Don't Drink the Kool-Aid

   
   "Don't Drink the Kool-Aid"
   
   Ya, like I was telling my last wife, and as the non-canonized Gospel of Thomas kinda/sorta totally hints @:  Be who you are!!!  Don't let them freakishly forge you into their images.  I knew a great writer once--she was great, the best, linguistically armed with foreign and archaic language skills; plus, filthy rich parents.  They would always take care of her, regardless.  Why didn't she throw her hat in the ring?  Prestige and bullshit.  People saying:  "There's no money in that."  But if you die rich; next, better learn to sell ice cream.  And I guess trash-men, welders, and janitors are just shitty people.  American Woman--stay the hell away from me, even though you wanted it.  And remember Twain's take on Confederate Generals--all given the star due to wealth and status.  Gettysburg was a slaughter of stupidity.  God Bless ALL those men--and the Civil War is no myth.  
   T.S. Eliot thought he was a fancy banker.  Fancy, fancy, fancy job.  Ezra Pound allegorically slapped him in the face, telling him that he was too important to be a banker.  And yes, a few weeks ago--the London Bridge metaphorically fell down.  
   And even though Eliot possibly put his wife in the cuckoo's nest due to a possible affair with Lord Bertrand Russell, well, I guess Britain is kinda/sorta a free country too.
   And while Pound was brought back to the States in a gorilla cage; then, locked away in an institute for the criminally insane, Eliot was getting the Noble Prize.  Curious.
   But that's the web of weird.  So, don't drink the Kool-Aid.  Be not of two minds.  

Dirty Laundry (As Made Famous by Don Henley)

Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd

   "Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd"
   
   Up North, ethnic guys like my Serbian Pap used to give each other the "business" with terms of endearment, such as:  An Irish guy is a Mick, a German guy is a Kraut, and the Pope was a Polack with a million dollar hat.  God has a sense of humor, for 70% of life on Terra's Terrain is a form of the beetle.  
   Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd, or Saint Pope John Paul the Great stood with Ronny Raygun to defeat Communism.  But he endured more--for God tests the just man and his faith; next, Justice and Peace shall kiss.
   The Mother comes before the Son--the Goose that lays the Golden Egg.  You better love the Virgin, for without Her--there would be no Jesus buddy.
   She weirdly appears on the 13th; however, She can Super-Position Herself, a term used in physics, meaning:  being in multiple places at once.  1 plus 3 = the Virgin and the Trinity, a Franciscan Friar might say.
   Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd was shot on the 13th day.  Four times.  Curious.  The pseudo-assassin fed him some Browning bullets.  You know how much negative metaphysical energy there is in a Browning?  Plenty.  But he said he couldn't get off a clear shot, for there was a woman in white standing in front of the Pontiff, so some stories go.
   After recovering, the Pope forgave the man, got his sentence reduced, and took one of the bullet shell-casings; next, he put it in the Crown of Mary that has twelve spikes, making the number 13--it seems to be Her number.  But I know:  She loves Her children everyday.
   Furthermore, it has only been a short time since his canonization, but invoke Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd, and he will point you in the direction of the Virgin Mother; next, She will point you in the direction of Christ.  

Kooky Lucy Frost (21)

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (21)"
   
   Kooky Lucy Frost was dancing around the house while Pap was at the dandy barber getting his silver fox shaped.  She was listening to the theme song of THE JEFFERSONS, knowing they were singing that "beans don't burn in the kitchen; beans don't fry on the grill--took a whole lotta turning, just ta get up dat hill" or something; regardless, she was enjoying her earliest memories; next, opened the kitchen drawer to get a fork for her nicely tossed salad, and found a turkey baster--she freaked.  All she could think about was Thanksgiving and gravy.  Cousin Stevie telling her all those years ago that seminal fluid was gravy.  That a man's genitalia made dark, stinky gravy.  She threw-up a little in her mouth, began to compulsively wash her hands; next, water-boarded herself in the kitchen sink till her mouth, throat, and some lung tissue were all cleansed.  Her face was red, and her hands shaking.  After a minute of hearing her own erratic heartbeat, the phone rang, and she immediately knew there are no coincidences in life--it had to be Cousin Stevie.  She answered the land-line, for she had no cell phone as EMFs freaked her out.  It was Cousin Stevie.

STEVIE
I hear ya moved in with Pap ya fruitcake.  Remember that time I got dry-humped by the Democrat dude?

   Kooky Lucy Frost hung up the phone, got on her knees and said a Hail Mary for all the polluted people.  Then, she took her anti-psychotic and laid on the couch alongside a tail-wagging Cleveland.  

