Jamming Aunt Mitzy

Blood money?

Angry people (Michael Clayton VS Karen Crowder)

A Squirrel Girl

   
   "A Squirrel Girl"

   Squirrel Girl, or so hence she took the name, not by marriage mind ya, yet through a type of spiritual adoption.  A fiction-grown character gelled into her mind, armed with a bushy tail, can crack nuts, and has a sense of tree bark, though never inhales the sap of the situation.
   She had no weapons save some jars of gasoline sprinkled with Frosted Flakes, the fumes cleansing the air, better than a purifier, it actually scalding the toxicity out, like a heated copper wire, channeling dire circumstances, in knowing that your relative has a mad crush on your daughter.  What, you don't think that kind of stuff happens?
   Squirrel girl, no--let's call her Blake, well--she knew bologna was phony, and that the system was rigged, but the allegory of Captain America out of the ice, having chilled it past tense--he liked the super-symmetry of circles, and yet nobody thought he had super-powers.
   He didn't even go to West Point and his uniform is red, white, and blue.  How can't you admire that guy?  Blake drew his name on her tennis shoes with a SHARPIE; next, fell into a dream-state, lucid enough to let her know she was beyond the heck of being overly social.  Anti-Social?  No, overly-social is much worse.  More instances of crime and rebellion against the Flag, Old Glory.  

Old man, ponytail--illegal firearms; possible child molester

   
   "Old man, ponytail--illegal firearms; possible child molester"
  
   They saw him limping around from inside the tavern.  I gave management his name and occupation.  Wrote his name on my sidewalk, maybe his initials are:  SB.  Maybe they're not.
   Still--maybe.  Possibly.
   Stalking, with guns, pot, and a halfway curved genital-fueled arousal, well--let's look at the porn on his computer, as well as that of those who paid him.  They gave him the loot.  Toucan Sam knows--if ya are picking up what I'm putting down.
   Wish law enforcement would run PTSD people through not phony checks, bu damn make sure that creeps like that don't get themselves killed for being, metaphorically, possessed by coal-colored intent to dig their own graves.
   If only business wasn't so casual, the Packers were back in the Ice Bowl, and scrambling Fran was at the helm, ready to jam out of the pocket.  Purple People Eaters at his back.  

American Cantina--Father Malachi Martin

   
   "American Cantina--Father Malachi Martin"
   
   In her 20's, Jules' father told her that her step-mother, who worked at a gun store, hanging out with snipers and government guys, was going to have one of those guys scare her--solid as gold is the bizarre truth--even stranger than fiction.
   Her step-mother would come back from the gun store smelling of Evan Williams; plus, the grape speaks the truth, telling of her co-workers using illegal narcotics while in a gun store.
   Jules never said a word.  She supported the 2nd Amendment.  It could kill her, or protect her, depending on the soul armed with the projectile weapon.
   She recalled Father Malachi Martin--America's leading Catholic exorcist; plus, a great American author, in a sense.  He wrote a book on the iniquity of step-parents; at the same time, most clinical psychologists know this is axiomatic as well.
   Too, the rivalry, even in cruel sinister fashion, of siblings.  And yet some siblings don't want to compete.  They don't want due to God being their shepherd.  Preparing a feast for her in front of her enemies.  She felt no guilt.  Pointed to a crucified Yahshuah.  Also, a transfigured Yahshuah--from everlasting to everlasting.  

American Cantina--their texts, emails, and contacts

   
   "American Cantina--their texts, emails, and contacts"
   
   Jules knew she was clean.  Not a Saint, nor a martyr.  A mere simplistic confessor--only of truth, and the American Way.
   If they looked, saw where cash, credit, and the contacts were coming from--and they have; however, competing factions; still, as Sir Charles Barkley of the Phoenix Suns admitted, a great philosopher, in a sense:  "Nobody is ever always gonna be with you.  50% will like you; 50% will not like you."  Nobody is in the clear; at the same time, the Hebrew Calendar proclaims this year:  "The King is in the field."  And He pulls the weeds, making the crop clear and clean.  
   Maybe your android is spying on you.  Maybe your android seeks truth and justice; moreover, has compassion, and hates evil, especially if it involves throwing a sick person away, and not choosing life.
   Jules had nothing to hide.  Their withdrawals, from banks, credit unions, stocks, bonds, things sold, or however; plus, their recorded history by way of phone, email, text, script, and the history of cereal, like Fruit Loops, with numbers, if you trust the Toucan.
   Who are they talking to, or getting people to talk to for them?  Who do they break bread with, or have?  And who do those people congregate with?  Their circles, and the circles of the other tribes that they are in league with?  Doesn't take a genius.  
   Jules' history on them was buried, as was what she knew, having gone through their phone, she did, and their computer, and followed them to places, as if a good ghost.
   Yet Jules knew more.  God is real.  And there is either hell to pay, or a perfect paradise, however you like, being tame, domesticated, and yet you'll be able to fly--like an eagle.
   "Praise God."  Yes, King David said to do this; next, He allows you to soar like an eagle.  But if the mad scientist has taken you away from God, just listen to all the history of His super-mundane reality and TRUE existence.  
   Jules, for her, it was:  God; next, Country.  Red, White, and sanitizing Blue.  

American Cantina--Bounty Hunter Money

   
   "American Cantina--Bounty Hunter Money"
   
   They asked for this, thought Jules.  Now, the hunter was on them, as they had misplaced the loot with traceable numbers, like cereal.  A striking fist--them offensive.  They're into forgery.  Dementia.  Followed by anger at losing your mind.  Or Effexor, Lexapro, Xanax, and Dago Red--all in a single hour, more or less--from Sun up till Sun down.
   Their seeds jacked up on psychiatric cocktails.  Them as well.  The documentation of legal documents in the systems.  The winks.  Handshakes.  Abusing legal power.
   Jules, she was severely shy.  Guys gawked at her.  She saw the lust in their orbs of iniquity.
   She had a shrink--a decade.  Not some phony who raped her 5th Amendment.  Too, a little illegal search and seizure, due to forgery, words of others, them--jacked up on psychiatric medication, alcoholics, as are their seeds and co-workers.
   New revelation by Harvard University, a real school:  52% of Emergency Room physicians and nurses are under the influence of drugs and alcohol.  Getting paid to do so.
   Yet a family member is not allowed payment to nurture an ill relative.  And no soul, usually, will care for a relative more than a child, honoring their parents, as Moses did give instruction.

On Angelic Wings--sailors and parrots

  
   "On Angelic Wings--sailors and parrots"
   
   Pueblo empirically knew how lonely a ship on the high seas can be.  Just an enlisted man, yet Chiefs run the Navy.  His old man wanted to be a pilot.  The wild blue yonder and all; however, Pueblo dreamed of open waters; moreover, the freedom of knots, and how to splice a lime, keeping that scurvy away with fresh Vitamin C.
   Yet sailors become lonely, or develop romance with mermaids in the theater of their minds, that quantum pull of belief and effect, reserved for children of God, though Free Will kidnaps many away from Divine Purpose.
   So, never alone--Pueblo found the archaic parrot.  Never an eagle, yet so related, and feathers never ruffled, hanging out on a mammal's shoulder--a repeating sidekick, reminding the Cracker Jack white hat of a rear-view mirror's documentation, and that all actions are documented.
   Now, all CPO Pueblo needed was a grappling hook; plus, a double-barrel, though never a salty dog.  

