracic Animus (18)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (18)"
   
   Mutt and Doc had landed in Cape Horn, it marking the northern boundary of the famous Drake Passage.  Temperatures were a bit frosty, and about to get icier as they would soon be wending their airways to Antarctica to fight in the alien wars between the serpents and blondes.  Mutt didn't get all the details, but as his werewheaten-terrier was evolving, he noticed that he could smell many feet underground; plus, had a sense of telepathy, which had replaced his usual empathy for the tricksters in life, and he smoothly surmised with telepathic truth that Doc was not only batshit crazy, but a real jewel and paragon of vivacious virtue.  They stood outside the B-25 Mitchell as a foreign-speaking man was filling her with fuel, Doc chewing on a Cuban.

DOC
This is the Big One.  Reagan gave us a soft disclosure years ago, as did the Bible and Epic of Gilgamesh, but all the kids were too busy playing Pac-Man; next, Ms. Pac-Man or whatever came out, but I always liked Donkey Kong, though it thieved my attention away from reality as well.

MUTT
So, there's reptiles and tall blondes; moreover, Russian and American troops with heavy artillery down there?

DOC
Yup, but don't worry; I carry two .357 Magnums, single action, and they have enough penetrating power to crack the block of a HEMI engine; also, I've noticed your fangs now and again--you some kind of werewolf?  It will help.

MUTT
More or less, but of the playful Irish variety.  A Poor Man's Werewolf--you might say.

DOC
Well lock and load up your hound of the heavens and invoke Saint Roch, for we gonna be in the Big One, boy.  And if you think your friend Hairy Man is going to help, well, he's sitting this one out.  But we gonna crack some skulls like Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi do down at the docks in New Jersey.   

I Don't Want To Be - Gavin DeGraw - Lyrics

Thoracic Animus (17)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (17)"
   
   Maybe needing Winchester the 3rd for thoracic surgery due to cardiac disturbance, Mutt bit his lips as the B-25 Mitchell hit 275 MPH @ 15,000 feet.  Doc was screaming:  "Yee-Haw!!!"
   Mutt pondered the only brave Nation in NATO, knowing Saint Joan of Arc was a noble beast of beauty on the battlefield, uttering:  "Je vous salue, Marie . . ."
   Doc was like:  "Boy, just sit back and enjoy this Millennium Falcon's thrust; I've added a few special modifications myself after the CIA kicked me out before NAM for smuggling PLAYBOY magazines to the officers who sat back, not giving a shit about the grunts.  Not their fault, society makes a strange Totem Pole.  Anyhow, we almost at Cape Horn boy--gonna get cold when we refuel and hit the Lost Continent of Antarctica.  You sure you up for a Jedi's war?"
   Mutt was like:  "Heck, I'm half a dog and a partial man at best, I'll manage."  

Thoracic Animus (16)

    
   "Thoracic Animus (16)"

   Mutt and his depressed dog had hitched it down to Texas, loving the Longhorns and Bowie knives, Big, everywhere.  At a local, bucolic gas station with a diner, near the key-locked bathrooms, his depressed dog mystically leaped into Mutt's soul-like essence, mutating his negative blood further into a werewheaten-terrier, the little, white angel dog, like out of the Book of Tobit, morphing him into a greater gravel-sniffing destiny, as if by magic, though not, a form of love united, like these here States of America, and Mutt knew he didn't need the Full Moon to morph into a 150 pound werewheaten-terrier; therefore, he sang:

The joyous werewheaten don't know defeating--
The enduring werewheaten gives merry greeting.

   Next, getting his clothes, or rags would be wiser, to fit again, Mutt went into the diner, sitting at the bar-like area, and after eating some eggs and toast, a bush pilot with a wiry nose cranked up the conversation, after introducing himself as Doc.

DOC
I'm headed down to Antarctica to get involved in the mysterious war.   Got a B-25 Mitchell that can make it to Cape Horn; next, land on the Southern Pole.  I'm on an idealistic crusade.  You interested in following old Obi-Wan, though I get my name from Steinbeck's Cannery Row, published in 1945.

MUTT
I've got fur that can endure; plus, fangs now, why not?

DOC
Gotta love blondes; then, we'll CLEAR PROP!  

MUTT
Every man's dream, of course.

   Doc smiled, and gave Mutt a slap on the back.   