Coydog?

Zany, Mercurial Ode To Saint Raphael

   "Zany, Mercurial Ode To Saint Raphael"

Bishop Sheen asks:  "Have you ever seen an angel with a beard?"
Thus, you only get into Heaven with a clean shave; hence, on cheekbones--shaving cream smeared;
Next, know that lovely and laughing Saint Raphael has a frequency around 600 THz,
Laughing at first if it hurts when you have a kidney stone and have to make a pee;
Alas, be not mad at the flux of ill,
For sickness makes Saints out of those that repent and follow His Will;
Indeed, the wavelength of love is a green light away,
If you continue to fast, mortify them senses, and without ceasing pray,
For greater love hath no man
Than to lay down his life--that is a Heavenly plan,
And my hand is a yarborough, being a perfect 8--
What you sow is what you reap--this is the meaning of futurity's fate--
If you give, you receive; moreover, death is not the mystery fella,
Life's the mystery, so let go with the purple of a perennial herb known as gentianella
And use the Source of ALL Consolation,
Don't make a sick soul's heart go quacking--
Feel with the conscience as did Tobias assisted by compulsive washing and an angel dog--
A Fool Card with Saint Raphael blurting:  "Catch the fish, for you are not a filthy hog."
So clean your feet and bury the dead,
Or burn them to ash and let the Phoenix rise instead;
Regardless, keep on trucking like Old School days,
When family was loved and not thrown into the oblivious haze
Of not having a hand to hold or a Priest for a visit,
And a dog to pet; plus, to sit outside in the summer and hear a frog go:  "Ribbit."
Nature is splendor beyond your smart phone
That you xertz information with, as you are the one truly alone.
Be like God, and know when every sparrow does fall,
And not even in your riches will you be ornamented as beautiful as a goldfinch, or be as tall
As the HIGHTOWER you need to find
In order to redesign,
Unlearning what you've learned,
For death is knocking babe, and how will you want to be treated during your turn? 
So love hope and all its wackadoodle craze,
Then marvel at Eucharistic Adoration, and escape your self-seeking maze--  
We all will need the laughter of Saint Raphael one day,
For Christ has a family, and being part of His family is the only way . . . 
  

Kooky Lucy Frost (20)

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (20)"
   
   Pap and Lucy were making an apple pie, using Granny Smiths, the neuroprotection of cinnamon (one of King Solomon's favorite spices) and tobacco; plus, a hand beat and rolled crust--Cleveland diligently observing in Socratic fashion, asking himself WHY, and wondering if he would get to lick his doggy chops after eating a piece.
   Lucy loved Pap so much, him having never changed to her, as some people say older folk do, not knowing they get better with time, as a baby girl changes into a woman, or a horny teenager without religion, going to orgy-esque frat parties and privately disturbing her own hymen with phallic objects like candles or by other grotesque means when puberty pugnaciously pounces upon her corporeal cravings since religion has not armed her with the strength of the spirit; indeed, the baby girl is no longer the same person, but skanky, like a mother that does not follow the Christ, not knowing that women are not the same as men, but nowadays--big mouths seem to be catching on for females as their intuition gets sucked into the vortex of the past by time travelers thieving away their innocence, but hey, they're empowered to become non-domesticated dogs, eating dead bodies off the crosses, but the Orthodox Jews would rescue and wrap their deceased criminals in spice due to the tradition of holy burial, saving them from a canine's hungry and hellish set of carnivorous chompers, after gravity came to be realized upon the cessation of crucifixion; thus, as a witness to this, Saint John the Eagle wrote of hellish hounds not inheriting Heaven in the Book of Revelation, the only Disciple not martyred, as he took care of the Holy Mother, or so it seems so obviously axiomatic, him only being exiled upon the island of Patmos, as some stories go.      
   Lucy would always adore Pap, never letting anybody touch him, laying down her life out of love, as commanded, jumping on the grenade, but in a protracted war, for she was not small fry, but enduring the dilemma of deliverance from the demons of a disorder so uncanny and unexplained that no normal mind could fathom such a furious phantom of frustration and freakishness.  
   Pap asked:  "You wanna put candles in it when we're done?"
   Lucy with:  "Is it anybody's birthday?"
   "No."  Pap said bluntly.  "I just feel like a birthday boy today, for what's more old school than a sporting dog and a forty-something little girl, who will always be my baby."
   Lucy blushed, wrapping Pap in a warm embrace, but avoiding his dancing cherry that dangled from a smiling grip of lips.