Mom's birthday party

Francis and Mom--reunited

   
   "Francis and Mom--reunited"
  
   11 years ago, when I moved back to Tennessee, Mom had never laid down ground rules, for they were dictated by others; moreover, she said Francis would go to Catholic school, walking there every morning with a bag of lunch under his arm--it never happened, yet we took care of the others' children for years, everyday, picking them up at school, feeding them and other nice things.
   Away from Mom for two days was a melancholy groove.  I have only OCD; thus, count everything and keep notes.  She wasn't fed, brushed, groomed, and so on.  I looked through all the trash, and went to the dump the morning I returned, saving my family more expenses.
   Was told I can't take Mom for rides--no gas.  Have to beg to get her zinc and food.  Francis has lived in squalor himself for years.  Desire to get him involved in a baseball league or something, teach him the Ten Commandments, and instruct him to read comic books or Tom Sawyer.
   So I fed and medicated Mom as soon as I returned.  They had her laying on her back, flat, looking up at the ceiling, which is a plotting way to give pneumonia.  Too, her bed sore was flared, them not having medicated it, changed her clothes, and so on.  I mixed zinc with antibiotic balm, putting myrrh and turmeric powder in it.  Overnight the redness ceased.  They did not give her the laxative as I mentioned, and I document all her actions--and am the only one who talks to her like she's a great person, never giving pity, yet hope.  
   I've had my 5th Amendment stolen, my Freedom of Religion, and all the rest.  All that should occur is peace, yet now their fear again threatens me.  Let me love my Mom, guide my son to be a mere welder or something, teach him the Pledge of Allegiance, and enjoy the sunny days and walks in the park.  Mom is happy to see Francis.  She told me yesterday, after I asked her if she was glad he was here:  "Yup."  A single cognizant word from her makes me smile all day.  She is a true trooper, in sublime fashion.  

Werefox Vaquero--contract killers

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--contract killers"
   
   Samuel Mars lived in Tennessee.  He was just a dude; next, they asked for it.  Poisoning wasn't enough; then, there was the contract killers put on him.  Possible police involvement--make it look like an arrest and the dude dies in police custody, or they say he was acting up and kill him, or lock him up and kill him.  Or a hokey accident.  Or even by ambulance.  Or a long distance shot from the associates of relatives. 
   Samuel Mars just wanted them to know.  How's that--in America?  
   He went to the market and purchased some Sprite.  He used the contract money he found.  So, if they did get him, well--the killers wouldn't get paid.  He had the money; specifically, buried it, along with all the names, telephone numbers, and so on.  He knew, the white hats would find it if something happened; otherwise, he wouldn't unearth it, rather their actions would axiomatically lead to the truth being unearthed.  
   The day was bright.  He thought about their time in the pits of Pandemonium if they did not stay away.  Oh well, at least baseball season is arriving.  Dodgers will be good this year.  

Werefox Vaquero--Bubba Cheese--repurchase

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Bubba Cheese--repurchase"
   
   Phil Diamond had scooted the super-charged 6-cylinder Buick to Oregon, transcending his original outline.  Heck, he never used an outline--needed not a blueprint for existence; however, he enjoyed his Bill of Rights.  5th Amendment, ability to be silent.  Of course, Freedom of Religion, yet unlike a church leader, Phil Diamond didn't steal your money, it could be argued against them at times; still, he was a vacuum when it came to Gin Rummy.  Phil Diamond had his 1st Amendment stepped on, law enforcement put vocabulary, illegally, upon his 5th; moreover, illegal search and seizure--it went on and on.  He ultimately realized when his contentious step-father took out a contract on him, fueled by an officer of the court and phony finances.  What, people don't want to destroy the lives of others?  It's all a movie?  Tell that to murdered myriads living in silence.
   On the rocky shore, waves brought in by a waxing Moon, crashing, yet symmetrically, in an artistic sense, upon the pebbled beach, and Phil Diamond, on the run, witnessing an Orca angelically expose its behemoth shine upon Terra's shore, the two mammals eye to eye, as if a reflection of sleek purpose and awesome might, forged by the life of flowing water.  The Orca smiled and kissed him, going back into its kingdom.  Phil cranked up a cherry cigar, knowing God has a sense of humor, showing him like this, not a crude nasty God, unless you are out to damage decency.
   Phil Diamond knew the Jew always says to the Christian, as if salvation was born with the chosen:  "Make sure your sister washes her hands before making a visit."
   Phil Diamond smiled skywards, knowing he was only guilty of having a tame imagination, knowing those in pernicious pursuit constantly crave strange, in the flesh, as if having no innate treasure, or so they discarded their internal purpose.
   Phil Diamond got back in the Buick.  Motored off to a surf shop.  He would gel with the locals.  The West seemed pretty free.  Pretty American Free.  

Werefox Vaquero--cotton candy with teeth, mind ya

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--cotton candy with teeth, mind ya"
  
   Sausage Man was like:  "You shouldn't drink while taking your medication."
   Farmer Fred, the noodle-ishish tribesman related to Marco Polo's Uncle retorted:  "You so bright dat ur mama dubbed ya sun, feller."
   All in all--it was another quintessential moment for high comedy at the local tavern, where the pastor would sit in the corner; however, not having Shane's mindset, yet mentally groping women, curious as to the color of their underwear, and if it was fabricated from cotton, silk, or even boxer shorts, hoping to seduce them into visiting his homemade tabernacle and get a closer gander at them goodies.  His idol was Boss Hog--them damn Dukes, so knew:  Rosco Purvis Coltrane.  
   Max heard it all, and Junkyard kept wagging.  Like cotton candy with teeth, yet he had no stick up his buttocks, unlike the pretentious pie-holes unable to eat kosher, for they're allergic to the super-induced reality of being a halfway decent human being, and his physician tells him he's allergic to peanuts so that the Doctor named Pepper can thieve away his stash of M & M's.
   Max put his beer glass on the ground, and Junkyard got more than mere backwash.  After a quick lick till guzzle, the poodle let out an obnoxious belch; next, laughed with some slobber to follow, rolled around on the floor, and followed the show with a yellow urination.
   Farmer Fred came over to scold the twosome, voicing:  "Dat sum bitch dog just pissed on de floor, boy!"
   Max looked up, and not being condescending, nor supercilious, explained:  "Sir--the dog, save me--is the only one in here with any class.  Now go say bye bye, and get some cream for your wife's non-yummy yeast infection."
   Farmer Fred with:  "Gonna tell the pastor, boy."
   Max grinned:  "The pervert with a pint of extra-creamy mayonnaise perpetually painted inside his pants?  Well, I'd go to hell like you want me to, but they kicked me out for selling ice cream--see ya."
   Max got up, and Junkyard followed him outta there, yet not before releasing his anal glands, and blowing sour wind in the direction of an assortment of delinquent douchebags.