Thoracic Animus (15)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (15)"
    
   Harry departed back to his inter-dimensional craft, and blasted off; then, Mutt awoke next to the orange glow of the campfire, his Uncle and Tanya still snoozing sweetly. 
   Mutt had felt a visitation of sorts.  A need for change.  An acceptance for his hypersensitivity, not in a political sense, but all the locomotion and commotion of Internet and people traffic, since women can't keep their legs together, and men can't make their own love, innocently.
   Therefore, Mutt woke Buckwheat from his depressed and restless slumber; next, the twosome made an exodus from the woods of Eastern Dakota, knowing Tanya and Uncle would be just dandy, doing what they wanted to do in life--you should always do what you want in life, unless it's sadistic.
   So, Mutt and his depressed dog thumbed it back into town, and he decided to investigate newspaper delivery, even though print media was dying, but the smell of dead squids and freshly cut lumber always inspire the most remembered activity to get spirited within, and do something about this shitty world, like take the Eucharist, and get a crossbow for the Brown Bear's sometimes curious kill factor, especially if it's a migrating Kodiak.   

Fleetwood Mac (Stevie Nicks) - "DREAMS" (With Lyrics)

Thoracic Animus (14)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (14)"
   
   Harry was writing in blue to communicate, within the mind of a snoozing Mutt, for the Bigfoot/Hairy Man knew that the Blood is the Life, a pattern of existence and outcome; plus, that Mutt's blood was negative, carrying a bit of immortal Ichor, so Esau's great, great, great, great, grandson probed Mutt's mind, and Mutt thought himself an asshole, not knowing people targeted him for a reason.
   Jung this and that, but the onion does peel, and Mutt needed to be warned to watch his favorite shows, read his favorite books--and to hell with the classics and monkeys shaking his allegorical cage.
   They wanted Mutt to think himself bad, hang a rope and dangle, do the dirt nap groove, or burn him to ash, but then Mark Twain always comes along and makes friends with Tesla, O-; next, Picard takes Twain on the ENTERPRISE, and Mark is like:  "Boy--this is a starship, ain't it?"  Keen talk from a former Riverboat Captain, and like Emily Dickinson--always in white.  Who says America doesn't have great writers?  

Thoracic Animus (13)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (13)"

   Harry approached the campfire, it still flickering with a vibrant orange flame, and glared at Mutt, his Uncle, and Tanya snoozing; plus, noticed the depressed dog Buckwheat, him having restless leg syndrome, shaking his hind paws in doggy slumber, as if possibly chasing an annoying rabbit that brought him no colorful eggs on Easter.
   Harry wanted to hang out with the humans, especially ask for a can of Beenie Weenies, always finding them out in the woods, noticing they were packed full of protein and fiber; moreover, containing the anti-inflammatory properties of turmeric, but with all the fiber, he pondered that a scientist may steal his scat and attempt to unearth what God has concealed--that humans are a mixed breed of many species, and like Lord of the Rings, we are living in a weird and wild world, which would be all too much for the quintessential business person to take, for careerism trumps a sacred tribe of celestial mutts.
   Oh well, Harry pondered if he should wake them with a howl, but that might cause cardiac disturbance, a sort of thoracic animus, which is why the future hides from the face of a self-seeking man.  

Robert Palmer - Simply Irresistible (Live in NYC - 1997)

Hell kicked me out for selling ice cream

   
   "Hell kicked me out for selling ice cream"
   
   "Got to hell, King."  That's what my 9th grade teacher told me; however, I was not to be scorched iniquitously, responding with my cousin's comeback--Winston Wood's words:  "I already went there, but they kicked me out for selling ice cream."
   Christ knows this well.  He lit it up.  He is:  ANGEL OF GREAT COUNSEL.  Look @ Pontius Pilate's physical description of Christ, and I believe it hangs in the National Library of Congress, saying, kinda/sorta:  "Chestnut hair, and blazing eyes."  Who are we to resist evil, when Christ mentioned not to?  And His Mother, our Mother, saying:  "Do as My Son says."  But they fear the Mother, for they have an Oedipus Complex, though we will pray for them to watch Notre Dame football with Touchdown Jesus.
   Weird is white.  Don't be afraid of a rainbow merging into the unification of salvation.  Raise your vibrations to a frequency divine--and maybe the government will thieve away your instruments as they did with Tesla.  We'll never know it all, but plenty have the fundamentals.  
   Just love, walk on the grass and feel Mother Earth, but be cautious of planted parasites if you're barefoot.  Get sandals, like Jesus, or as I call them:  "Air Messiah."  No offense to Michael Jordan's 1980's celebrity, but God has His Own Celebrities, and forty days paint a beard on a pretty face.  The Son is the Mother, and the Father--a synergy of elegantly AWESOME.  

