Voltaic Junkyard--Pulse

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Pulse"
   
   Sheila was off on her own, not recklessly rambling through the junkyard, yet strutting with a bit of erratic mercury, which can be erratic, and we all need to control and maximize our PULSE, crafting a better ON and OFF signal by simple DC--and what happened to SUPERMAN peanut butter Sheila pondered, and in practical fashion, going to Peter Pan creamy, as it smoothly spread hearty health save to those with certain allergies, or not--if that's what they are.
   Sheila's relay, in a way, that small electrical switch to contain her high-voltage passion, was a cool canine, sloppy in the jowls, yet the extra-heat made the dog's saliva clean and meticulous, in a sense that you can let a dog kiss you, unless he or she has just sniffed some suburban-yard stool.  The park stool is much more toxic--you don't know where those dogs have been.
   Sheila thought about ordering a pizza with pineapple and plenty of copper-infused pepper.  They have always put salt and pepper on the table for a nice and pleasant reason.  America can be very nice.  Very nice.
   Sheila ordered the pizza, and the Italian dude dubbed Dominic, armed with enough store-bought grease in his hair to keep the lice away, as even the urban-dwellers gather contagion, like the vermin rats in NY, and the City should be glad coyotes can clean up that shit.  Maybe it's a sign.  Let wildlife roam freely too, and hire somebody in rubber gloves to clean up their poop--preferably a college graduate drunk on Kool-Aid.  
   Sheila found a futon in a small trailer-type of shelter.  There was a black and white with rabbit ears.  She cranked on the local grunge.  Should've ordered tacos--she thought, reluctantly, tasting the atomic crunch of what could have been, and yet--is.  

Voltaic Junkyard

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard"
   
   Sheila didn't give a damn about them heavy metals, not even aluminum.  She lived in the junkyard; moreover, the junkyard, that scrap metal--lived in her, residing in her impenetrable forge of freaky.
   Sheila was jet black till a decent cascade, not quite hitting her angelic shoulders, where gristle left her female, though a man's heart did beat for justice underneath, her infertility causing this radiating she-male magic.
   Her brother Adam was the first--the genesis of a crazy family, transcending dysfunctional by being born off the grid--for the grid was in them.  Bio-hacking old school, using shamanistic trust in nature, never tempting the Four Winds, knowing even that arctic life never reflexes in relax, for there is always cold energy, which crafts a more fantastic matter.
   Adam and Sheila never got many customers.  And when they did--it meant trouble.  Or a granny with a non-spiked pumpkin pie and some archaic Purple Passion stops by for Moonlit culmination, yet since the Sun always rises--it is never over.  Energy, like God, just won't go away.   

On an Eagle's Wings

  
   "On an Eagle's Wings"
   
   Boy--is that QB (Foles) accurate.  Eagles versus Patriots--is America speaking?  Didn't even Rome revere the Eagle?  Society has always been:  The Eagle versus the Snake.  In symbol and allegory.
   I got the message, until I saw the half-time show, thinking:  "What the hell is going on?"  I expected Optimus Prime and Bumble Bee to transform at any moment; next, I got dizzy, took some California Poppy to relax my nervous system and slay the pain; then, I passed out with some organic tobacco in my mouth.  Couldn't they get Elvis to do the half-time show?  People still see him--here and there.
   Oh well, gotta stay in touch with the children.  And even though Brady is a loyal member of AARP, it is good to see that the elderly can still toss a gaseous pigskin.
    

Beach Boys- I get Around

Luke's Lightsaber Training

OB/GYN--what?

   
   "OB/GYN--what?"
   
    I'm so glad the government spies on us.  Is there also torture, gang-stalking, ELF weaponry, and fire trucks loaded with hookers smoking Luckies?
   It's like World War Z out there.  Two old ladies were at the comic book shop today, arguing with the young worker concerning Trump.  I got my super-hero literature, and made quick to bolt; however, the young girl, the worker, asked:  "Why are you wearing gloves?"
   In her mind, I told her:  "I always wanted to be a gynecologist."  
   Beyond plenty things crooked--it's like Soylent Green out there, and I don't even carry a .44 Magnum like Heston.  

Scapular

  
   "Scapular"
   
   It has to be wool or something; plus, the Priest has to agree for you to wear it.  Sounds passionate and celibate of sorts.  But what goes along with it--I am unfamiliar.
   As late-night radio and actual print media inform you--there is something real in religion.  Still, I see Jesus as a man who spoke to nature as well, and He did.  The American Indian is not a sinner for merging with the power of an Earth rarely corrupted by the funky of finances.  Still, there was brutality.  It has been true with all.
   Save maybe having a slight devotion to disciplined reading of another culture's spiritual beliefs, there is nothing wrong in curiosity, unless you put any other before the One, True God.  However it goes, the God of Christ seems best.  Mercy, yet even Jesus walked away from the rich man without a look, him only following the 10 Commandments; however, even that sounds full of smooth salvation.  Grandma always said to live by the Ten Commandments.  My Aunt asked her to name the Ten Commandments, and heck--I can only give ya about 8, or possibly 9.
   So, do something for your Church, if you can.  Yet this season, dip your hands into the sanitizer, as well as the Holy Water.
  High Frequency rock and roll is not imagined as lyrics go, but the frequency, that constant rift of energy, which smooths out the edges with electricity. 
  Regardless, if able--pass out a turkey to the poor or something.  Even I should take my own advice, sometimes.