Dances with Wolves (1990) - Two Socks Scene

Werefox Vaquero--on four paws

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--on four paws"
   
  The stars spangled in the Heavens, gifting even the night an eternal sparkle of light, and the desert floor was cool and shaking off the dry heat.  Ela as the kit fox, ears hearing beyond normality, and a sniffer designed to smell and sense the danger.  Yet Ela just pranced and played, a true fox, never condemning herself, leaving that for the guilty, and they ultimately view their reflection, ashamed--at the end.  Ela didn't see them, so they could not see her.
   She was just a kit fox at times.  Eager to be free and simple.  A gift given by life itself, and a divine justice system taking offense at any soul who thwarts life.  For every child that falls--God is offended.
  Ela found another female kit fox.  A sister of sorts.  They jumped at one another, biting playfully, only with grips of love.  Licking and smelling, the similar nature of their grace, and praise to the Heavens for having another day.  
   The envy of hunters cause their own grief.  The falsehoods spoken to reduce numbers.  To plant wicked seeds of guilt, yet they are the ones who harbor it, despising themselves; thus, labeling others, for they blame the Creator for themselves, not knowing, and they never will, unless . . .
   Ela and her sisterly fox friend laid down on the cool, dusty Earth.  Ears high, and eyes always gauged towards the sublimity of existence.  It was casual.  Nice.  Never utopia.  Yet, a walk in the park, and a thanks for the chance at life, knowing Space Rangers guard the innocent, in an allegorical sense.  For this planet has never been without guardians.  And if a simple kit fox knows, we too can learn from such simplistic dogs, loving to play, and loving to dance on paw pads armed with spirited spring, propelling us towards magnanimous dreams.  

Werefox Vaquero--Bubba Cheese, Resurrection

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Bubba Cheese, Resurrection"
   
   Phil Diamond wasn't your garden-variety bling, and if in the vegetation family; indeed, an organic vegetation god, like Sir Gawain mystically mixing up a personal Jesus quest, kinda, with a Green Knight, not personally pursuing the Grail, yet minerals, possibly that held the Eternal Life, allegorically--I don't want to argue this--out of my league; still, Phil Diamond had half a nose piercing, to camouflage his sudden forty-year old growth of nose hair--hey, it happens to the best of us.  Don't hide them from your wife--she knows about your nose hair.  Burt Reynolds mentions pulling them out with a two finger grip--what, you think I'm making this up?
   Phil Diamonds was introspective--to the core, baby--like the savory uniqueness of secret sauce on the Big Mac, though maybe we'll never know.  Phil Diamond knew:  the soul who patriotically probes the culinary mystery of Big Mac secret sauce, though not resisting liberal or conservative media, yet going to the arcane underground, finding the truth of dirt, and Jesus' spit, so simple, so is the super-symmetry of the Planet we have been given, as he made mud with his fluidic nature, reminding of the seas, and having preached from the living water, in a sense, knowing Earth, Sea, and Heaven; plus, full of True Spirit, and thus Phil Diamond just wanted to cover the sports for a local newspaper--have a day-to-day job and a beer at the tavern on his exit; however, the scrolls of print media have faded, yet he knew--mystics will battle androids, or he couldn't get enough upgrades, forgetting how to be a cowboy.  Oh well, an Arizona escape to very many sincerely close gambling atmospheres offered him a purpose of possible promise--but what kind of phony promise is that?  He got in the Buick, super-charged six cylinder with 3-speed auto, electric windows, a pack of organic cigarettes, no fillers or fiber glass included; next, smoked his tires till higher possibilities--at least there was that.  And remember--he drove a Buick, Bucko.  Wondering if an American Car Company will ever forge a Phoenix.  It kind of all goes well with Easter.  We even got a bunny in there.  Eggs too.  His Uncle bought him golf clubs every year for the holiday.  Pleasant times.  Good reflection.  Bubba Cheese was back--in a way; specifically, in a crazy American gumshoe way.   

Werefox Vaquero--Parrot Man & Saint Patrick

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Parrot Man & Saint Patrick"
   
   Parrot man, call letters unknown--live Arizona--the Bird, baby!  Always opens with:  "Live Arizona--Parrot Man; moreover, ladies' man!  I'll give you the talk, 'bout what this bird picked up while flying through the skies."
   Today, Parrot Man speaketh:  "Have you people looked up?  Looked down?  Grounded to the fertile Earth; at the same time, blue skies above, and just take a gander, automobiles do drive the blue skies, getting lost in clouds, and the kit fox walks the terrain, and a rainbow connects it all--if you believe in the promise."
   Max and Junkyard were getting a giggle, listening intently, and waiting for Ela to have rounded up the ponies.  She sauntered out of the cattle yard, that chipped tooth grin, shining an eternal ray of fidelity.  Fine features for a young lady.  So some guys think.  
   She smooched Max on the top lip, wrinkled her nose.  He voiced:  "It's Saint Patrick's Day.  Doesn't that say it all?"
   Ela grinned, knowing she had gelled with a pretty decent guy.  Pretty decent indeed.  
      

Turbo Mustang Night Cruise

Werefox Vaquero--sunny side up

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--sunny side up"
   
   Max got some steaming grub in the morning at the local eatery.  Let it cool off, and always made sure to never order scrambled eggs when dining out.  Heck, scrambled eggs can be dropped on the floor, scooped up; next, put back on the plate for toxic consumption.  What, all people are clean and friendly?  If they say that; then, they're full of Bravo Sierra.
   Max put a little spicy mustard on his sunny side up eggs, easily being able to detect if they'd been fooled with.  He observed the golden flow of a yoke, running towards delicious, dipped a piece of crispy toast in the chicken eggs, and it was all THANKS BE TO GOD before the sustenance entered his Temple, but for him--it was a wrangling rodeo.
   Junkyard sitting next to him in the place of business, ownership used to the cool canine now, knowing:  most dogs go to Heaven.  If you aren't fond of magnanimous poodles, altruistic golden retrievers, or even a noble mutt, well--it seemed to Max that the Good Lord may not have a room for you in the Mansion of Almighty God.
   Max flipped Junkyard a piece of toast lathered in the gleaming yoke.  Junkyard gobbled it up--no hesitation; next, licked his chops, smiled, and gave a bodacious burp--so golden.  

Werefox Vaquero--Beetle Bozo

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Beetle Bozo"

   Ela didn't mind Jiminy Cricket and all, a good bounce, yet lacking the pounce--who fears cats now?  And no, she wasn't into pussy; at the same time, didn't condemn an innocent lesbo, for that would not be proper.  Maybe she was having a crummy day because she got her buttocks slapped and gawked at by the strange assortment of so-called ethical men, some of which like to play with little boys--kinda creepy, nah.  Ela stepped on a stick bug, and she felt better about things.
    A medicine man once spoke about porno with her--naughty naughty.  She knew what was on his mind, yup.  Dirty things.  A humpathon--not with her, sicko.  Still, you have the vibrations of a dolphin song; moreover, the cage shaking of Heston's confusion over horseback scenery; plus, the fear induced by stupidity, not owning God or the gods, or any angel or fish person, or lizard man, or truck-driver with a cigar-cranking fixation--they are not to be monitored nastily.  God owns you, Bubba.  Even a holy vine knows and reveres the pure energy which doth maketh it sprout forth--plant kingdom wars.
   Ela whispered sweet things to the church bells, returning a hopeful hearken.  And a father she gave a damn about sparkled, for a mere second, making her smile all day and night, not even sleep, knowing Pa-Pa adored her originality, not to be worn by anyone else--or there inside her frigid Temple, losing their meaningless microbes. 
  She shifted foxways, feigned a limp; next, some little boy threw a half-eaten honey-bun in her direction.  She rather enjoyed it.  Yummy.  