Thoracic Animus (12)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (12)"
   
   The inter-dimensional, circular-shaped craft landed, and Harry, him naming himself such, after having watched Harry and the Hendersons on the World Wide Web, departed from his alien vehicle, stepping onto the Eastern Dakota Earth with his big feet, and shouted, it meaning:  "Happy Easter!!!"
   He didn't understand why nobody was reading the Bible anymore.  Especially about Jacob and Esau, for Esau is the Hairy Man, while Jacob had smooth skin.  And while Harry liked both brothers, he did like manscaping guys, such as Robert Palmer, Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli, and Jack Kerouac in his camel-haired coat.  These guys were sharp-dressed men.
   But Harry wasn't depressed, loving himself, and hoping a bionic Steve Austin was not waiting for him in the woods.  But his on-board computer said only Mutt, his Uncle, and Tanya were nearby; thus, knowing they were semi-benevolent types, just garden-variety hicks more or less, he decided to make contact, though knew he'd have to teleport away quickly if a crossbow bolt came in his direction, not wanting to be like Saint Joan of Arc and get hit by such a violent weapon that could bring down a Grizzly.  

You know what Ol' Jack Burton always says...

Thoracic Animus (11)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (11)"
  
   Tanya followed Mutt back to his campfire, where his Uncle was lubricating the crossbows--him still in heavy anticipation concerning bagging a Squatch.  Mutt introduced his Uncle to Tanya, and the threesome sat, making coffee mixed with cloves for the sanitary effects within their corporeal aspects; next, the conversation did shine, like the big neon glitter above.

TANYA
So, Mr. Uncle--why are you hunting Bigfoot?

UNCLE
Hell, just for the kicks, and to be famous, like William Blake wanted.  The poet got it in the end, after dying a penniless old man considered a crank.

TANYA
You sound kinda on the crank spectrum.

UNCLE
Thanks.  And hell, I'm a Yankee, but I understand the metaphysics of Uncle Jesse and them Duke boys.

TANYA
Always liked Boss Hog myself.  He dressed like Faulkner and Twain; plus, Colonel Sanders.  

MUTT
I could really go for some chicken.

TANYA
Grilled or crispy?

MUTT
I don't have the digestive tract of a coyote, so I'd go with grilled, and some salt, pepper, and turmeric.

TANYA
Damn dude--that sounds nasty.  Need mine fried--deep fried.

UNCLE
How would you like your Hairy Man cooked?

TANYA
Ain't hunting him to eat him old timer.  Just want him to talk, and have him tell me, at least, the fundamentals of Earthly existence.

   Mutt pondered his crappy, bizarre life.  But it was Holy Saturday, and Jesus LIGHTS it ALL up.  

INXS - Jimmy Barnes - Good Times (Live)

Thoracic Animus (10)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (10)"
   
   Leaving his depressed dog with his Uncle @ the campfire, Mutt went into the woods to drain the lizard; moreover, his urethra was more relaxed in nature as his negative blood did not pick up on the vibrations of a frequently cruel society.  After zipping up, he spotted a lovely lass, her zipping up as well, after a female squat, underneath the smooth shimmer of a waning Pink Moon; next, the conversation sparked.

MUTT
Hello, my name's Mutt.  What are you doing out here, young lady?

TANYA
I'm Tanya, sucka.  And I'm hunting me some Hairy Man--don't want to stuff him--just to give me some answers.  You see, the world calls me a freak.  My Dad was from Ivory Coast, and my Mom an American with Irish/French roots.  Bigfoot has been harassing my beautiful gel, and I want some answers out of his hairy ass.

MUTT
I'm not the shiniest coin in the fountain; thus, I'm just tagging along with my Uncle.  Don't wanna kill nothing, just love my depressed dog.  I'm half Mohawk and half Serbian.  Nobody in America likes the American Indian, and if you're born on our soil, well, everybody then is a Native American, but my Chief doesn't drink the Kool-Aid.  

TANYA
They call me an Aunt Tom at times.  But I'm more mixed than Johnny Depp's fourth drink from room service, before he trashes the hotel room.

MUTT
It sounds like we might get along.  If you like depressed dogs.

TANYA
Can the dog hunt?

MUTT
All he does is cry.  And I feed him organic dog food.  I'm so lost.

TANYA
Maybe you just made a friend.  

Thoracic Animus (9)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (9)"
   
