Toxic Bliss (5)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (5)"
    
   And a heart-shaped box from the visitors, glowing with a gleam unearthly, resonating from True Divinity, and the more-than-nuclear hands of angels making a delivery in 30 minutes or less.  Simon noticed nothing save the weight of his father in his arms, uplifting the downtrodden to a toilet bowl sanctuary, the patriarch's tears flowing with an almost irritation to both father and son, as they always did, testing true patience, and then, a bowel evacuation--a true release of internal pressure, and a child's smile on his demented, yet so beautiful face of gold.
   Simon returned him to his safety chair, fed him yogurt with strawberries, a glass of green tea, and a handful of pills to be choked down; next, he took his own, juggling two diseases; plus, his psychiatric interference, dismissing the political soundbites of Sunday morning news, where bullshit is always the topic of the day--they always say "Middle Class" and not FREAKING POOR PEOPLE, especially knowing that stress outshines genetics where so many cancerous things are concerned.
   No order of the day for angels, locked in eternal combat with the fallen, and it all denied, yet the sub-culture pushes and drops hints of tangible truth, yet dubbed pseudo-science and the rest, that American Green in the bank making it easier to golf, party, count your bland achievements, while denouncing with your pornographic glee, the impotence of others, working harder to please the benevolent hearts of those crowned by weakness.
   Next, Simon did find a smile upon glancing his thin, lean body; he was animated by something Otherworldly--had to be to complete all the labor he was engaged in, knowing his small frame transcended muscle--dude was all gristle, growing more grizzly steel by time uncounted.  

Toxic Bliss (4)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (4)"
   
   This was not Simon's first mystical rodeo; specifically, the Nordic females were no coyotes, but creatures assisting him in navigation beyond death, past that Sublime Perimeter, where the Otherworld exists--if not being ubiquitously cool and all encompassing, on some levels.  Regardless, Simon followed Frankie, the white coyote with one arctic-blue eye, and another shimmering-sunshine eye farther into the glacial pasture, way atop the equator.
    
SIMON
So, I guess it's not a cockroach and Keith Richards that can survive a nuclear war, but a coyote and Keith Richards.
   
FRANKIE
Be easy on the guy.  Being an addict doesn't mean you can't quit.  Statistics, blah.  The coyote is an anomaly.  After 30 years of heroin for the Rolling Stone, Jack Daniels is like mother's milk to him.
   
SIMON
Is he in touch with the Otherworld?

FRANKIE
Not in my district.  And those blonde angels, them Valkyries for your bravery of endurance--you have friends Simon.  It's just that those without eyes and ears cannot perceive us.

SIMON
Will you help my Dad?
   
FRANKIE
We have been--feeding you the mercy to do so.  Now come on--we should find some mice to pounce on.   

Toxic Bliss (3)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (3)"
    
   Simon braved the daymarish day; next, endured with little solace, brushing his father's teeth, feeding him peaches and chocolate ice cream; then, changing his steaming diaper, offering the sanctuary of a cleansing wipe, carried him to bed with his own weak gut and mind; furthermore, said a HAIL MARY and made the sign of the cross over him, hoping the garnet under his pillow would bring a higher level of cognizance and mobility.  Exhausted, Simon collapsed into his own bed, gave an ACT OF CONTRITION to God, and felt a glowing glimmer atop his forehead, and he was in the uncanny Otherworld.   A coyote, all white with one blue and one yellow eye approached, the Canis Latrans introduced itself as Frankie, it was in a glacial pasture, Northwards.   
    
FRANKIE
Don't touch anything unless invited.  Too, don't follow me.  The American Indian recognizes the Totem of trickster; nevertheless, more--stealing fire to gift to man, hiding our death in our tails.  You can't kill the coyote.  We thrive under negativity.  So must you. I will guide you to the Otherworld upon death--this is no trick.  You saved me Simon.  You brought God to your father, as the coyote will bring Grandfather, that Great Spirit to the people.

SIMON
What do I do now?

FRANKIE
Don't be sad.  Don't engage melancholy.  Adapt.  And we have the best digestive tracts on Terra's surface.  Toxic waste or an omnivorous diet, whatever, we give the Earth blessed scat.  

Toxic Bliss (2)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (2)"
   
On the Body of Christ did Simon sometimes munch,
And Coyotes can shape-shift in a fated crunch,
If you comprehend its Totem and wish on a Robin,
Knowing the Rook offers yearly reality, like an angler's bobber doing the bobbering;
Next, when you've pulled in any variety of flopping Bass,
All is Divine, like having a loving synergy with a Nordic-hued lass--
This is Simon's wishful thinking,
Him in clothed in much illness and never at his faith blinking,
For THEY visit him from the Otherworld,
Luminous females with girly curl swirls,
Tasting like colors--every hued sparkle defined--
Simon so alone, yet never in his mind.
And years ago a family member said he had no ass,
Being emaciated like a Confederate Soldier--fragile as glass;
Thus, he hated himself, knowing he was a true gimp,
Obsessing on their treatment--it making him corporeally limp.   

