Existence Womb (86)

   
   "Existence Womb (86)"
    
   The Fourth of July had arrived in Arkansas, and that meant:  Out in the bucolic boondocks there be heavy artillery used by the youth, well, fireworks.
   Miriam convinced Buck to pick up some firecrackers and sparklers, just crude noise makers and fire that would shimmer and shine, reminding of mystical magic--in a sublime sense.
   Outside of their pad, they ignited the quasi-explosives, laughing and playing, while Buck imbibed one too many a pale lager, even stumbling once or twice, but keeping his uncanny cool and couth. 
   He kissed Miriam gently on the lips when the fun was done, causing her to blush and feel a sparkly tingle run up her backbone and into her blessed brain.  Next, the twosome retired to their pad, turned on the tube, watching the news and stuff, and Buck trying to figure out who all the late night talk show hosts were, and if they actually were funny--not like back in the early 80's when he enjoyed Johnny Carson in usually blue-tinted suits, the man getting more handsome as he aged; plus, more comedic, having reverence for his prolonged career in making people sweetly get the giggles.
   Miriam finally fell into the sea of dreams, a cigarette dangling from her sleeping grip, which Buck gently removed and curiously took a drag from, wondering how people enjoyed such things.
   Afterwards, he stripped his clothing off, morphed wolfways, and prowled the pastoral presence of East End Arkansas, noticing the possums and other little creatures just trying to endure and survive their unwanted lives.  The Moon was waxing fullways, and he wondered of the mysteries of God, thanking the Man upstairs for making him a Catholic and an American.  Next, just to play his canine part, he let out a howl at the encompassing cream of the glittering Milky Way, laughed like a smug coyote, and returned as Miriam's loyal protector.  Just a simple, no hassle day.  Thank God for peace, and he did.  

Saint John of the Cross, Spanish Mystic

   
   "Saint John of the Cross, Spanish Mystic"
   
   Is it mysticism?  Is it psychosis?  Is it both?
   Did Saint John of the Cross, a Spanish Mystic, warn of communication with God, unearthly mysticism?  What of Dark Night of the Soul?  Mysticism?  Communication with above?
   And architect a theological equation--in my opinion:  "Purgation + Illumination = Union."
   Regardless, he did more than he mentioned--in my humble opinion.
   Cleanse the glass; next, the Light of God enters and purifies, like smoke for the beloved Red Man.
   And there is Saint Teresa of Avila, a friend, and her entrance into the crystal communication.  A Pineal Gland containing crystals, a radio transmitter unto the heavens.  Seeing reptiles.  Not minding the small ones.  Evil too, could be ubiquitous.
   Regardless, Christ knows:  "Knock, and it shall be open.  Ask, and ye shall receive."
   We forget this.  We focus on Hillary's psychosis.  Another Bill Clinton in the White House--excuse me, a Cat House.  But what do I know?  Just what I've read.  Turning over a library, never losing or having a lack of interest.
   It is all a question.  Get with it; next, it shall be answered.  But we WILL.  We WILL people to their demise.  Our selfish love of God in America--the green.  The dollar.  But there is God's Eye upon it.     And it is watching you and me.     

Guns N' Roses - Knockin' on Heaven's Door - Live At The Ritz - 1988

Existence Womb (85)

   
   "Existence Womb (85)"
   
   Buck left the priest a bit pissed.  Nah, he was cool.  Got over the lack of a priest's college pseudo-education.  Understood, and was reminded of King David's words:  "Ye are gods."
   Of course nobody gets it.  The power of humanity.  At the end, but in competition with the Celestial Hierarchy; indeed, regular angelity--and humanity stands close by.  But them:  To serve us. 
   And it was all for the glory of Papa.  And that man, that god, King David, beheading Goliath for a simplistic reason--an insult against the Hebrew God.  The King having an unearthly love for God.  A man covered in the gore of sin, yet his LOVE, his LOVE for God was soooo great that it transcended reason.
   Buck wondered why King Saul become jealous of the man whose heart was like unto God.  Saul--he stood head and shoulders above the rest.  Jealousy.  Kill the beautiful.  Hate Tom Brady.  For what? 
   So much envy, and Buck knowing of Trump saying to a female secretary:  "Yes, men are better than women, but a good woman is better than ten men."  Nobody reports on that.  Or the billionaire paying off poor people's mortgages.  
  What lies.  But was Buck lying to himself?  Should he engage Miriam in carnal coitus?  Why the freak not?  God of course.  That beginning of wisdom:  Fear of God.  No soul preserves it.  False intellect.  No thanks to predestination.  To the physics of ultimate manipulation, yet LOVE.
   Buck punched the monster 350 block on the SS Chevelle.  Got out some aggression.  Black Top Highway and the rest of James Taylor poetry.   