   The boys in the backwoods of Tennessee had severe animus concerning American, pseudo-local law in Tennessee, saying:  "Boy, California ain't shit.  We got the best herb growing in the backwoods of Tennessee."  And Mutt didn't need it for his colonoscopy--his fifth, but only to hunt Hairy Man, that sum bitch (the sum of all bitches), harassing the Six Million Dollar Man, him being worth more than millions since the 1970's, like a few billion in these here years.  And 3-D printing and nanotechnology; plus, all that curvaceous android crap is the TECHNOLOGY of angels fallen, or gremlins within; regardless, Eisenhower and Jackie Gleason with Nixon know how to use it, resonating from a celestial grave, being reborn or not, but affecting.  "Junior, remind me to punch your mama in the mouth when I get home."
   So, Mutt's crazy Uncle wanted a Hairy Man pelt, but Bigfoot is a tricky bastard, and does he like bananas?  That's the real question--is he ape, or beyond?  Tarzan knows not, but he had the blade--steel, and the apes retreated.
   If only Iron Man drank plenty of his alcoholism and defeated Doctor Doom properly, once and for all, with a Four's Fantastic help, though the Human Torch is blonde and beautiful, as is his sister, and yes, gentleman prefer blondes, even watching Marilyn Monroe catch horses for dog food.
   But nothing compares to the innocent essence of adolescent cruel, like S. E. Hinton, knowing the minds of teenage boys, as she was a teenage girl, knowing Pony Boy doesn't pester pussy, but respects it, giving it dignity, and do I sound dirty, but filth is found in the paradox of placing grenades in holy places, if that holy place wants to behead and kill.  Pride is rebellion against God.  Who are you to be proud, when you forged not yourself into existence?  Therefore, be pleased with God, and follow the true Law, or your land is absolutely absent.
   Mutt saw a Bigfoot, but wearing a rabbit's foot around its neck, he couldn't crossbow it.  His Uncle went:  "Shit Mutt.  We could've bagged a Bigfoot buddy."
   Mutt didn't care.  Let live and let love.  

Guns n´Roses - 14 years (lyrics)

Ronald Regan tells UN that aliens are among us ufo united nations

Duran Duran hungry like the wolf with lyrics

Holy Thursday; plus, Random Francais

   
   "Holy Thursday; plus, Random Francais"
   
   Some say, some, that during the suffering in the Garden, as meditated upon during the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Holy Rosary, that the Angel, Arch-Angel, maybe Seraph (Chamuel) was with Christ, to bring the pinkish vibrations on a certain frequency, and to quench Him further into loving calmness; nevertheless, Christ did scold Saint Peter, as always, for falling asleep.  Only Saint John the Eagle, who listened to the Sacred Heartbeat, did truly love and fearlessly follow Christ and His Mother, in my opinion, near perfectly.

Some Random French:

trois = number three, like the Trinity.

quatre = number four, like the Virgin; furthermore, 1 + 3 = 4.

je = I.

tu = you in a familiar sense.

vous = you in a formal sense.

elle = she.

nous = us, we.

elles = them, they in a feminine sense.

le mien = mine, masculine.

la mienne = mine, feminine and singular.

ange = angel.

barde = bard.

Eucharistie = Eucharist.

hors de prix = exorbitantly expensive.

la Sainte Vierge = Blessed Virgin.

Saint-Esprit = Holy Spirit.

chien = dog.

chien de meute = hound.

loup = wolf.

zozo = nitwit.

Ou sont les toilettes = where is the toilet?  

Robert Palmer - Addicted to Love (Live in NYC - 1997)

Thoracic Animus (8)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (8)"
  
   Mutt adored his Eastern Orthodoxy; specifically, knowing the Hebrews had Passover, and that the angel of death would not take from a house stained with the blood of the lamb.  And for Mutt, he would visit his Uncle in Eastern Dakota, and they would celebrate the Paschal Lamb, eating tsoureki, a type of Easter bread, non-pagan, and prepare lamb with rosemary, sea salt, and pepper.
   Indeed, it was life.  Escape if admitted, and if you do not admit Him--not goods news. 
   And while he could stay and laugh with his Uncle all day and night, his mother's brother had even more sublime intentions as a Yankee Cooter.  Was like:  "Come on Mutt.  Let's get some 75 pound crossbows with laser sightings; next, we'll hunt Hairy Man; I always wanted to get me some Hairy Man."
   For some reason, it always went back to Bigfoot for Mutt, having watched the Six Million Dollar Man back in they day, knowing they came in inter-dimensional, disc-shaped craft.  Oh well, he got his depressed dog Buckwheat, said an Iroquois chant, blessed himself with the Trinity's purpose, and boarded his Uncle's Ford Ranchero with a factory hood induction and dual exhaust, in search of that sum bitch, Hairy Man.   

Black Pepper: $4.00 in Nashville--WTH

    
   "Black Pepper:  $4.00 in Nashville--WTH"
   
   I need my black pepper; thus, I went to the local grocery store in Nashville, and the garden-variety form is near $4.00 for just a few pinches.  So, I got the organic kind--a few cents extra.
  
Health Benefits:

Aids digestion, classified as a medicinal spice in certain regions, antibiotic and antibacterial properties; plus, contains manganese, iron, dietary fiber, vitamin C and K; moreover, has anti-inflammatory properties.

Metaphysical Benefits:

Absorbs negativity--bottom line.  And, when mixed with salt, you get some serious and sublime counterpoise.  