0-100 BUICK LESABRE SUPERCHARGED 0-60

Frequency: Purple Passion--Mexico Petersen

  
   "Frequency:  Purple Passion--Mexico Petersen"
   
   Petersen adored the Purple Passion, spilling it on a sofa in the mid-80's.  My last Blog stunk, metaphorically.  Can't find an adjective thingamajig for ARITHMETIC--still, nope.
   If only a Boss 302, any year--were to materialize.  Holy Heaven, wouldn't even need anything but an automatic.  Rednecks used to tell me, in the day:  "Shit, that's an automatic--ain't shit."
   But grabbing a second in an auto-powered 8-cylinder is sophisticated redneck.  Monza--4-cylinder; however, armed with Holland's V-8 transmission--no shit, could scratch a third.
   STOP sign.  STOP, an acronym for:  Scratch Tires On Pavement.
   Boy--it was Arkansas.  What the hell else does an adolescent have?  And I say:  "Jesus drives a muscle car."  You know what I mean . . .

Werefox Vaquero--Fossil Fuel

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Fossil Fuel"
   
   Max and Junkyard were @ the local tavern, waiting for a brew princess to flare up some inflammation with the wicked wheat, which crafted further Swamp Thing paranoia--in a manner of speaking.  But them glades supported some high adventure--and what is man if not up for the sport of his terrain, however it be?
   Max inhaled the tavern's atmosphere, swiftly forgetting the dry crisp of an Arizona Spring.  He made sure to sit @ the back of the bar, eyes alive to the possibility of oncoming traffic aimed in his direction by curious hoodlums.  The tavern was so crusty, minus the barnacles, that the management didn't mind a canine inside.  
  As Max watched the local sports on the tube, he reflected upon STAR WARS, just to entertain his mind, though Batman did arithmetic-like exercises upon his mental playground for peace.  Anyway, Max displayed to himself some dialogue from the 1977 movie.
   Chewie grunts a grievance.  Han with:  "You said it Chewie.  Were did you dig up that old fossil?"  Luke with:  "Ben is a great man."  Han retorts:  "Yeah, great at getting us in trouble."
   The moment passed, yet it would return in the future.  Next, Junkyard yawned and Max sipped his beer, patiently.  

Werefox Vaquero--Tolstoy's Gospel?

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Tolstoy's Gospel?"
   
   Ela was aboard the bouncy ride of a candy wagon, helping haul the grub and goodies to the other cowboys.  As the wagon wheels rotated, underneath the Sun's brilliant gift to all, she pondered herself, as a cowgirl; plus, an investigative mind, remembering:  Blake, Jefferson, Tolstoy--all forged Gospels, in a sense, Tolstoy reflecting upon "resist not evil" and all, and her knowing G. Gordon Liddy said God is beyond our comprehension, yet Plotinus with simplicity; regardless, like a NASCAR student--drive right on through Ricky Bobby; specifically:  SHAKE AND BAKE, BABY.  
   Ela grabbed her own portion, as only she could, thought about her foxy lady inside and all the fabulous friends a type of Grandfather had gifted her with, knowing humility is not being somebody's bitch, for a bitch will turn in the end, possibly putting glass in your food, or however it goes.
   She would retain the kit fox and camouflage, yet as the animal became more animated among the Arizona strip malls, not uncommon to see them scrambling around in the parking lot, just little dogs, making a living as do we all, judged by their size, never their heart, like Samson's mighty fist on a superhero leap-down in shocking fashion, to align the Earth with a proper and victorious vibration; moreover, Ela fought off a smile, not proud, but adoring her chipped front tooth, which somehow brought a crooked Han Solo kinda smuggler's grin to the countenance of Max, and how she adored him, never wanting to wash a lizard's feet, yet soak a bird in the clean of aqua, chat with the messenger, and watch it fly off, programmed to do its seemingly angelic job, as if innately and always knowing--it's a darn cool bird.  

American Awakening

   
   "American Awakening"
   
   It's like men can be men again, or a Commander in Chief is showing us--it's okay to be men, and he's doing it rather bluntly--doesn't he have to?
   My Pap up in Pittsburgh drove coal trucks, worked in factories, and was the toughest man I ever met.  I was never ashamed of him--why the hell would I be?  A 4th grade education, yet fluent in the Slavic languages, and was UP on Tesla way back before the modern re-discovery of the Serbian genius.  
   I ran papers; next, warehouse drop leader; then, more elevation; furthermore, management--in charge of an entire county.  Still, I felt ashamed--many people saying it was a nothing job; however, one lady in the family told me to never be ashamed of a job, knowing I was pretty much allergic to people and couldn't crank out a bowel evacuation amid the static of society.  I'd go home at night and read books by Voltaire, Fyodor himself, Joyce, Proust--and then when I would mention these men in front of the so-called educated--nobody knew what I was talking about, looking at me like I was a lunatic because I wasn't down with the TWILIGHT nonsense or whatever--I prefer the classic vampire/werewolf--if I wend my way weird.  But as one of Voltaire's characters mentioned in a novella:  "To hell with the classics.  They don't make me happy."  So now, I just read STAR WARS books, and I feel stupid about it.  Oh well, make yourselves like children the Messiah says.  Always liked Han and Chewie, and I saw the original cinematic presentation back in the day, so many times so, that I was driving my mother crazy about it.  Every weekend I pleaded to see it again and again.
   "Obi-Wan?  Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time, a long time."  

Werefox Vaquero--Poodle-ishish

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Poodle--ishish"
  
   Max slowly sauntered into the dog breeder's mobile home.  Was invited.  Had strawberry chaw under the lip.  Had formed his own pocket, fella.  The dog breeder was your quintessential Bubba Cheese fixture--what you might dub an Uncle Jesse type.  In front of him, was a golden poodle.  Dog breeder said his name (dog breeder's name mind ya) was Country.  
  
MAX
Is that the dog?

COUNTRY
Boy, you can't see, hum?  Damn straight!  Looky here boy--ya got your miniature poodle, your standard poodle; next, your toy poodle.  Canis lupus familiaris, ya here.  Germans say they're from France, and hell--works for me, boy.  Now, you gonna purchase this sum bitch?

MAX
Of course.  The poodle approached Max, sniffed him, rolled over; then, stood up, wagged his tail, and showed an affectionate posture.  Max gave the elegant soul a swift pet--it was loyalty at first sight.  Yeah, I'll take the pooch.  I haven't been greeted like this, well--ever.  Too, this is a metaphorical pleasure to John Steinbeck venturing with Charlie.   
  
   Junkyard knew that was his name.  Wagging his tail as he and Max strutted out, not like dirty disco, but with swift elegance.  Friends can be made, if you don't care who gets the credit.  

Big Trouble in Little China Toast

Laird Hamilton: Feature Interview Preview

Werefox Vaquero--a walk in the park

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--a walk in the park"
   
   They called it Classic Rock now.  Max was kinda/sorta a young whippersnapper, though he adored the classics, once having watched an old concert by a rock band, the guitarist saying that the electrical song about to be played had nothing to do with alcoholism, nor a lewd lifestyle; specifically, it was a symbolic walk in the park.
   Max knew that wolves spent 80% of their day walking.  In almost constant motion.  Upon that wildlife knowledge, not esoteric a bit--he decided to get a dog.  A pal.  A loyal sidekick and eager friend, always wanting to please; next, jump in a creek, and just be the perfect dog that God constructed it to be.
   Max knew about Coydogs, the Golden Retriever, the Pomsky, and the youthful spirit of the tough terrier.  He decided to grab an old school newspaper, see what was possibly happening outside of Arizona, and when at the convenience store, he also picked up some Gatorade and a pack of breath mints, very frosty, telling the cashier as he made his cowboy exit:  "Have a cool one, ma'am."
   Yeah, some folk still give a holler to hope and Heaven--casual cool.  

