Existence Womb (59)

   
   "Existence Womb (59)"
   
    Snow was crisply falling in unique-styled flakes.  Miriam was weeping.  The Boss 302 rumbling at an angry idle.  Who was she kidding?  The Virgin Mary?  Miriam knew that she, herself, was no Saint, especially not the Queen of Angels.   
   Regardless, in physics, "Superpositioning" is being in many places at once.  Christ was potent and powerful, yet is He truly ubiquitous?  Could He be in all places at once?  Hear every prayer?
   Thus, if He could not, which is theoretically possible in theology; next, maybe the myriad of Angels and Saints could listen--give that holy ear and offer a vociferous request to the Christ, His Father, and the Highly Mysterious Holy Spirit--so not worshiped and neglected, but full of LOVE and constant gifts of spiritual benevolence.
   Miriam remembered Buck calling It Spiritus Sancti--the Good/Holy Ghost.  As a result of this sublime reverie, Miriam lit a hypertoxic cigarette in the warm muscle car, glared at the shanty and her bizarre life; then, prayed to the Holy Spirit.  Asking the Good Ghost to make her life more full of magnanimous engagement--helping and assisting other freaks like herself.  All in the holy style of mercy.   

Existence Womb (58)

   
   "Existence Womb (58)"
   
    Miriam was in a cerebral fog as she nervously piloted the powerful Boss 302 through the fluff of snow, exiting Calgary, on the glacial prairie path towards the fancy shanty she shared with her brave father and Buck, the Templar werewolf, animated to change by way of the sublimity of the Holy Spirit--hey, fangs can be a benevolent thing, at certain times of violent contagion.
   Anyway, she was freaked by her conversation with Brother Puck, and how he appeared out of nowhere.  For nobody was supposed to know of their habitat location, way up here, Northwards; moreover, the death of Christ was freaking her too.  Are Christians painted with a bloody target on their backs by the negativity of the fallen angel, now the adder?  And she thought of the Virgin Mary's suffering, watching Her Son tortured till a painful culmination of His corporeal self--for the possible phase of the time being.  
   Does anybody use the ANGELUS, that Catholic devotion celebrating the miraculous and unearthly Incarnation?  And how Saint Mary was visited by a linguistically cool Arch-Angel named Gabriel, and maybe more supernatural beings from the Celestial Hierarchy if we look into the non-canonized Gospels, such as the Protoevangelium--it also called the Gospel of James, or the Gospel of Mary, these texts leaving hints at Her potent power during early adolescence.  
   Regardless, Miriam must steel herself Maryways, getting her pestering hormones away from Buck's lean body mass, and becoming more like a peasant girl with uncanny greatness, Her bravely enduring the death of Her Savior Child.  

Existence Womb (57)

   
   "Existence Womb (57)"   
    
   Miriam, the very cold, Calgary bag boy nicely packing her Boss 302 and politely exiting, ignited a cherry of a coffin nail, inhaling the sacred toxicity; next, noticed a haunting specter of the past, Brother Puck, a big load of tobacco behind his puffy lip.   
   
MIRIAM
WTF?
   
BROTHER PUCK
You know how John Barleycorn died?  A glorious yeast infection!  Bacchus was not the true god of wine; Christ is the GOD of new wine.  Old wine skins cannot hold His New Wine.  And He says:  "I am thirsty."  Yes, upon His immortal death.  Once, in America, a woman called 9/11 to report her irritating and manic yeast infection.  Too, I've had a saliva duct stone, epididymitis, and mushrooms growing out of my crapper.  They were not magic mushrooms; I didn't attempt to imbibe them.  Yes, I don't have Sleep Paralysis like you, my mystical Miriam.  But I've endured harshly.  Done it smoothly and bravely.  Remember the Christ's vocal landmark of a vociferous, Universal Church reporting:  "He was obedient, even unto death."
  
MIRIAM
   Squinted hesitation futureways.      