Tim McGraw

Thoracic Animus (7)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (7)"
   
   Mutt was inside the quasi-Tipi with Big Chief, a variety of Iroquois; specifically, a Mohawk, and the tobacco was burning--here we go:
  
CHIEF
Always find the woman.  The Mother.  She has greater intuition if aligned with the Dove.  She steps on the snake.  And a snake promises great reward, but strikes at the end.  You will know them by their fruits.  Don't grow for yourself but others, having the Source--a brave, sacred heart--fountain of life and holiness.

MUTT
People anger me in my family.  Forked tongues as my Grandfather mentioned during a Glenn Ford movie.  

CHIEF
Of course.  They attempt to box you in a cage, because they see you are brutally honest.  They want to thieve away that honesty, writing false fiction, inspiring chaos, but let them say what they say, for HE sees you alone, like a ladybug being the best monitor, or the spider in your secluded and lonely room.  Grandfather sees all and knows all.  There is nothing hidden from HIM.  Don't let them only speak or testify about you falsely, when they aggressively strike @ you with vicious venom, and like any man--you react with anxious fear.  That is what they want.  Remember, your Mother steps on the head of the sinister snake.  It has been written.  

MUTT
I will listen wise Chief, you being so wise to know that detesting the forked tongue and phony confidence in it--that is the true, lesser path of wisdom.  A verb.  A thing in relaxed yet defensive alignment.   

Let the good times roll-Cars (lyrics)

Boba Fett vs Luke Skywalker

Thoracic Animus (6)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (6)"
   
   Mutt knew, all those fostering his depressed dog had dyed red hair--FAKES!  They didn't carry the true blood, neither do most people; thus, their Wicca is wishes, and you can only wish on weird, or bet on black, or bid in blue, or SpongeBob in Orange, or gamble in green, or yellow snowman in yellow--you get it, maybe.
   And Mutt would position his wallet or other items, leaving the room, and seeing if they had been moved by these artificial red heads, and they had.
   But their control is like a fake alien invasion released.  An illusion of bologna intrusion, and the blue vests need to get smarter, or wiser, hating pride, arrogance, and false testimony.
   Mutt got his dog back, played some Poker with the holy hound.  Found the Fool Card, but there is no Western Dakota.  So, he went to the real red--Chief.  Beautiful, scorched before in truth and passion, not drinking the Kool-Aid, for his people were his people, and didn't belong to any man save the Great Spirit.  When he entered Chief's bungalow, he kept his Iroquois, but reserved his Orthodox Serb, not wanting to get ignited by vociferous voracity with another truth being hijacked hungry.   

Thoracic Animus (5)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (5)"
   
Mutt reflected upon Winchester the 3rd,
That thoracic surgeon thinking meatball surgery did disturb,
Yet worse than someone saying it's not your house,
And a razor wristways, thinking you're homeless--blame their demon; specifically, their spouse;
Alas, things could have union for Mutt,
Knowing Christ said they will hate you because of Him, like of Han Solo did Jabba the Hutt;
Moreover, once union arriveth, and a duplicate you become of David's metaphorical son;
Next, everlasting from everlasting, like Roy Rogers' reruns and his six-gun.
But Mutt only carried his little, depressed dog,
Offering comfort and solace while uplifts their nostrils like a snob,
Thinking their shit doesn't stink because of a white shirt,
When it only covers the coal of a black heart, filthy as diabolical dirt;
As a result, Mutt felt no guilt for persevering due to a Messiah,
Glad he lived in Dakota and not Carolina.

Dodgers play Cubs--TONIGHT

   
   "Dodgers play Cubs--TONIGHT"
   
   Tonight, the Chicago Cubs will raise their Wold Series Champion Banner; moreover, my favorite team, the LA Dodgers will be there, giving plenty of LIVE-ACTION.
   And watching baseball on television is not boring, unless you're a boring person--in my opinion, but yes, you cannot smell them cooking Dodger Dogs out in actual California, but the essence and spirit of it can be brought into your imagination, even if you boil a turkey dog; next, lather up a bun with some spicy mustard and add a kosher dill spear, followed by pouring yourself an ice cold Bud.  So, TONIGHT--Dodgers face the Cubs!

Dodgers Record:  

W:  4  L:  3

Cubs Record: 

W:  4  L:  2  

Star Wars - Opening Scene

Columbo - Intro (1975)

Thoracic Animus (4)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (4)"
   
   Mutt's cross breed of Serb and Iroquois ignited an intuition nearly feminine, and he heard the thunderous crank of metal clanging outside his modest habitat; next, a walk in the park--hearing their footsteps outside his door.  He kept on guard as instructed by Moses' literary endeavors, which he received no money for.
   It was always something.  Like--peaks and valleys.  As we mourn in this valley of tears.  But gravity is at a loss when intention is a misunderstood State of Grace.
   Mutt wouldn't let circumstance walk over him.  Burn Joan; next, Mark Twain gives her a Phoenix.
   Can they hold the Patriots down?  
   Mutt found nothing but more canine suspicion, yet they missed his sense of loyalty and friendship.  

