Jazzmin Flush (12)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (12)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush elaborately buried the deceased coyote after selling her grandma's silver bracelet enchanted by way of a Celtic Knot inscription--these deeds paying for transport and proper burial at a nearby pet cemetery.  It had thieved away from her impoverished extravaganza; nevertheless, the mystical mutt deserved such Franciscan respect after being murdered by her cowardish enemies, them--friends of the dreary dark.
   So, Jazzmin Flush forced herself into enjoyment for the rest of the day, joking with Fredrica and Thomas at the taco truck.  Thomas was back as part-time guac scooper, and Fredrica was constantly bossing him with sisterly love.  The day continued on wonderways, and Jazzmin Flush ultimately opened up about the vulgar vandalism.  Girthy Gilda overheard, and the firecrackerish, wheelchair-bound entrepreneur wasn't happy with Jazzmin's lack of anger.  Girthy Gilda was like:  "Suckers gotta pay!  Oh my, I need a coffin nail.  Thomas reach into my garter belt and grab my pack of LUCKY STRIKE--don't worry honey; they're toasted."
   "No way in heaven Girthy Gilda--I'm practically a monk!"  Thomas cringed.
   Jazzmin Flush and Fredrica broke out in comical laughter; then, Fredrica kindly pulled out her own organic butt and ignited the cherry with a pocket-sized lightsaber type doohickey for Girthy Gilda--Jazzmin Flush couldn't help but wonder, RETALIATION, but that didn't seem nice, or . . . 

Jazzmin Flush (11)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (11)"  
  
   Jazzmin Flush escorted her elegant soul back basementways, her winged ankles fluttering past the en vogue vagabonds till descending into her humble habitat.  Upon keying open entrance--she was meant to be disturbed.
   Her little shanty was trashed--FREAK/LESBO cruelly painted on her walls, her pamphlets shredded, and a dead, bloody coyote, its throat slashed laying in her futon.  She resisted tears, observing Swiss and his mice pack, like sublime fairies, weeping in prayer around the Canis latrans--she approached the alive-in-spirit animal, closing its mystical eyes, knowing:  They envy what you represent.  You are rich in the rainbow glow of spirit.  As a thief in the day, all they did was increase your psychological steel and pin a vibrant ribbon on your lovely breast--a magical milkshake that will one day feed the mouths of eternal babes.   

Sainte Marie

   
   "Sainte Marie"
   
Priez pour nous, pauvres--
Like the Son, love the pauper;
Moreover, not an Oedipus Complex sad,
Yet seeking His Father's Goodness and Glad;
Indeed, Woman--My time has not yet come;
Thus, to mimic the Christ is to luv thy Mum.

Jazzmin Flush (10)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (10)"   
  
   Jazzmin Flush and Thomas strolled the angelic walkways till upon the dieselsmellsound of a singular muffler taco taco--and it bragged of an 8 cylinder underneath.  There, Girthy Gilda reclined comfortably in her well-lubricated wheelchair, and not by the snake oil sold by those adorned in multiple masks.  Like:  "Hey dude, do you have Multiple Personality Disorder, or are you just enchanted by the creepy adder and ornamented in a mask?"
   Anyway, Girthy Gilda was mercurial in her lovely thanks to Thomas and Jazzmin Flush for helping with the taco truck, for Girthy Gilda owned it.  A large and in charge lady, capable of pooping a Twinkie on a neurological disorder's command, but it didn't BOSS her, for she was sweetly haunted by God's Good Ghost; indeed, Girthy Gilda had the Holy Spirit to wipe her, wash her, brush her teeth, give her green and white tea infused; plus, exercise her and remember Odin's burden on the tree, where he was self-pierced for love of his children, seeking the protective Runes and the charity of giving poetry.
   Girthy Gilda knew not negligence or neglect, nor negativity, it infused into people by iniquity as they had no spiritual steel.  Girthy Gilda was heaven sent.  Forging tacos for the common man; moreover, the uncommon man, such as Thomas, him locking himself away for months, like a quasi-saint in labor, awaiting the birth pangs of becoming, and being, a true erudite.
   Yup, the dieselsmellsound of tacos cooked throughout the City of Angels. and German/Austrian cyborgs were there, along with the late influx of hard-working Mexicans, and the Divine Mix that is AMERICA.   

She-Ra dominates 1980's cartoons

    
   "She-Ra dominates 1980's cartoons"
   
Dude had a high-tech bow that would become elongated and grow;
Moreover, too elegantly fine; thus, they cancelled the show,
And the Christmas Special when Skeletor saved the day
Trumps all this crappy crayon cartoonist can sloppily say.
  

Jazzmin Flush (9)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (9)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush had uncanny, fruit-loopish empathy--to her own sorrow; nevertheless, it was the glorious intent of a sublime everlast.  As a result, the magnetic magic of the poor man's train pulled her closer to the diesel-puffing taco truck and into Thomas' past misery due to myriads of crusty crab curses.  Like an unscrupulous attorney, son of a pseudo-physician inspired by greed, back in the day, poisoning his entrails and hoping infertility cause his vociferous sister spilled sour grapes and was ridden with monkey-hungry envy. 
   Thomas endured as did Sir Gawain, and Jazzmin Flush knew--he would die again, happily paying with his little life as insisted Christ:  "Resist not evil."  Yup, desire, freakishly, to lose it.  Simple Franciscan humility, hungering only to be a pregnant lady craving a deep dish with garlic crust covered in anchovies and gummi bears.
   Life is over in the blink of an eye--for everybody.  Those that curse, waking tomorrow with a tumor on their macabre dreams, unless of course the mercy of a car crash veers their way; regardless, the optimism here:  God knows everything.  Your full mind like a computer He is plugged into, keeping a Divine Diary of every singular and complex thought and action crossing your soul.  God knows EVERYTHING.  There is no sweeping your mustard stain under magic carpet.  The Divine Justice System awaits every soul--Jazzmin Flush just hoped Thomas would be forgiven for his uncouth appreciation of watermelon in naked, pulsating fashion.  Well, it was only once, and he imagined an android lady without prospect of consciousness.  He crazily crafted her liquid-like legs in his mind.   Still, he was a nice boy, having resisted the urge to deliciously dream of his 7th grade Math teacher--she and her seductive pantyhose would not haunt him.
   Jazzmin Flush let out a hopeful exhale, and the train halted, floating on the Earthy air that was, indeed, God's Good Breath.    

Jazzmin Flush (8)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (8)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush elegantly escorted Thomas through the imprisoned underground till upon the levitation tracks of a public transport train--arm under his, their weird synergy made entrance, and they took their seats near the caboose.  There, they listened as an elderly man holding a bottle of ketchup gave verbal confession on his holo-phone to a robotic physician.
   
MAN HOLDING KETCHUP BOTTLE
Look Doc, I've had chronic diarrhea with blood for nearly twenty years now--and I still don't mind living too much.  Thanks to the Libertarians allowing me medical herb for my service as a man--it keeps me kick'n.  And the wolves hate us for it.  But we ain't ask'n for much.  Just a seat at the public park, interesting people to observe, and a transistor radio for entertainment.  We cripples don't wanna rule the world, but we have RIGHTS to exist.  Once the wolves do away with us; then, who will they have to pick on?  Like my psychotic God told me:  "Don't worry--not on My watch."
  
   Jazzmin blushed with a grin--so did Thomas.
  
JAZZMIN
And the small, solitary Vulpes vulpes ensnared the wolf into lovemake; thus, the coyote liveth!