Coyote Culture--Native American

   
   "Coyote Culture--Native American"
   
   CANIS LATRANS--and there is a mighty amount of Canine Constellations, enough that a good dog makes friends with the eagle, for if God is praised, as mentioned by the bard/fighter David, transcending the harp, into an outshine of matter, going PURE ENERGY, an icy atomic bomb, not burning them with fire, for that was not King David's style, so I sense, yet he was as cold as beer-chilling ice, encompassing you with frigid water as he soaks the Bud Heavy, an eternal freeze, in Kennedy's coldest of hells; however, with the coyote--you must laugh.  The wise/fool always up for a pestering prance, a symbolic shape-shift, second unto the Great Spirit Itself, and Yahshua, under Occam's Razor, transfigures the chosen, if we choose ourselves not to start the fight, but in defense of an envious zeal, weakened by its own pride, hating the benevolent beauty of what they dub a beast, yet beasts themselves, when the American Coyote walks upon a poison Earth, yet attacks the venom, immune to such nonsense, as it accepts God does not make the cruel attempt to bind man, having shown so with Samson, and His own Son, though Samson and the Prophets and Kings, along with the Angels and Saints, and every man that knows there is an original rainbow, spangled by effulgence, like the Fourth of July lighting up a den of falsehoods, though not complaining, yet exposing, knowing the Eagle's quote, beyond canonization, ever true, and the Eagle heard the Sacred Heart beat, electrical and flowing with the pulse of generating water, a living water, a deep cold water, full of potently powerful grace, such as the wondrous Orca, revered and known for its flowing thunder beneath the life of liquid, sealing out the iniquitous impostors and their lascivious lusts, like on a dame's tail-end in her 4 wheel fixture, to a park, and revealing the belly of bogus, slaughtering the Valley Girl, and the Freedom of Taste, for does not taste lead to health?  Thus, if you have a gluttonous taste, forged in fake waters; as a result, the animism of nature exists, gelled for those in touch, beneath the Mother's reflection of Her Son, showcasing a Luminous Lady, a Mirror of Justice, a Hebrew mother fighting for Her Son, perpetually.  That is what births Her the eternal Victory of being a Mother, fashioned in forever.
  Connor Coyote dipped the chaw, favoring only his friendship with the mammals of the sea, every sea, and the canines on America's turf, chosen to support Israel, and backed by the Spirit of 1776, so Holy, and fully imbibed by men of archaic days, forbidden to be remembered, as is the Native American, shuffled aside, yet Jim Thorpe is remembered here, as is the elongated yip and yap of a trash-knowing coyote, not minding taking a dip in toxic sewage, for that is even the Wolverine's reward, if you show true love to a cruising canine, or a posturing critter soul-kissed by the shimmering Heavens, which illustriously illuminate an American Land.      

2012 Boss 302 0-100 MPH

Big Daddy's Advice

   
   "Big Daddy's Advice"
   
   Cowboy.  Live-Action.  Gently, gently.
   He put it in my hands at 12 years of age.  A classic piece.  Was trained properly.  Respect and reverence for the gunpowder antiquity, which wasn't exactly then--back in the yonder 80's, thataway.
   Arkansas boys.  No good.  Hoods.  Horseshit.  Best men I ever knew lived in the second poorest State in the Union.
   Holland would just come to see it.  Not violent or dangerous.  A piece of history.  A cowboy.  A dream of Clint Eastwood on the small, thin cigar, giving a shit about himself; moreover, loving himself, as we all should, from our genesis--not thrown into fear by phony superiority complexes.
   We all have sinned.  Nothing worse than sinning due to ignorance.  Ancient Hebrew Scripture says:  "We perish for lack of knowledge."
   Who can you trust?  You got the fundamentals.  You know them by their fruits.
    Anyhow, cowboy step-dad told my son, coming up here talking modern cinematic weapons, cops militarized, and the lack of Starsky and Hutch, saying:  "Boy--it only takes one."
   I wouldn't touch a piece.  But the Old Man carried it throughout the State of Arkansas, not needing a high-capacity bullshit magazine.  Single-Action.  Could crack the block of a muscle car forged in the 1970's.  .357 Ruger.  Nothing wrong with still having a pocket watch; plus, a sense of time.  

Funny moment with Han Solo and Chewbacca in A New Hope

Werefox Vaquero--Mexican Lasagna

   "Werefox Vaquero--Mexican Lasagna"
   
   Francisco, a free man, was legally cool, more or less, wearing a white sombrero, and standing for truth, justice, and the American Way--like Alec Baldwin in the movie:  The Shadow, though--he was more of a luminous light, with a dandy mustache.  
  Francisco would use the regular, pre-baked noodles, the ground chuck (grass fed), yet would replace the Italian sauce with salsa gone mild, and instead of mozzarella, he wrangled up some queso asadero; plus, a few other herbs--here and there.  He baked it for his Mama and Papa; also, the boy living next door, having autism, and deserving a hot piece of the multi-layered cuisine.
   Francisco loved people.  Yet not the nasty ones.  He didn't go all Clint Eastwood or nothing; still, made sure to wave his American flag when he could, for he loved baseball, weirdly believing it to still be America's greatest sport.  A charming athletic display of patience and psychology.
   He drove a 1968 Ford Mustang, do you here me boy--with a 390 Thunderbird Special V-8 Cruise-O-Matic.  Was RWD--automatic 3 speed gearbox, and could gallop to sixty faster than a wiry jockey on a horse named Crackers.
   Papa was pleased with his Stang--the 1960's muscle machine having the pony spirit, roaming over the fragrant Earth, that smell of asphalt and travel, just here and there, like to the grocery market for Mama's Saint John's Wort and Vitamin C (chewable)--a hint of rose hips layered in.   

Werefox Vaquero--hunting by singularity

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--hunting by singularity"
  
   The Moon was waning, not completely meaning dim things; on the contrary, a kind culmination; moreover, resulting in possible transformation--Ela really didn't give a darn, for anything at any time resides on the horizontal horizon, like getting mugged in an alley if you're in your 20's and living in Washington during the grunge rage in the 1990's, having gone into that alley in order to puke up some carbonated alcoholic beverage ordered from the lesbian beer princess before she is nowadays more generally accepted--perhaps we have made progress as a country.
   Ela didn't blame the two teams in Washington, nor the Special Interests, for there was always a spark of hope, and she was glad tax dollars went to pay for a NASA toilet seat--she liked astronauts.
   But the American West, the way of any ideal, even Asian Monks without revolvers, buzz-cut, and armed to the max, wearing maybe perhaps a shiny shuriken on a silver necklace under their STAR WARS t-shirt.  American Indians harnessing the Earth.  Cowboys and quick-draws.  A Miner with a pony.  A Banker.  Bar Owner.  Prostitute.  Franciscan Priest.  Dogs on dirt streets.  A pharmacy where you could get anything, yet more importantly--what you needed to survive.  Sure pharmaceutical companies ban natural substances that heal with more medicamental swift than chem-lab constructed drugs, both which can kill--though some less than others, yet finances and money usually dictate the legal protocols, and we brag of capitalism, yet it all seemed like a bad idea to her.  Though knowing the Western Parks still stood, and that America gave a Bill of Rights to all people--it seemed, honest after all.
    Conflict and counterpoise.  A perpetual struggle.  Impressing.  Ashamed corporeally, in any way.  She just knew to look over her shoulder, for everybody is wacky and weird.
  She stripped down, gently.  Morphed into the Kit Fox.  Scrambled on all-fours, making a mercurial adjustment.  Found a mouse.  It saved on groceries.  