Thoracic Animus (3)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (3)"
   
   Mutt's sacred heart was not related to the snowman, but like Saint John the Eagle at the Last Supper, putting his ear over Christ's left breast, listening to the pulse of pure Divinity, knowing--there is a time for peace; on the flip side, there is a time for war.
   That poor boy with autism, OCD & tics, social phobia, digestive disorders, constant ringing in the ears, and they call him Rain Man, make fun of his lesions, say the boogeyman is under his bed, yet they are the boogeyman, rattling his cage for decades, thieving away his confidence in Christ, his belief that Jesus loves him; furthermore, imprisoning him, and we are called to visit those in prisons, not just the criminals, even taken down from Calvary by Orthodox Jews, but those living in the pits of their own personal Pandemonium, false testimony offered upon them--these Godly losers loading them down with opprobrium, when they have been abused by culture, pure culture, and they snap; next, you call them guilty, when you are wearing the adder's mask, hiding a forked-tongue beneath, but as Daniel means:  "God is my judge," knowing every aspect of inner thought, for nothing is hidden from God, not even a man praying in private, or playing with his private parts concerning the girl at the grocery store, which is still negative adultery, yet the true Law has been dismissed, and Jesus picks it up from Moses, saying to spread it like healthy bacteria.
   They tried to keep G. Gordon Liddy down.  Jimmy Carter fought back.  The media is propaganda, yet even the modern king knows there are spies hidden in his scepter, nanotechnological spiders weaving wicked webs, and your best friend is your worst enemy, like a mean girl, for you look better than her, and all women crave beauty, as do men envy it, that's why fat porn is rarely observed as Socrates empirically witnessed before drinking the Kool-Aid, and still running wisely at the mouth, for an unmasking intention of those that deal in death.
   Mutt had a bloody poop, and buried it under the rocks.   

Big Trouble in Little China Pork chop express

Thoracic Animus (2)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (2)"
   
   Mutt was worried about the real carnal crimes, and knew no drones or satellite imagery could find that girl from Tennessee, for Deputy Dawg has been dogged, picking on the little guy suffering from high anxiety and phobias bizarre, while a possible white molester rolls free in America, 
   He didn't know if it was the non-monkey bloods being hunted, but there is truth in ALL, and of course we know of MKUltra and such, and that it was Russia who defeated the Germans, losing near 30 million, but everyone is prone to drink Kool-Aid at times.
   Mutt put an ice pack on his skinny buttocks, his gimp-like disfigurement not bothering his internal Popeye the Sailor Man, for he ate spinach for iron, and pooped painfully, though always buried it with rocks, as if telepathically picking up all the negative energy from others' pubic hairs on government-placed commodes.  There is no such thing as an inviolate commode, for another man or woman having sex with his last wife could not compare to someone evacuating their toxicity through the labia of his toilet bowl, penetrating, in his allowed, singular mind, a Lincoln Log of angry food being eaten, as obese people swallow plenty of aggression.  And Mutt was no violent criminal, nor partied, but just watched the Catholic and Science Channels, wanting to know more about Hairy Man, and those old timers hunting him up in the Northwest.  Heck, as long as not violent or insidious in attempts to neglect or take away, or steal freedom--what's wrong with being a rare breed, after all--his name was Mutt, half Serb and half of the Iroquois Nation.
   So, Mutt removed the ice pack, put some psoriasis cream into his anal cavity, and pooped out a pink fountain of cotton candy produced by Pepto-Bismol, spinach, and some squash here and there, mixed with canned chicken.  Then, he invoked Saint Joan of Arc to carry on, doing his Earthly duties, even if it meant his own death, such as taking care of an overly-depressed dog dubbed Buckwheat.  

Definition of NEGLECT

   
   "Definition of NEGLECT"
   
   You think certain people would know these words, holding me accountable, a soul without a mask, brutally honest--even about my time with the watermelon, though at least I don't look at teenage girls naked, like my brother does in those magazines, and God knows where else.
   And to think he says it's not my house, yet it's not his house, and I live here, yet he says he'll throw me out when it's not his house, trusting a two day a week thug, long red dreadlocks, unable to articulate modern vocabulary properly, and should take a bath or roll on some deodorant under her pits before entering someone's house, and they call them hand towels because they're for the hands, not used to wipe your face on.  I told him--if your biggest dilemma is whether to get a Tesla or a Mercedes, and you settled for a BMW--you know, that car could have got Mom a nice, clean, actual nurse--you monkey-blooded cottage cheese eater.  I guess that's for all the times he's physically attacked me before I finally kicked his ass.  And now the truth of NEGLECT, and who is genuinely guilty.  Mom and me took care of his kids every day for years, and since she fell ill, his entire family has teleported to the beach, Europe, more time at the beach, and maybe a half hour every three weeks at best, armed with a McDonald's milkshake--that's NEGLECT.