Existence Womb (84)

   
   "Existence Womb (84)"
   
   Buck wended his weird way to the Catholic Church, seeking confession.  He met with an elderly priest ornamented in the Roman collar, a simple-looking man, wearing those large Larry King glasses that were all the jazz back in the Reagan era.  Going face to face in confession was how Buck always did it--no reason to wear an uncouth mask.
   
BUCK
Bless me father, for I have sinned--it has been a long time since my last confession.

PRIEST
Go on my son.

BUCK
I have had carnal thoughts concerning a young girl.  And she wants to engage in carnal acts with me; however, she has been through plenty, and I fear she is not yet ready, but I do love her.  You see, her mother had dementia, and she was the soul caretaker.  And her father is crackers himself.  I don't know what to do.

PRIEST
What does your heart tell you?

BUCK
To either marry her and let love last, or stay celibate and be the man that I am.

PRIEST
It seems you have committed no sin my son.  Other than worrying too much.  Let God handle all things.  Trust in Him.

BUCK
But there are liars among us.

PRIEST
Indeed, and there always will be--until the Son of Man returns, coming down from the clouds of heaven.

BUCK
I don't feel any better father.

PRIEST
Say an Act of Contrition, and see me in a week.

BUCK
That's it!?!

PRIEST
I'm only a man my son.

Existence Womb (83)

   
   "Existence Womb (83)"
   
   After a hard day's work putting in an old fashioned carburetor for a Plymouth Road Runner brought into the garage by a good old boy, who reminded Buck of Jimmy Carter with muscles minus the peanuts, the werewolf went up to his pad, where Miriam was paging through the Vulgate.  She blushed, feeling the heat of his man; next, closed the Holy Text, and smiled innocently at him; then, the cool conversation initiated.  

MIRIAM
Buck, are we ever gonna do it?

BUCK
Acting dumb.  Do what?

MIRIAM
Ya know, the horizontal tango?

BUCK
Don't speak like that sweet child.

MIRIAM
Why are you so chaste, and especially around me?

BUCK
Miriam, you are special--as are most souls.  I cannot simply act on my impulses.  Plus, being chaste is a special act; moreover, once people engage in intercourse, well, they lose the sweet flavor of decency.  Yes, we are incarnate, but so are many priests and nuns.  Look, the world is weird, and so are we.  We must be who we are--servants of the Spirit, not mere matter, a flux of atoms and blood flow.  We transcend such things.  Have witnessed what other men call impossible.  Yet, you never know.

MIRIAM
So, you're saying that you are afraid?

BUCK
Exactly.  You have been touched by God.  Who am I to interfere with your special flower?  

People ASSUME, and they are incorrect sir

   
   "People ASSUME, and they are incorrect sir"
   
   People always assume.  It's mostly negative.  Knock Chief off the mountain and all.  That is the nature of devious humanity.
   I've read numerous biographies on Jim Morrison, the crooner, as he humbly admitted of himself, not having that raging rock and roll vociferousness.  People assume it was all drugs; however, Mr. Morrison was more prone to hard drinking.  He went on benders.  
   How would you feel if you were corporeally beautiful and women chased you like crazy?  He had no choice.  He was not Bill Clinton.  They hunted him down by the hundreds.  Thus, he drank, and heavily.
   William Blake knew:  "People control their emotions because they have weak emotions."  Some say this man was a crank.  Others a mystic.  We assume.  Negativity mostly.  Or lies and whispers.
   The only thing I've abused is tobacco, green tea, garlic, and flax seed, mostly.  Sure, they will assume I'm into this or that.  You trying being with only one woman your entire life.  You try celibacy for the past nine years.  Don't I deserve a cigarette.  But yes, I smoke too many.
   And as Vonnegut said he had no memory of penning some of his books--neither do I.  It's a compulsion.  People have asymmetrical brain patterns.  And if they're poor, other people generally write them off as lazy.  
   My Dad was wealthy.  Also, a raging alcoholic.  But he had money.  I never saw any of it--because people assume.  You don't know where I've been or what I've been through.  You listen to villainous vermin.  You spread the lies of people that find no favor in me.  Fine.  God knows.  There is truth.  As Saint Gabriel said:  "Life is over in the blink of an eye."  We will all get what is in our hearts.