"Saint Raphael, Tobias, and Baseball"
Saint Raphael, arch-angel; specifically, medicine of God--
Thanks to you for offering healing balm, and Tobias was awed;
Moreover, imbibing a veggie dog and watching the awesome Angels play,
Does smoothly soothe the rancorous root of demonic dismay.
"Jazzmin Flush (34)"
Jazzmin Flush got the nefarious news from Thomas as they strongly strolled into Alberta's Galactic Spaceport. Fortunately, he had sniffed out some precious gemstones and traded them for funds to fuel their flight back to the lovely City of Angels. Jazzmin Flush was considerably crushed concerning Girthy Gilda's dilemma; moreover, genuinely angered about the taco truck being sold and Fredrica's homeless status; however, Thomas had communicated with his ultra-cool sister, and Fredrica was now residing in Jazzmin's basement, watching out over Swiss and his semi-furry friends.
When seated in the angular spacecraft, Dean Martin crooning over the internal fuselage speakers, an elderly man with silvery-gray hair spoke to her, him completely alive and billowing bright with a pair of star-spangled eyes. "You are Miss Jazzmin Flush. You write those pamphlets for the homeless."
Jazzmin Flush, more than curious. "How does anybody know that?'
The gray-haired man smiled gently. "When you write, and weirdly, no matter what the scale--someone is always reading. Anyway, I'm an editor with the L.A. Derelict. I think you should and could assist in writing our obituaries. I'll put in a word."
Jazzmin Flush blushed. "Paid to write? But I didn't go to college."
The old man continued with his meek smile. "Neither did I, or Hemingway, or half of the most keen and brilliant bards."
Jazzmin Flush turned to Thomas. "Are you listening to this? He wants me to be a cub reporter, for real. Can you believe it?"
Thomas snorted, half asleep. "Don't be freaked. You're just pretty is all--that's why you're going to get the job; plus, when you open a can of poetic worms, don't be surprised if you catch a fabulous fish."
Jazzmin was like: "Now I'll be able to afford Dodger tickets. Holy Lasorda! I've always wanted to taste a delicious Dodger Dog."
"Jazzmin Flush (33)"
Jazzmin Flush safely secure in wolf-forged igloo, reclining in REM, dreaming of quixotic fairies pouring her the cup of life while the bells are sweetly ringing. Thomas outside in the glacial conditions, digesting an arctic hare, blood-stained beard stoic and grateful; next, trouble telepathically finding Girthy Gilda; thus, he mystically communicates with Fredrica, his sister.
THOMAS
Where's Girthy Gilda?
FREDRICA
Oh Thomas--it's a daymare. Her family views her as a living burden in that wheelchair. They let her sit in urine, refuse her entertainment, changing the holo-tube onto their preference--loud gunfire and Pop-Culture Shows that freak her further phobic. Don't they know--she needs to be rubbed with sage and herbs, fed healthy, exercised, played cards with, taken outside, and most of all--loved. They've had her dead for four years since her diagnoses. Her existence infuriates them while they thieve her money, thinking she's not conscious, putting it away in their pockets and insurance policies for them to one day collect and plan their selfish pleasure; indeed, champagne will be flowing when she passes.
THOMAS
Can't they even let her watch WHEEL OF FORTUNE and take her outside underneath daystar's luminous glow. These things relax and give spirit to the elderly.
FREDRICA
They despise lame existence. They're willing her to death.
THOMAS
Once I get to Alberta, I'll need money for an anti-gravity, commercial flight to California.
FREDRICA
I'm living in a box next to Jazzmin's basement. Girthy Gilda's family sold the taco truck. They've got her doped up on a perpetual prescription of nerve pills.
THOMAS
I'm sorry sister. I'll huff it with Jazzmin. So, get Girthy Gilda's diary. Like the weirdo poet did, make copies and bury them throughout the city. Years from now, when her sublime ghost haunts the good glam of humanity as her words are unearthed--it will give delicious birth to the potent and patient losers--a cause for the individual.
FREDRICA
Yes. The individual always transcends the collective nag of it all.
THOMAS
Always. Because sometimes--the individual becomes us all.
"Jazzmin Flush (32)"
Jazzmin Flush awoke to a cruel choke, Thomas swiftly behind her, squishing her belly till the obnoxious nightmare departed, as if evaporating into the mystic quicksand of it all.
"Holy Fire. The Pentagram. Southwards. Heat." Jazzmin Flush moaned.
Thomas released her. "We are ultra-sensitive to their envy. It haunts us as it did the Poor-In-Spirit Poet."
Jazzmin Flush pondered. "You mean him, the weirdo?"
Thomas nodded in solemn fashion. "They impersonated him on the ancient Internet. Blurred his photos and erased them. Blocked his publications. Hacked all his electronic devices. Followed him and parked outside of his house, violating. Got to his family and physicians. Wicked women, their friends, local politicians, filthy rich. Thanks to the Feds and their cyber crime units--the truth was unearthed. Locals hate the Feds, unless the liberty-loving Feds dream of the Bulldog. Ultimately, he killed himself in charismatic style, unless it was murder."