NEGLECT:  TO PAY LITTLE ATTENTION TO; DISREGARD.  TO BE REMISS IN THE CARE OF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

   But hell, he doesn't care, not even when I begged him to plead with my step-dad to get a colonoscopy, which I ultimately convinced him of myself, and felt guilty for it.  Oh well, some people give false testimony, and others wear no masks.  Enjoy the ladies during all that travel time old bucko, but who would look at him, maybe over him . . .  I think I'll take a bloody bowel evacuation now, being neglected myself, and fighting for my own life alongside my mother.   

Thoracic Animus (1)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (1)"
   
   Mutt didn't mind that his sister said his sophisticated shrink was piling on the bullshit, for he needed fiction to survive, as she stupidly surmised, not knowing, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics can be a blessing, evading the Soylent Green of contagious contamination, and understanding the allegorical inheritance of PLANET OF THE APES, Heston screaming:  "Get your hands off of me--you damn, filthy ape."  The positive blood of 85%, in approximate fashion being total monkey, unless gelled with Christ's non-metaphorical blood, to be risen on the last day--if I'm not in you; next, you are not in Me, and apart from Me--you can do nothing.
   Mutt resisted the bullying by being vociferous and unmasking, taking it to the underground, being his own Dick of Privacy, and knew that his brother's wife's child was not conceived on Valentine's Day, for that would make her baby due November 13th in surgical fashion--that's a Valentine's Day baby, and if you were absent; then, not your child.  His brother's wife, when also visiting, proved what she was, attempting to orally please him, yet his OCD shrank a mushroom with vivid imagery, for she was a foul-mouthed skank, and Kentucky Fried Chicken U is not Yale, but get the credit card, and make the payments, as the system, run by a shadow government inspires selection through a non-Darwinian process, though preaches it, and we drink the Kool-Aid, too afraid of our First Amendment Right to not offer clear and present danger, fighting words, but it's always ambiguous for Mutt, disregarding his brother's six foot nine, as Mutt's scrawny crazy would knock his dick off, grabbing the scrotum till the urethra exploded a non-seminal discharge of death, but not the Dim Mak--no, not at this time.
   Mutt fancied his physician, and hoped for healing, but washing was keen in Leviticus, and only the Levites could touch Mary (Ark of the Covenant) with prayer, as others had an Oedipus Complex, and Mutt would fight any man, but understood his limitations, having undergone neurological damage from an ambush as the older sibling smacked him uncanny after the BAR Exam, yet insists he's legit, as being a liar is the first agenda taught by crummy law schools not up Northeastern.   
   So, Mutt just kept to himself, while Facebook is the World's Spygame, and denounced social culture for throwing knives, and a glass jaw, but the iron fist, even though his frying pan was coated in copper, though better to channel the crystals, raising a frequency to know the higher vibrations that make the blonde angels arrive.  Hey, it's America, or used to be--a free country, unless you assault a man taking care of his mother, when the rest make a grand exodus, sickened by her sickness.  

More Hemorrhoids

   
   "More Hemorrhoids"
   
   Why don't lawyers, not attorneys, get hemorrhoids?  Because they're perfect assholes.  Especially at a Bush League School, taught to lie and trick, when Jesus is truly Big Brother, knowing All, and seeing All--that is why He commanded to pray behind locked doors and closed windows, not being a hypocrite, praising falsely to be seen.
   My pseudo-brother, not a true family member, as he does not pursue the will of God, raising his kids atheistic, believing in the FDA, which almost killed me @ 28, if a physician wouldn't have signed off on an experimental medicine.  
   Anyway, my pseudo-brother, hating Joseph the Dreamer, said I will be kicked out of the house, when I'm disabled, and my step-dad, investigated by the ATF years ago, running guns out of the house, making my Haldol and Xanax-induced mother go to a notary, wobbling her in to sign his fortune--check into it.  
   So, my pseudo-brother takes a snot rag from his pocket, always having a cold, and attempts to wipe my Lewy Body Mom's nose, when pneumonia is their leading cause of death, mostly due to nurse neglect from not brushing, and I tell him to stop; next, he tells me to shut up loudly, and I tell him I'll kick his ass--very loudly, for he has attacked me numerous times, even as a child, though asks for my pain pills, and seduced me into giving up one for his young tail porn elation, and his wife said I looked like the devil with a mustache, so I say she has a cottage cheese ass, and my niece is a snowflake, marching against Trump, drinking the Kool-Aid, and never sees her grandma who took care of her; plus, my youngest nephew, who I personally, along with my mother took care of for years, picking him up everyday from school, but since my Mom and me are disabled--he never visits his grandma, due to his father detesting Christ, saying it's all bullshit, and nobody believes in angels, when there are one billion Catholics; plus, more religious people.  They hunt the negative blood, and I have four nipples; moreover, have laid on my deathbed, and they still continue to attack, but I will rebuke them, feeding, brushing, showering, medicating, talking to, loving, praying for, and sincerely adoring my mother, and they do absolutely nothing.  Good day ladies and germs.  
   They are coming over Friday.  If my Mom gets a cold or pneumonia--it is due to them intentionally smothering her with germs.  