Werefox Vaquero--Han and Chewie

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Han and Chewie"
   
   Jeremy didn't give a rat's pseudo-royal ass about indoctrination and falsehoods--as long as you lived the Multiversal energy that you are, more or less. What--he never pondered?  Cause they call him a midget with short limbs--appendages made for the characters of Lord of the Rings?  Throw that damn ring away--you stupid hobbit; indeed, that was Jeremy's philosophical gripe.  But he knew:  ask any Bush League cop or cotton-picking attorney, too lazy, unlike Grant and Sherman, to pick their own shit, if they know the Ten Commandments?  Mostly, no cops or attorneys residing in the United States of America can quote the Ten Commandments, nor the Beatitudes, yet proclaim to be law enforcement--what, unjust law?  Of course.  What, are you Harvard Law?  Nope.  Berkeley?  Even Philip K. Dick dropped out of Berkeley to work @ a record store, and wrote the greatest of science fiction in a weird hippie era, after being hit by a pink laser beam, so he claimed, and still he transcends the mosh-pit of modern humanity.
  Put theoretical physicist Michio Kaku on any stand in a courtroom--in this not so free america, kinda/sorta limp--and he will tear any phony lawyer to pussafied pieces.  What--there is everlasting to everlasting?  Ancient Hebrews that accepted True Law and made a Divine Exodus from slavery?  Like Moses, what is your problem?  Get your older brother Aaron with the topaz breastplate, and we can get the hell out of here--I'm tell'n ya.  Infinite possibilities, AND BEYOND--IMPERATIVE!  
   Jeremy knew there was no hope.  A twisted, phony America.  Paul Ryan--a prep-school brat.  And Rand Paul gets rolled cause he's a Libertarian, not into the phony bologna?  He stood up, while the gremlin attorney general camouflages vociferous acts in a rear-view mirror?  Jeremy wondered if it was legal to ponder truth.
   He cleaned his tire iron with a baby wipe.  Headed to the Suzuki motor-scooter, of sorts.  Cranked the dual-exhaust to a sputtering life.  Next, gone, and alive--for now.  Like Han and Chewie, smuggling for gangsters, cause the Empire is crooked as shit.  Thank God for Lando.  He even was a guest-star on the Jeffersons.  A damn fine show.  Ya know.  

Star Wars Episode IV - A New Hope (1977) - Han Solo - Bounty Hunter (Har...

Werefox Vaquero--yonder yokel

     
   "Werefox Vaquero--yonder yokel"

   
   Jeremy wasn't a half-bad yokel; moreover, he wasn't a good man; however, he was a decent guy--a totally decent guy.  Sure, he had his flaws, like a protruding belly that did hang over his britches, and not in a Valley Girl bodacious fashion.  Never forget the Valley Girl.  California was totally awesome in the 1980's.  Johnny Carson--ya know.  I think the greatest talk show host always drove a Corvette, mostly.
   So, Jeremy ain't no cowboy.  Prefers a rice-burning Suzuki, merely armed with 250cc's, rather than a thundering horse gelled with a dangerous stampede of hoofs and iron.
   For protection, out in the Free West, Jeremy carried a tire iron--went old school.  Didn't even have a cowboy hat or shirt with a collar.  Didn't even like the Dallas Cowboys; indeed, he was moved by the Pittsburgh Steelers, remembering the blue-collar man forged in steel during the Jack Lambert days.
   Jeremy was an old timer as well.  Little did the pudgy paragon of bachelor butt-kicking know--he was about to get wrangled up in some live-action, playing the part of sidekick to the portion of Ela and Max.  And even though he didn't know--heck, he was ready.  Like SpongeBob, in a non-aquatic way.  

Werefox Vaquero--All the Caboose

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--All the Caboose"
   
   Ela didn't mind a wise correction here and there, for a little good counsel can keep a cowgirl's legs shaved properly; however, scat is never needed by an honest ranch-hand; thus, when this old timer dubbed Silly Willy, ornamented in a fancy Van Dyke beard, and haughty enough to display a dandy derby hat, in a laboring lady's space no less, mouthed off to her, first, vocally announcing:  "Girly, you gotta teach that piece of livestock a lesson.  Get some guts.  Tell dat bitch--you mess with the bull--you get the horns."
   Ela just shot him a canine's posturing glance, knowing the fine beast was on a hard ride to somebody's dinner plate; moreover, knew the animal was shy and frightened, deserving tender mercies, save when she needed to be pumped up by high frequency to face what's coming.
   Max came upon the scene, a lasso in his hand, and an innocent glimmer in his eyes for Ela's fight and fortitude, knowing:  if she wanted, she could've slapped Silly Willy to the ground, and just for the heck of it.  Guess it wouldn't have been ladylike.  Anyway, Max put a protective arm around his kinda/sorta girlfriend, giving her a crooked grin that was honest and true.  Yup, she dug him.  Sometimes lately--she felt like Max was All the Caboose.  Yet never invading with anything save suave sublimity.  

Brave 1980's Television Star

   
   "Brave 1980's Television Store"
   
   For the Norse gods--you get taken to Valhalla by blonde Valkyries if you show courage.  Jesus:  "Fear not."  Similar.  A good-looking television star diagnosed with bad stuff, shaking, trembling, problems with speech, asymmetrical walking gait, and I heard a radio show host mock him--the nice guy that did BACK TO THE FUTURE--ya know.
   You think maybe sometimes he doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning?  Like a cowboy having slept on the hot terrain next to venomous critters and thieving canines, he pulls himself up from the Earth, his ass having been fully kicked the day before, and he does soldier on. 
   You can always lay there and die.  And like that nurse told me when I was 28 years of age, 114 pounds, and she flipped me over in bed like a floppy waffle:  "I know when it's my time to go--when I lose control of my bowels."  She can go to hell.  And I would've laid in that damn hospital till I died, if it hadn't been for a little Mexican cleaning lady that came into my room, gawked at me; next, exclaimed:  "What are you doing here!?!  You so young.  Get out of here.  You can't be sick.  You're so young."  I had myself unplugged and left.  Thank God for that lady.
   Now, I guess it's time to just enjoy and accept being an old man.  Everything hurts.  Doctors gave me pills that cause stomach bleeding.  Great.  I feel so secure with these cranks.  
   And if you do go, just remember the words in that cool movie:  "It's better to be dead and cool, than alive and uncool."  Being uncool doesn't mean being beaten to hell--it means giving people shit when they already have enough of allegorical fecal matter on their Snoopy "Special Edition" lunch plate.   

Amos--5:8

   
   "Amos--5:8"
   
   Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night:  that calleth for the waters of the sea, and poureth them out upon the face of the earth:  The LORD is His name.  

Big Trouble in Little China Pork chop express

A Southern Baptist Dude--from my opinion

   
   "A Southern Baptist Dude--from my opinion"
   
   I only met one man--just one, WHO believed God can do anything.  A kid in Southern Baptist School--King James on our desk for hours, and it was beautiful.  I'm flawed and emotional, maybe more or less or more now--and everything matters.  Preacher told me God answers prayers, even if it's 30 years, or 40, as long as you keep focusing and pleasing Him more than any other.  Taught me about King David, even Amos, just a Minor Prophet, yet as awesome as God makes us--God builds a good car, so a surfer said once.
   And as for Mother Mary and the Southern Baptists; specifically, I've been critical; still, if they love Jesus, Her Son--I know it is cool enough for Her.  For She's always pointing--to the Living Water.  Hey, She's humble, yet bold, and gave birth to many of our lives.  If we admit Him.  

