"A Yankee Coyote Observed Near Grant's Tomb"
A Yankee Coyote observed near Grant's tomb;
Thus, erase not the mystical, and acknowledge the boon,
Knowing: pity and mercy a soul complete;
Hence, keep your vision on love and heaven you'll meet,
For life is but the blink of an eye,
And leering at temporary power is like thieving your own pie.
"Jazzmin Flush (48)"
Donald Flush attempting to explain and visually-enlightened comedic with two, lime-green gummi bears squished between his pearly-stained and aligned chompers. "Look--like with the trans-gender types during that metamorphosis of physical revolution, or the Reagan-era 1980's with pierced punk bands and all that loud crap screaming from their imaginary faces. This is the future. We grow. We accept. It becomes normal without blinking or thinking weirdly about it, Plus, it was only certain parts of the American Region that fought to accept growth, not constricting it, conservative-ing it; regardless, somehow--it all worked for us--the United States."
Rascal thought she might need baby powder mixed with aloe for her butt scratch thing she had going on. "You're totally right dude--uh, Mr. Donald Flush. Now come on in, and bring a large pizza with blood sausage. Your daughter is stranger than you. Can you believe it--she has a pet mouse named Swiss. Unfreakable . . ."
"Jazzmin Flush (47)"
Like a swift spy--Rascal got on the cosmic case of Jazzmin's Dad. The coydog girl was ecstatic that she could help her new friends, like: "Can I? Can I Thomas? Please, can I?"
And Jazzmin agreed. Rascal should investigate the pizza delivery guy. As a result, Rascal rounded Jazzmin's basement, getting on the asphalt ballet of it all. Walking with a girl's skip towards the magnificent, 1957 Chevy. She made no secret in her approach. All smiles. Wagging her metaphorical tail. Dude in car blushed, and Rascal knew it was Jazzmin's Dad. Right up on him, she asked, "I wanna know if you're the father of Miss Jazzmin Flush?"
The man responded, "I am Donald Flush. And yes I am."
"No crap about that dude--you just owned it. But I figured your name was Danny." Rascal said.
"Plenty of people think they have me figured out." Donald Flush admitted. "But do they know the bard?"
"You're sounding waaaay wacky now guy."
"What's wrong with a little literary adventure. No machine gun sentences. Plus, Jazzmin should know."
Rascal scratched her bottom--just for a second. "Know what?"
"That her father was rich and brilliant once, a great mathematician." Donald smiling, almost with pride. "Alas, stolen away, thieved and hijacked by a shrew yet to be tamed. Like to a stepdame or a dowager. Long withering out a young man's revenue."
Rascal couldn't help it. Weirded out. Scratched her bottom again. "You got any more gummi bears in that hot rod?"
"Jazzmin Flush (46)"
"You can't have a torrid Tolstoy story, written in eloquent sequences, before being divinely spawned everlasting and eternal--without a pizza delivery guy as a main character!" Thomas cried.
Jazzmin Flush didn't blush, but passionately pushed back: "The L.A. Derelict published my first obituary on Girthy Gilda, but--I'm not a novelist. I'll never be a novelist. I don't wanna be a novelist!"
Thomas sideways, sideburns growing Wolverineways. "Just check it out, will ya? This dynamic dude dubbed Danny--he may be your father. Why else would he deliciously deliver an anchovy deep dish decorated with baby, multi-colored gummi bears?"
"He thinks I'm pregnant." Jazzmin Flush biting her lip at the resonating remembrance of an entire rainy year.
Thomas continued: "He's got your goldenish hair, same almond-shaped eyes, and his 1957 Chevy with two, mind you--TWO, four barrels is constantly rumbling, like tough pit bulls, outside of your basement habitat. And he's too much of a geezer to be stalking you. I would sniff out that testosterone-laced crap, easily. I can smell him, and he smells like you--this dude is your Dad."
"But he's a pizza delivery guy?" Jazzmin Flush snarled.
"Now that you are a hot, sexy reporter--you think you're too good for him?" Thomas imperatively probed poignantly.
"Okay--I officially hate myself." Jazzmin blowing a strand of gold out of her eyes. "And I do love gummi bears."
"Cats and Mexican Lasagna"
When I first read that "real" cats don't eat lasagna, I was a bit perplexed;
Next, a devil-worshiping, teenage girl, concerning me--hexed;
As a result, I got bubbly and baffled; plus, sincerely bizarre,
Morphing into a quasi-gourmet, suburban kitchen-cooking star;
Moreover, I artistically crafted a Mexican Lasagna,
Using mild salsa, so as to not scald mama.
"Jazzmin Flush (45)"
Jazzmin Flush royally regretted not being a more fantastic friend for the great Girthy Gilda, remembering how ruff ruff Rascal had recently reminded her of the mystical coyote's reason for altruistic, canine-existence: a tortured teacher of death, perhaps--giving old age to the human folk in order for them to make super-symmetrical their affairs, affording them with sublimity before being birthed into the unearthly Otherworld.
Jazzmin Flush did not shed Freya's tears over Girthy Gilda's tiny tombstone, but should have, crying golden--though it lovingly lurked within her corporeal stronghold, that California wonderland know as her total, pulsating physiology--yet one day she will be rewarded and reminded of her regal wealth--inherited by the fabulous fable of a father. For now, she knelt down, placing an electric-white tin of mint-flavored snus over Girthy Gilda's grave.
"Jazzmin Flush (44)"
Thomas was a bit twisted at the moment, yet beyond billowing blood flow concerning Rascal's hearty scent--it was all terribly tragic--the raunchy roller-coasters of peaks and valleys in life's perpetual ping-pong game. And as Jazzmin, Fredrica, and Rascal entered into Girthy Gilda's modest shanty, Thomas was protectively shielding the elderly Saint with his transfigured body, glaring at the female threesome, having washed his hands in obsessive scourge before closing the dead lady's eyes and placing coins above for the ferryman.
Rascal blurted, "She knew, I surmise, that everybody's poop stinks. Never shamed by others."
"More than that." Thomas spoke solemnly. "She simply cared about the little guy. The hobbits and hoboes spinning the wheels of life by little yet respected labor. Hers was the pigskin scramble by fast-footed Flutie over the Canadian tundra, adoring the great games played by the underdog so much that she gave good will to the non-deserving. Folk like us."
"Why put us down?" Fredrica pondered loudly.
Thomas looked his sister in the eye, saying, "If you never fall down; then, you'll never know how to pull yourself up. Every battery needs recharged by the tragedies of life. The Cubs will win--one golden day."