Calamitous Cruel

   
   "Calamitous Cruel"
   
First, I tell my brother that Mom has fallen five years ago,
And he laughs, no surprise, since when my Dad died, he said:  "I'm relieved, for I have ego."
Next, thugs come over, torture Mom's hallucinations from Lewy Body with vile t.v.--
Her sitting and crying, while they read books on Lucifer in front of her and me;
Moreover, the thug attempts to poison my therapy dog with a peach pit,
And almost crushes the hound with a therapy chair, my Mom having a fit.
More stuff too, reserved for the day;
Alas, a new pseudo-caretaker, with a big lazy ass--buttocks decay!
Sleeps half her shift, snoring with sass,
Having no idea about genuine class--
On her cell phone loudly while getting paid by the days, 
And controlling the television's ways.
Yet when I go out of the room she turns down the t.v. rudely
To cruelly talk on her cell phone, more obnoxiously,
Yet I ask her to stop jacking up her cell phone, that rings:  "Motherfucker!"
She bitches me out; then, is consoled by a text from my sister-in-law's undercover,
While Mom and me are fighting for our lives--
And more come over that don't jive.
Just yesterday, I politely asked the new lady to take her private phone calls outside in the sunny day--
While I feed my Mom, and we watch the Dick Van Dyke show and pray.
She jumps in my face, her red dreadlocks like the devil,
Making me want to be a rebel,
For uncouth and thuggish behavior
Is inappropriate, and it doesn't favor
The sick and maligned,
And my step-dad hides away for years, out of design--
Not once feeding my Mom, knocking her out of bed, 
And I find her on the floor with a bump and blood on her head.
Like that one lady who dropped her in the shower,
Being more than a trumpet--blaring on her cell phone louder
While getting paid to hound her,
And nobody takes my mother out save me,
Or visits regularly,
And when they do it's a mix of whiskey and guns,
Armed with loud mouths and obnoxious fun,
Almost driving her to suicide when she was younger,
And torturing my childish mute, rocking me with shaking thunder.
Plus, step-dad drinks all of my medication,
And my brother asks for pills in the past for his buzzed elation.
Telling me they'll throw me out of the house,
And sister-in-law smiling, saying to put Mom away over a year ago, trapping her like a mouse.
Do they just want to shoot her in the head?
Are they mad that she's not dead?
Talk to her, play nice television, and use soothing aromatherapy--
Not dismissing her suffering by imprisoning her unearthly anxiety.
Further having taken her to a notary
On Haldol and Xanax combined,
Years ago, making her sign.
It's all sick, happening under a physician's  murderous prescription,
And a misdiagnosis without the Good Lord's permission.
Then, my brother tries to get her on another anti-psychotic to supposedly ease,
Which further kills people with dementia-related disease;
Moreover, she had breast cancer and it brings that back with a tease.
Nobody has bought her clothes in over two years,
And she sits in rags while they all disappear,
But I've spent over 4,000 dollars on her, making only a few hundred each month,
And big brother gives step-dad 10,000 dollars to further put on the crunch,
But when you have college girl porn in your house,
I guess that's the way of a loving spouse,
And my gut is killing me as is the insomnia and multiple sleep disorders;
Plus, the panic of contamination from crossing into public borders.
They laugh at me for washing off my canned foods, because that's all I can afford,
While buying Mom vitamins and fruit and ice cream, yet in my colon they stick the sword,
Neglecting both her and me,
Oh well, they too will get sick one day; then, we'll see.
They just lick their chops, wanting her further neglected in a nursing home,
When they have millions of their miser-like own.  
But I love you Mom--
You've never been more beautiful as I wake you in the morning Sun,
And do everything for you all day, 
It not bringing me dismay,
For to tuck you in at night, kneeling and saying your prayers for you,
Makes me a stronger man, and never more have I adored you,
Knowing they'll make me put on your little shoes,
Taking you to a neglecting home ,so far away,
Hurting you in an isolating way,
While they crack open the champagne,
Enjoying your and my pain--
It's Occam's Razor--
Points their calamitous behavior.