Toxic Bliss (1)

   "Toxic Bliss (1)"
    
   Simon squirmed weakly in his bed ornamented in STAR WARS sheets, with an R2-D2 quilt.  He knew he had to go to the gastroenterologist and get his Remicade Infusion, but with the painful anguish of a lower right-sided abdomen feeling like it was being painfully pinched; plus, with the dangerously glacial conditions on the road--he was a struggling soul, knowing the true definition of agony, and that he might miss his much-needed appointment.
   It didn't matter that his father was perishing slowly from a neurological disease, or that pernicious neglect had been offered to his disabled self as well as that of his beloved patriarch, for he had the affection of Nordic-appearing angels.
   Simon had been suffering with active colitis for twenty years, getting close to developing a cancerous large intestine; moreover, his social phobia and OCD (Flagship of anxiety disorders) caused illuminated imagery, not always benevolent, and he knew the fury of diabolical demons upon those baptized by the Holy Spirit, that Good Ghost being infused into the life-giving water contained upon much of Terra's creation.
   Regardless, he had to pull himself out of bed, reaching to the right side of his gut, the pain shooting through his colon like a large caliber bullet; also, a pinching sensation, that was no joy, but like a tainted meal from the nasty snappers of a rundown RED LOBSTER eatery.  What to do?  He prayed:
   "Holy Trinity, yes, You too Spiritus Sancti--help me; specifically, breathe life into my father's ill condition, as well as mine; furthermore, let us find a physician divine.  I love You.  I love the Living Christ.  But You Father--You are the epic architect, the intelligent design of our cognizance.  Please deliver peace to my Dad and my toxic gut and deranged mind, put in there a golden, healing light, and don't make that shimmering wealth of treasure be hard to find."  

Chris Christie bullies Marco Rubio

   
   "Chris Christie bullies Marco Rubio"
    
   Chris Christie has irreverently bullied Marco Rubio--but of course; that's what the guy does.  Shuts down bridges, not giving a damn about traffic phobia and his own state, crowning his monstrous self King of the World.  Says a 1st term Senator is a bad choice, like Obama.  What about Bill Clinton as Governor?  What a porn show his 8 years were.
   Regardless, Rubio was rising in the polls, and Christie, having hugged Obama in the past, diabolically calls him:  "The boy in the bubble."  Christ might offer:  "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth."     
   Moreover, Rubio wasn't stuck in repetition during his response.  He was simply pointing out that Obama is Harvard (IVY LEAGUE) smart, and knows specifically what he is doing!!! 
   Anyway, I would've taken a page out of Trump's vociferous book, looked the big bully in the eye, vocally probing:  "If you can't even control your appetite; next, how can you control Congress?"
   Obviously, obese people have problems.  As do all of us.  But just because you're a pseudo-Mob Boss, this deplorable axiom doesn't make it right to attack a smart, young man with a heart.  And BTW, I'm not voting for Rubio--I like Bernie.  It just made me sick how Christie doesn't think his crap smells, and it's probably the most toxic lard of all the Republicans.  
   Alas, in the kinda/sorta words of William Blake:  "People who control their emotions only do so because they have weak emotions."  I much rather see Trump make deals than slaughter myriads and initiate war.  You scratch my back; I'll scratch yours--Putin and China would go for that.  

Existence Womb (54)

   
   "Existence Womb (54)"
   
   Buck was intrinsically haunted by the spirit of the wolf before the Black Madonna became animated and prayed for his magnanimous Lycanthropy, way back in the early centuries when Saint Helena swayed her son Constantine Christways; moreover, he (Constantine) saw the alien/angelic cross flying through the azure sky--they've been dropping out of the heavens since before the construction of Sumerian Cuneiform.  And now Buck felt so ashamed of the lack of knowledge possessed by humans as quasi-academia drills bullshit into the brains of youth, the government insisting upon such, as George Bush knew:  "We are not ready to know--it would freak us to the core."  As would the knowledge of his search for King Solomon's Ring that was inscribed with the true name of the Abrahamic God, able to have an uncanny impact upon the fallen.  So, sitting in the Calgary snowfall, Miriam strutted up to him.
  
MIRIAM
Whatcha doin?

BUCK
All the supposed fables, and they still don't sink into the skulls of conscious men.  Language invented, and all cultures write of God and the lesser gods.  As if nothing is going on except the light of Bud Light and frat sex; next, a crummy job that defines you; then, you die, not even taking Pascal's wager to heart.  

MIRIAM
Relax, the coyote will bring the Great Spirit or Grandfather to the people.  And you're kinda like a coyote.

BUCK
The globe would be in a state of phobic terror.  The whole world put on anti-psychotics, like you were.

MIRIAM
And look how well I've adapted, like the coyote--adaption is true for most men.

BUCK
Save the power hungry.

MIRIAM
Screw those infected by the root of all evil.  There is more, and I'm gonna tell.
   
   Buck looked at her sternly, knowing this would mean the ignition of the angelic/human wars.