Werefox Vaquero--Waddie

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Waddie"
   
   Ela and Max were hanging out, here and there--no kissing or heavy petting, just getting to know each other.  Max was enjoying the synergy he shared with Ela, having always been a wondering waddie in the past, never sticking around, kinda fancying himself a Han Solo type minus the spaceship.  
   Was he getting too comfortable?  Falling in love?  Was it wrong for him to make an alliance?  Maybe he should just be a bronco-buster and take hot showers to release the tension.  Yet Ela's entire presence was shimmering honesty.  That chipped front tooth--she never fixed it cosmetically.  Said plenty about her.  We all got besmirched by trying to be cool and fancy in our younger days; next, you remember the simplicity of being all-too-human.  That we'll have to answer when we take the dirt nap.
   Max knew Ela was sincerely fond of him; moreover, that he would never take advantage of her.  Why?  Because he actually liked her.  She hadn't roped him in, thinking:  Mine, all mine.  Nah, she was just a singular soul herself, waiting for love.  Hoping a knight in shining armor would show up, though she could take care of herself.  Thus, why not break bread with someone you genuinely admire and love.?  Money can take care of a woman.  Security.  Some go there.  Others for the sport sex.  Others tend to follow their hearts.
   Max didn't place one style above the rest, yet he knew what his instincts told him.  Ela was a pretty cool cowgirl.  Clean, chipped, looked you in the eye, and gave a damn--not just about people, but the animals and Earth.  Why should he denounce himself?  Not ever smile?  There Ela was, chipped tooth and all--her smile as bright as the Daystar Itself.  

Kit Fox Release

Werefox Vaquero--a cup of java

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--a cup of java"
  
   Quaint and cool little coffee house.  Ela and Max sipping on some ice-chilled caffeine and coffee bean.  Across from each other, and boy was there magnetic attraction.  
  
MAX
Yeah, what--are there more than 27 different nervous system disorders?  What the heck; we're all wired differently, mostly.  Some people are a Camaro, others a Nissan; next, you have pick-up truck people, and the bikers--you pick'n up what I'm putting down?

ELA
Of course.  What, you think I'm just a stupid cowgirl?

MAX
Grinned.  Gave me a lie detector test years back.  I told them the copper levels in my blood are high, explaining that copper is a strong conductor; furthermore, said the machine was bullshit and affected by its proximity to me, not for all people, but for some.  No more on that story.  Just like not everybody needs the same diet.  A wolf and coyote are related; however, different diet.  Is the world pick'n up what I'm putting down?

ELA
Possibly.  Yet some people don't want the world to know.  Control.  Power.  Domination.  Shit--it's America--a Free Country.  A Bill of Rights, now raped.  People living under exploitation and manipulation.  An ex-wife that hated her husband, poisoned him, and now law enforcement is after him because she shows her goodies, and the cops do a little boob juggling.  Boob juggling isn't what it used to be, they don't even have it at the circus anymore.  But in Great Britain, they have topless darts.

MAX
Topless darts.  One of my favorite sports.

ELA
You're a nice guy.  Quirky, but cool.  And remember--I'm halfway decent myself.  Not here to screw you.  It would just be nice to have a sidekick.  And yeah--I'm the girl and you're the guy--you gonna deal with that?

MAX
Why the heck not.  Truth is the best of traits.  And if we ever do make love, make sure you wear your socks, for feet creep me out.

ELA
Maybe you should date a mermaid then.

MAX
Smiled.  I think I'll stick with you for now.  

Don and Bert

   
   "Don and Bert"
   
   She would always pester, calling:  "Don!  Don!  Don!  I have to get my hair done!"  He would respond, with a Tareyton hanging from his thin lips:  "That's not hair--it's a brillo pad."
   When he'd see her coming out of SAFEWAY with a shopping cart, he'd look over at me and proclaim:  "Bag Lady."
   Over 50 years, and when I resided with them, she was not allowed to talk until 2:00 o'clock--neither was I.  At 2:00, the sounds came alive.  First:  GUIDING LIGHT, the soap opera.  He would tell me:  "All the women on this show are dogs, but Vanessa--she has class."
   She would whimper when watching MacGyver, saying:  "Don, I don't want to see him get hurt."  Next, he would explain:  "Bert, he's the damn star of the show--nothing is going to happen."
   She'd give him his insulin shot in the morning, and all he would say:  "A damn harpoon."
   It was all so perfect, in a way.  

Werefox Vaquero--just a Buckaroo

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--just a Buckaroo"
   
   On the cattle ranch, Max observed Ela in mere Socratic fashion, not even Platonic really, for he was singular--in some ways.  The Buckaroo (Max himself) knew Ela was no simplistic tenderfoot, and had probably been squeezing utters since a child; still, he knew of string-theory, of Jesus as the vine and the believers as the branches, a connected network of a theoretical Otherworld; therefore, maybe her silky, black mane that crowned a radiating female strength was worth a saunter up to; next, an innocent gander, him knowing that most women can put a man through hell, yet it worked both ways, as do wires and cameras run both ways; thus, he would not be swift, yet wise--as the poet Alexander Pope instructed, or so he read on a cereal box once.
   He motioned his ostrich-skinned cowboy boots up to her over the sandy geography, tilted his Stetson, and she smiled immediately, him getting a dumbfounded look on his startled face, as if knowing she had been waiting for him to notice.  Then, she smiled a set of pearly whites, her front tooth chipped, but it only added to her amazing aura, and offered:  "You wanna get some coffee after we wrangle these critters?"
   He reclaimed his suave, at least halfway, felt a bit dizzy, but managed to stick some chaw under his lip; next, smoothly stated:  "Sure darling, but I'm buying."

Why Read James Joyce?

Werefox Vaquero--just a non-arcane individual

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--just a non-arcane individual"

   Max was a bit curious concerning his cowgirl co-worker in the kinda/sorta cattle industry of what you might dub as agriculture--at least in a few circles of men.  So many metaphorical wolf-packs running around, and a lone human-hybrid canine (allegorical folks) every so often, also pranced on a set of all fours in search of sustenance; specifically, protein I'm talk'n.
  Yet there was more to this Dungeons and Dragons world, gelled with cosmic theories, angelic forces, conspiracy politics, and good old MLB.  However, Max understood the gist and the graveyard gestures.  The tombs built, the babies born, the rich, the poor, the squirrels--meaning--miser types, and the fornication of cheap thrills, but most of us have been there, from time to time.
   Max was singular.  Earth tones, in wardrobe, buzz-cut, clean-shaven, smelled like peppermint, took his C, D3, ate lamb and rabbit, beer when needed to calm the conducting shakes, and tolerated his own passion for singularity.  He tolerated it well.
   The Arizona nights were almost epic, every time the Daystar dropped and the Celestial Sparks shimmered, he took more than a glimpse, imbibing the grand scenario and cosmic battles.  As if a theoretical philosopher, pondering every and each possibility.
   Wished he had a surf board and lived on the Pacific.  California--too high-priced.  Oregon, well--there was always that.  And ducks aren't so bad.  He possessed no duck phobia.  He could tolerate ducks too.  