Jazzmin Flush knew to be sane and silent. Evil always monitoring and wickedly watching, invading freedom and souls born unique. False education, locking you in an established, twisted system, forsaking the autodidacts like Paine and Franklin, both outshining John Adams, him secretly purchasing Paine's literature off of the Colonial Press, though he dubbed such prose as possibly anarchistic. Whatever.
"You should chill out a bit." Thomas noticing Jazzmin's well-deserved paranoia. "I'm gonna contact Girthy Gilda telepathically. We need quicksilverish escort back to California. Can hike it to Alberta; then, get an anti-gravity flight to the City of Angels. For, they know we're here."
"Hike it? Again?" Jazzmin Flush worried she wouldn't endure.
Thomas grinned a sparkling canine incisor. "Don't worry. I'll magically morph wolfways and pull you on a sled. What girlfriend doesn't want to tell her boyfriend to MUSH?"
Jazzmin Flush smiled pristine platinum back at him.
"Jazzmin Flush (31)"
Jazzmin Flush waited patiently, incisors salivating, kinda, as Thomas went out on werewolf safari, wrangling up some whale blubber--he told her it was welcome to the tummy if cooked well-done, for humans of course, but he preferred it raw, clinging to some nutrient-packed bone. As a strange girl, as a girl regardless, Jazzmin Flush was not too thrilled about hanging out in an ice castle and eating whale blubber, but times were beautifully bizarre, and the sentient tissue of whales was definite brain food.
Then, an energy-echoing explosion blast through an ice wall, sending obnoxious sound and crystal cubes of frozen water precipitating all around; next, a southern-sculpted man, resonating the proud face of a downward-lipped slave owner came strutting into Thomas' habitat, smiling wickedly with corn cob teeth, dastardly offering: "Hello sweet darling, girlfriend of the ice wolf. My name is Slippery Slim--the complete manifestation of all your impatience and worries. I'm a hot blizzard of trouble, and I'm here to cage you Southwards. Yep, we still be fighting the Civil War, when gray-bearded generals terrorized the precious glue of American Foundation--the South shall rise again."
Jazzmin Flush knew peace was just an illusion, or her lack of faith, at the moment, had fibbed to her. "Mr. Slippery Slim, please don't give me the Luke Dukes; it sounds like the stomach flu."
Slippery Slim pulled an ancient NASCAR tire outta his wool coat and sat atop it. "We never let women win. Especially the good-looking ones. Unless of course they're securely residing out West in California--land of the fruits and nuts."
"Jazzmin Flush (30)"
Encompassed in the Mystical Ice Castle crafted by the Good God, Jazzmin Flush and Thomas enter into a revealing symposium.
JAZZMIN FLUSH
What happened to you when you were younger? I mean, why are you so dedicated to God and belief in things Divine?
THOMAS
Is is that bad? I know that I'm weird--or that the world is made up of scandalous scum wearing masks, designing systems and myth to enslave those not willing to submit to creepy people.
JAZZMIN FLUSH
Just tell me Thomas. Please.
THOMAS
Look, Fredrica and me had it okay. But my Mom's boyfriend sent me to Protestant school, even though Mom was Catholic--she submitted, as always. There, all they did for three years, before I ran away, was put down the Mother of Christ. Gasps on their expressions when mentioning Her--as if She was a wicked witch. But I knew--I knew that I belonged to the Holy Family--only God owned me--not a religious movement responsible for emasculating the Angels and Saints.
JAZZMIN FLUSH
That's it? What about the girls?
THOMAS
The girls. Holy smoke. Coming over to my house at thirteen, getting naked and expecting me to lay with their fragile youth. And I was curious. This one girl took off her Carolina-Blue panties, and I wanted to smell them--a wolf thing. Well, when I examined them closely--there was a big poop stain in the crotch area--I mean it was smeared by creamy, fecal matter. I couldn't appreciate the color blue for years after that, or any unclean lass. And so, after I resisted their arsenal of sexual desire, they started calling me fag, and spreading the rumor everywhere. Fredrica was devastated. Then, I thought I might be gay--they convinced me of it, for a bit. But I overcame. Instead of them blabbering about me all the time, their spurned desires and their sour grapes, they should have confessed to doctors that they couldn't stop sexing other young boys--that THEY were the ones with the problem. Anyway, I just thought it was going to be like the 1950's. Marry your high school sweetheart, and be a happy man. But when young girls get denied sexually, they'll do anything to hurt you--poison you to infertility, spread rumors, whatever. Their pride is disgusting. Well, now, I have a true friend; I have you.
JAZZMIN FLSUH
I am your friend Thomas; I love you.
THOMAS
Fortunately for you--the arctic wolf isn't prone to ticks and fleas.
"Baseball--now: American Underdog"
Iroquoian language forged Ohio,
And Johnny Bench might have spurned a hot dog, enjoying better a gyro;
Alas, Mike Piazza could catch and hit--maybe better;
Regardless, adore the sport--as comfortable to watch as wearing a cashmere sweater.