Existence Womb (56)

   
   "Existence Womb (56)"
    
   A frozen prairie.  A cosmopolitan city.  Calgary, housing a bit over a million cold folks, drinking beer, imbibing a legal remedy, and polite as ice cold shit--a paradox, but greatness.
   Miriam battled the snowy roads with the Boss 302, using the low-end torque to rotate and manipulate her way into a grocery store parking lot.  She fell on her butt, once, for a sec, upon the icy parking lot; next, she giggled, kept her Templar/Bowie knife concealed in case spooks would offer an assault, and marched gallantly, once cautiously picking herself up off of the glacial conditions.
   She was soon to fall in love with hockey.  Remembering Putin play on television, somewhere over near Russia, and him never getting roughed up a bit; plus, with the CFL, sports Northwards were the crazy rage, all gladiatorial in a hard-hitting nature, to architect a solid man, a Nordic Warrior braving the beasts of the field, perishing without pity, yet accepting the hands of blonde, glimmering angels.
   Miriam kept her raven-haired head under a colorful toboggan that boasted of the CFL's Calgary Stampeders; indeed, she was gelling with smooth mercury.    

Existence Womb (55)

   
   "Existence Womb (55)"
   
   Miriam eyed the glacial city of Calgary from approach through the windshield of the Boss 302, it fishtailing through the slow Canadian traffic.  She was alone.  Buck and Luke giving her a chance at independent girl liberty.
   They also gave her a Jim Bowie type of knife with a red Templar Cross stamped on it.  She'd prefer a shotgun, being like Ali McGraw with Steve McQueen, pumping explosive ammo at the bad guys, whatever.  Buck only needed fangs, fur, and fright; moreover, the Templar Knights (Order of Solomon's Temple) knew how to engage in combative anthropology, even with primitive weaponry.  
   Those wise-fighting Templar Knights, disbanded by Pope Clement during 1312, the Year of Our Lord--they still existed, getting up everyday in fantasy land, living more in the clouds than on Earth, always looking for the allegory of the factual Holy Grail.  
   Anyway, Miriam was going to buy some groceries and cigarettes.  Heard the coffin nails were more expensive, up here, in the Great White North.  At least the prisons and health care were superior.  

Toxic Bliss (9)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (9)"
    
Thus wends the weird of corporeal culmination;
Hence, does exit the Ghosts from every Magnanimous Nation;
Regardless, to live in the Hereafter is an event for most mortal souls,
Having to face the Divine Justice System, yet the verbal confession of Christ pays tolls;
Therefore, have no freakish phobia concerning crossing over,
For goes the 1980's Rock Star for never being sober;
Alas, sick is sick, and medicine should be mercifully allowed,
For all conditions will ultimately lead to a death-faced shroud.
   
* * * * * * * *
   
   Just a kinda/sorta axiomatic quote from Wernher von Braun as memorized from the first aspects of Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, like this:

   "Nature knows not extinction--all it knows is transformation.  Everything science has taught me, and continues to teach me, is that there is a spiritual existence after death."   
  

Toxic Bliss (8)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (8)"
    
   Simon contacted his neighbor dubbed Buzz.  Dude delivered pizzas for a local Mom and Pop pie establishment--yes, they were true, hairy Italians, mixed a little with French; hence, the delicious and exotic pies were to be elegantly delivered, and Buzz was the man.
   Buzz had just ran some anchovy miles in his Dodge Dart.  He had improved intake; plus, outtake, redesigning the exhaust in his parents' garage, like Iron Man, and like a Middle-Aged Jack Kerouac--he lived with his Mom, Dad too though.   Anyway, Buzz had just dropped off a steaming anchovy with Gummi Bear pizza, and, extra cheese, "please" said the pregnant housewife, so single, and Buzz was in love, getting an Alexander Hamilton tip, ironed, or so it seemed, and very very crispy, totally so.  Yup, it was love, and the single housewife blew him a kiss before hungrily opening the box like a devouring wolverine and burning her esophagus on the hot cheese, but still going:  "Yummy."
   So, Buzz was Simon's babysitter for his frail father.  And having trust in the quirky neighbor, Simon took a lime-green taxi to the gastroenterologist for his yearly colonoscopy.  As always--it was a nightmare.  The day before always consisted of torturous cleansing, crapping poop juice until running clear, and with it, a bit of slimy gore included in the runny pseudo-stool.  If only he lived in the American West, they'd try cannabis oil to reduce inflammation and pain; then, do a fecal matter transplant, but the South was years behind; indeed, they are changing the world out West. 
   At least Simon got the Michael Jackson medicine to put him night night.  He started to tell the anesthesiologist about Bubbles, Mr. Smiley, or whatever the hell Michael Jackson's chimp was named; next, he went out as easy as cheesecake with a dash of cherries on top, as if a Mafia Hitman had turned him off like a delicious light.