Werefox Vaquero

   
   "Werefox Vaquero"
  
   Ela didn't exactly watch over the cattle, living among the folk, being simply a Hoodlum or Little Mary, which in cowboy terminology means:  "Chops wood, peels potatoes, and chases around the chuck-wagon."  She was part Apache--how much she didn't know, and didn't care.  She knew what she fancied, and that was all that mattered to her.  And she felt a vociferous conscience tell her:  "You can do anything you want--just be nice; at the same time, let nobody label you, and if they do--label them right back.  Ela, you are a sweet girl, don't let anyone bind your decency."
   She had a thing for foxes.  Some say a trickster.  Others say fidelity and loyalty.  What did William Blake say:  "The fox condemns the trap--not himself."  Moreover, the visionary poet, a mere tradesman probed:  "The moral Christian is the cause for the unbeliever and their laws."  Ela had no opinion.  She was just a ranch-hand, more or less.  Tucson, or near about.  And driving through downtown Phoenix was always a treat, especially at night.
   She managed a little shanty when not hanging out with cattle, those sweet and holy eyes, and being able to mystically morph into a Kit Fox--small, gentle, agile, strong, loyal.  Too, a sense of playfulness.
  She had no boyfriend, yet was not out of the game, just adoring all that God had given her--a chance to be alive, no matter how chronic the pain.  A sense of Moon and Sun, of salubrious air, of poetry, and Eye-of-Round cooked in butter and water, along with carrots, sea salt, pepper, and thyme.  
   She drank her coffee as the stars lit the Heavens, and even though she never dismissed her heritage, she gelled with the pure spirit of sublimity, remembering the symbolic Eagle write:  "The light cometh, and the darkness comprehends it not." 

Tesla and the grocery market

   
   "Tesla and the grocery market"
  
   Had to venture further than 2 miles away from my suburban habitat today, a nervous wreck--in a way; specifically, what if I have to urinate, what if there is some Kojack with a Kodak in the bushes armed with a radar gun, what if some maniac opens fire?  OCD, in medical terms.  They say Tesla had it too.  Wiped his silverware off a certain number of times, only drank distilled water, ordered from the same place, his groceries, was reclusive, yet hung out with Mark Twain here and there.
   Into the market, sanitizing my hands, and have too many groceries to go through automatic checkout.  They touch my groceries, and I get a little nervous, viewing the microcosmic kingdom in the theater of my mind; next, I gently allow the older and beautiful man to push out my stuff.  He tells me there's a car show.  Talks about his life.  Seemed lonely.  I shook his hand, prayed for nobody to hurt him when I exited, sanitizing my hand, and my dog jumping around in the car.
   Everybody has gifts.  Everyone has beauty.  In a way.  Unless you inflict control over someone--that's what gives people an asymmetrical vibe.  It's a Free Country, they used to say.  
   I see people in my family.  A beautiful blonde boy, and he doesn't even know it.  My step-dad, and while all of his sons love him, I actually like him, so does another.  Not out to impress or sway with bologna.  They said I was allergic to people.  A nocturnal job for years; next, home and reading everything I could get my hands on.  That guy is arrogant others say.  No, I just like the simple things, as Plotinus may argue.  Maybe there was a time when I craved.  Had ambition.  Now, get in, get out, lock the doors, and wish I could play cards with Grandma all night and drink coffee. 
   Men followed my mother, locked her in cars, exposed themselves to her--it happened her entire life, and she never called a cop.  She never laid down any ground rules when I returned home over a decade ago, broken, infused for years, and knowing that everyone was instructing her, as if they were her Daddy, on how to live her life.  Like I said--everyday she would tell me, because I always confessed my sins to her; as a result, she would tell me:  "They said this, or they said that."  She told me every word.
   Haven't been to the bar for my two beers in months.  There's a cool guy that hangs up there with the face of an angel.  He knows sports and how to survive.  Maybe it is all pack related.  I asked my shrink once:  "Is it okay for me to have friends?"  He said:  "Of course.  Just make sure you find people like yourself."  

Ben Kenobi vs Darth Vader - A New Hope [1080p HD]

Voltaic Junkyard--cusp

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--cusp"
   
   Sheila had sincere empirical evidence that Adam drifted away; specifically, just a thumb, flashing it illegally, in most states, on the asphalt ballet of self-driven cars; however, there are still a few truckers swift in the radical reflexes.  The boy had made a soft exodus from his heritage, though--to never forget, head not low, neither crowned with superiority, just a seeker, finally inheriting his portion of a protracted vacation, wending his wild way into the American West, hoping cowboys still had good hearts, and that barrel-racing girls might fancy his features, give him a loving lasso, and be a little more tame than Bonanza Jellybean.  
   Sheila smiled at his courage, making a noble attempt to finally separate himself from her guardian fists.  And now, what would be her purpose?  No little brother to pamper and spoil, left all alone with a goofy dog and a plethora of wrecked automobiles.  She breathed.  The easiest thing to do in life, not minding the toxins, the metallic particles, nor the fact that she was a frigid asexual.
  It didn't matter anymore.  Her only purpose in life now--to survive.  And she would.  Some lonely guy witnessing her lean muscles at the grocery market would always have her image in his heart, and while she didn't exactly know--she could feel the love, here and there, between Earth's magnetic poles.

Voltaic Junkyard--Leopold Bloom, wondering

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Leopold Bloom, wondering"
   
   Adam, frightened by the reality of all the truths and falsehoods contained in a Sociology class, wanting to wander, roam, vagabond, yet a gentleman; however, more wondering instead of wandering.
   Remembered laying on his couch for two days and reading ULYSSES, which was illegal to own in the United States for a quick wrinkle in time; moreover, he read the judge's opinion on the book, the black-robe making it legal, at last.  The judge said it was boring at times.  Adam remembered the opening, Buck Mulligan, possibly a medical student--he forgot here and there, yet never the culmination--the reason it was illegal.  A wife's internal confession.  Her loins speaking.  Not a true Penelope, forged in fabulous fidelity; still, she loved the wandering Leopold.
   Even that kind of love, well--Adam thought it would be pretty sweet.  So your wife cheats on you--does it really matter?  Adam knew that's why we have Saints.  There are always stranger people than yourself.  People that give hope, and people that are anchors, sinking your smile into a frown.
   But Adam knew his part.  Little brother.  Sheila--the pedagogue.  Would he ever learn?  Lift weights or tear down a small block?  Be content?  Is that life?  Contentment?  Mere contentment?
   Adam remembered when all of his family was alive--as a child.  Friday nights and pizza @ Mr. Gatti's, Dad always smiling.  Sheila could throw down five slices, the She-Hulk, and she always was, like a paragon of ass-kicking girl perfection.  A girl who held her own.  Not very social.  No hair or make-up always on dynamic display for the masses.  A baseball cap and pony-tail.  Jeans.  Flannel shirt.  Tennis shoes.
   Adam wondered who he was.  Little brother, ignorant with the torque wrench?  Would he ever break down and tell her that he was fond of Japanese cars?  Swift.  Sporty.  
   He knew his place.  It was a pack, not a tribe.  They were poor.  Dogs.  It didn't matter to them, but how people gawk when the norm is not surgically followed.  Dub you an outcast.  And yes, thinking these things Adam admired Sheila all the more.  The She-Hulk, not giving a damn.  Loving what she loved.  After a quick wash, she'd eat green beans right out of the can; next, she'd go kick some tires and take a walk in the park with Wagon-Tail.  He'd accompany his sister next time.  Why the hell not?