Blue Fox and Sister Chicken (2)

   
   "Blue Fox and Sister Chicken (2)"
   
   Everybody thought Blue Fox had it easy.  So damn foxy and handsome; however, that ignited the iniquity of jealousy; moreover, Blue Fox was a very humble Vulpes.
   Thus, having no friends, stabbed in the gut by circumstance, and being a luminous loner seemed like his doomed destiny.  The other animals just assumed he was severely vain and never gave him a chance.  Like people assume physicians are smart, when of course, they're prone to make a great number of mistakes due to lack of pity; alas, that is why the Bill Clinton Administration chose Dr. Jacob "Jack" Kevorkian as their Surgeon General and all.
   But Sister Chicken loved Blue Fox, especially for not eating her.  She felt sorry too that he could not chomp down on one of her blasphemous sisters like all the other foxes did, him meekly living on eggs, and breaking his back to be her friend.
   So, Sister Chicken decided to invite him on an adventure.  Possibly, she would suggest going to a river or stream, and maybe Blue Fox could gobble up some fish, which might ease his tummy pain.  
   Too, she wanted to be more than a mere fowl having only fowl friends; specifically, she desired an interesting friend.  She wondered if this made her selfish.  You see, Sister Chicken had a conscience, like the Holy Ghost running through her jive chicken soul.
   So, she dialed up Blue Fox on her cell phone and gently asked:  "Hey Blue Fox, wanna go fishing?"
   Blue Fox replied:  "Why not.  I love the glimmer of moonlight on an enchanted stream."
   Next, the adventure began.   

White Coyote

   
   "White Coyote"

   Northwards, Newfoundland specifically, there seems to be some white coyotes.  Possibly a romantic rendezvous between the pouncing power predator and a golden retriever.  All the evidence points in this direction.
   When wolves were hunted down in the Northeast, the coyote had more freedom and sprawling liberty; therefore, able to romp and roam towards the icy tundra.  Yet a rare breed; nevertheless, the mix in North America can be divine.  A mystical mutt can transcend the possibilities, yet a pure bred beast of beauty should remain in our revering hearts as well.
    The coyote just wants you to laugh.  Yes, there is unmasking the truth; moreover, seeing beyond the illusion crafted by monstrous corporations and control over the meek and poor in spirit.  Still, we must adapt as does the coyote.  It is in the animal's nature to survive with non-pernicious pranks, being the wise fool; specifically, the cerebral comedian, well-versed in truth with yips and yaps directed at Luna's reflecting love of a life-giving Daystar.
    Coyote hunts have been recorded for up to twenty hours.  Though mostly an agile pounce on a mouse, or even berries and melons to munch on.  More than an omnivore, for with suburban sprawl sparking the withdrawal of much wildlife, the coyote can eat trash, toxic waste from sewers, and yet still thrive in the gut, giving good fertilization to Mother Earth.
   There will always be negative people who shame or deny the coyote its true sublimity; at the same time, there will always be a bad dog at points of existence.  Yet following the path of truth, and adapting to the iniquity and negativity that might encompass you--this gives you the authority of the altruistic coyote.     

  

She-Ra; plus, Masters of the Universe

   
   "She-Ra; plus, Masters of the Universe"
   
   While attending Southern Baptist school in the nearly deep south of Arkansas, I was amazed, or marveled at their constriction of so much truth--even then, knowing, yet not knowing.
   One girl wasn't allowed to watch The Masters of the Universe, because there was only one Master of the Universe--the Multiverse really, but no details here baby.
   We were also forbidden rock and roll, dungeons & dragons; moreover, the uncouth, metaphorical grope of a woman's firm and symmetrical breasts as might suggest the adulterous fabric of country music.
   I still learned.  King James still the most poetic of them all.  But was ashamed for being there, due to the fact that I was Catholic, or as they said with implying insult:  Roman Catholic.
   And their constant weirdness over the Virgin Mother really pissed me off--as if she is nothing but a creepy witch.
   Alas, nope, I hold no grudge--that is a fool's negative eternity.  And there were sublime times, such as when in the 5th grade our teacher read aloud to us the work of C.S. Lewis; specifically, THE MAGICIAN'S NEPHEW, which is actually the first book in the series, or at least as the history and nature of the theological theme goes.
   So, God Bless them.  But God Bless all my Catholic teachers too.  The Nuns with the "I'll kick your skinny ass" guns.  Them tough, no-nonsense sisters of hungry humility.

The metaphysics of abnormality

   
   "The metaphysics of abnormality"
    
   Indiana Jones was no geologist.  University of Chicago and all that hyped shit.  An atheistic gravedigger finding the Holy Grail.  Get schooled.  Find your inner autodidact beyond the classroom, like the twisted yet honest Gore Vidal.  Verily, unlearn what you have learned in the quintessential bullshit of it all.  
   We don't know.  Leading causes of death in the States:  Physician and Nurse Error.  Yup,  That's how it goes.
   What did William Blake, a mere tradesman, say about the Industrial Revolution:  "Satanic slave mills that rob men of their imagination."
   Joyce, the Count, the Virgin--14 years to publication.  T.S. Eliot may not have had to encounter the whimsical whimper; indeed, Lord Bertrand Russell and the secretive affair, driving to make a dandy daisy.  What would Doc Holliday proclaim:  "You're a daisy if you do."
   We don't know the truth; we don't look for it.  It's all pseudo-science and the bizarre beyond, yet so cunning and true--if involved.
   But make that Johnny Football dream--make the millions and forsake your integrity.  That is the soul of man.  Reptilian-washed by invaders and the promotion of a Pineal Gland disturbed.
   This is life, and if Rose Quartz assists in the meekest of terms; then, LET IT BE!
   Crystals, communication--the ancients knew this.  Slave labor and copper chisels to forge the pyramids, right.  And a simplistic Hebrew anointed by Law and severe truth--is it too much?  Is it too much for you?  The mercy, the love, or Noah's release of the platinum dove?    

14 years of sublimity

   
   "14 years of sublimity"
   
   James Joyce, the 20th Century's most brilliant bard, fancied himself as a type of Count of Monte Cristo; specifically, an Irish slave to the imagination, hitting the English Queen's Language hard in the sanctimonious gut with his epic brilliance and admittance of his own corporeal truth through the wandering Jew, Leopold Bloom.
   Anyway, he would not kneel down and pray for his sick mother; nevertheless, Catholicism was always on the tip of his stream of consciousness quill, dipped truly, in the Blood of Christ.
   And was not the Virgin Herself mystically enchanted before Her Inviolate Ovaries were touched by the supernatural around Her 14th year?  Forged beforehand in the Book of Genesis, whether the mystical scribe was Moses or Ezra--who cares.  She steps on the adder's venomous bite; next, put in a holy sanctuary by Her parents due to revealing angelity and those scratches on the Godsmack that melts the cold hearts of men into marching Christian Soldiers, armed with benevolence and tamed by the Holy Spirit Herself.     
   What the French should call It:  La Saint-Esprit; indeed, Saint Jerome and his Latin tongue to camouflage dancing woman might have been a bit hasty.  But hell, he campaigned for the celibacy of the Priest, ascetically probing:  "Are these men afraid of sleeping in their beds alone at night?"
   And there is no hatred of femininity in Catholicism; moreover, the reverse.  They honor the Virgin with dignity.  They know She formed the fabric of Christ's Genetic Material in Her Sacred Womb; indeed, She is the egg-giver.  That was Her Blood and Tissue upon the cross at Calvary as well.  Yet possibly, only a celibate man, one who mimics Christ can obtain for the masses the divine art of the Transubstantiation.  
   Again, I will quote Jack Burton himself, the truck driver wisely knowing:  "Never can tell."  Save for the knocking mystic, that is.  

Guns N' Roses - 14 Years - Indiana '91

A Star-Spangled Heist

   
   "A Star-Spangled Heist"
   
   When you foolishly, or by extreme circumstance, get invovled and fall in with rednecks--you never know.   These folks I hung with during adolescence weren't complete hoods, mostly; regardless, there was this one Nordic kid.  Glimmering blue eyes with a prankster personality.
   Look, I was just the driver--if this happened.  And possibly, or possibly not.  Anyway, an XR 200 was involved.  A small level of cc's you think; on the contrary, that thing ran like a scalded dog.  Had plenty of low-end torque, a force that manipulates and causes rotation; plus, with dirt tires, you could lose any cop going off road or through someone's suburban backyard.
   So, this Nordic kid comes to me--we're about 16.  He says there's an American flag up the street, about a mile away upon the asphalt ballet that ran through the suburban-like vibe of it all with a country golf course and that kinda cosmopolitan shit.  Says he wants me to drive the motorcycle; next, he'll hop off and grab the flag, jump on back, and we'll speed away with rolling thunder, Old Glory blowing in the midnight air, underneath the effulgent Moon circling around Terra's toughness.  
   And we hung out with Vietnam dudes--our friends had Green Beret fathers.  So, Nordic kid scolded my first look of conscience and that of lacking adventure.  Told me:  "Boy, I'm gonna make a Veteran proud with what I do with that flag."
   It went down as planned.  I had the bike all the way open, throttling with an escape artist's determination, dodging danger with dexterity by way of the Honda-crafted dirt bike's wiry muscle.
   Nordic kid hung the flag on his wall.  Decades later he has further encased it within divine ornamentation, and it is in his living room, hanging on the wall, proudly on display for all the local ladies to glimpse before a patriotic shot at his privates.  Sex is big and sleazy in America.    
   Hell, it's America.  It's not about being depressed and being a robot.  Brave men honor the katana they took off the adversary during battle in WW 2.  Yup, it's different, yet all things are relative.  
   And as Christ axiomatically stated about your incoming karma:  "Blessed are the merciful, for they too shall obtain mercy."  Are you picking up what I'm putting down?  Get me?