The Anchorite

   
   "The Anchorite"
   
   Bobby didn't need the world; nonetheless, the world was nothing without him.  To imbibe the flesh of a demigod merged with True Authority, Papa; plus, that of the energy-flowing laser of love--the Good Ghost, that spirited aspect of the determined dove, seeking, behind the observing raven, so keen in its hope of foretold futurity.  Verily, God chose not swiftly, but wisely.  
   Bobby resided in the Pacific Northwest; specifically, North Portland, also known as the 5th Quadrant, where freedom determined by the King lived highly, that mighty David, slaying giants for mere blasphemy against his God, a true love, an ignited love for all things under that gifted and awesome authority--this is freedom's axiomatic right to rule.  
   But Bobby was no King David.  Who was?  The most read bard; plus, the best fighter without learning the hard way, like incarceration, but infused with meek neck break of an adder influencing the thoughts of men.
   And the Virgin, stepping on the head, adorned and ornamented in electric blue, so divine with aspiration to be included on the shamrock design, when it glowed azure before the healing peace of brilliant green.  Verily, Ireland deserves their freedom and respect.  Do not they have the most brilliant bard of the 20th Century in Joyce, admitting, admitting, admitting, that love is greater than the simplistic illusion of a mind haunted by gregarious girth-laced pea soup?  
   So, Bobby blessed himself, making the sign of the cross over his forehead; next, stumbled out into the streets, emaciated and keen, forged brilliant by the hardcore purity of himself, now.  

WARNING: Hanging out with the guys

   
   "WARNING:  Hanging out with the guys"
  
   Being a bit anti-social, yet in a state of ultra-sublimity mind you, I still have the personal history of engaging in locker room talk with guy friends at the pub before I hit my 40's.  It was totally toxic and severely sick.  Just plain, damn wrong.  But what the hell--we ARE guys!  Who gives a stinking rat's ass!?!  No politically correct blasphemy concerning our Bill of Rights.  
   Anyway, I was 33; moreover, still eyeing the ladies in tight jeans and short shorts in the rural aspects of Arkansas.  So one moonlit night, cruising in my creepy mini-van, I wended my weird way to the local tavern, pub, whatever, and ran into a crazy dude whose Dad owned a car dealership--they were filthy rich for Arkansas standards.  Unless of course you're Hillary Clinton and feed off of the reptilian money from atop the venomous volcano.
   So, we had a few domestic lagers; next, I ignited the evil and insidious flare of tobacco, and the symposium began on human sexuality--an anthropological kinda class for us Arkansas boys.
   Dude probed me with non-gay inquiry, asking:  "Hey Mark, you know what a Dirty Sanchez is?"
   Indeed, I did not, simply replying:  "Nope."
   He further ignited my intoxication by spilling the scatological beans about fecal matter and a girl's upper lip.  Hell, I was divinely disgusted.  Punished myself; specifically, mortified my senses by going home and engaging in ascetic prayer--yeah, an ascetic who smokes cigarettes, really?  Yup, anything is possible.
   So, that's hanging out with the guys.  Girls, don't let them do that shit to you.  Be a lady, unless of course you're steam-rolling over the minds of meek-minded men, royally emasculating bigger bums than me.   

Jesse James and the Green Berets

   
   "Jesse James and the Green Berets"
   
   Out in the bucolic boondocks, so pastoral and wickedly divine, the poverty pouring forth, yet the spirit of life and nature strong; plus, that of muscle car motors in the front yards; anyway, I knew a dude in that southern setting, a country boy named Jesse James--dude had a pet alligator.  I asked him if he could walk it on a leash.  He said:  "No, they're as dumb as shit."
   I held the alligator too.  It was in a water tank.  Weird crap.  Weirder than me.  His Dad with the Saint Andrew's Cross bumper sticker on the back of his beat up Cadillac; regardless, his Dad was tough--a Green Beret in Vietnam.  During training with a Drill Sergeant, they had a rubber knife with its blade marked black to prove if you could cut the muscular teacher.  Everybody failed save a Latino guy who was in a street gang from New York.
   Guy went at Sarge with the knife and Sarge went to block the dude's armed thrust; next, Latino dude flips the knife into his other hand and puts a black mark across the Sarge's throat.  Sarge was humbly like:  "Next."
   Indeed, you never know who you're messing with.  Whether an emaciated confederate soldier giving good fight or Doc Holliday only having 20% of his lung tissue functioning and yet still being able to gun down the cruelest of opprobrious thugs.  That's how it goes baby.  
   
   I'm a Green Beret; I drive a Chevrolet,
   Being Special Forces is one hell of a heyday . . .  

Attraction of the body, or heart?

"Attraction of the body, or heart?"
   
    "Wasn't much into book-learning."  Yup, said the King of Rock and Roll in a cheese stuffed movie in them early 1960's.  No heart chakra info needed, not just yet.  King David, a man after God's own heart, totally.
   Scald the woman with humility and be dignified, though a little quirky.  The mad monk, yet so tame and full of eagerness to get confronted.  Your reactions to encase the heart or scald the mind with perpetual icy cool.  You have a right to admire a person.  Love that soul without carnal cravings, shielded by the eternity of pulsating love through gaining a respect or even reverence from that person in eternal fashion.  
   Do some coyotes, or most mate for life?  Yet off tooling around and acting unlike tools; specifically, being themselves, alone or in a wild pack of Country Music, tobacco products, and small amounts of pilsner beer mixed with a mouse pounce.   
    King David would leave you to guard his concubines.  And while not having the intent of sleeping with them, and you wouldn't, not even the evil and loose ones, you might apprehend their admiration, which usurps orgasmic activity.  What a way to go for a Mahatma Madcap--hear me?  
    No, of course not; moreover, cavemen are mostly incapable of mustering telepathy.     

Blue Fox and Sister Chicken

   
   "Blue Fox and Sister Chicken"
   
   Foxes, members of the family Canidae, which includes wolf-like and fox-like canids, that synergy of the tribe canini, being Latin for dogs, includes Vulpes, the Latin term for fox, of course.
   But Mr. Blue Fox was not Vulpes vulpes, a red fox--no, he was Dodger Blue.  A strangely cunning yet innocent beast, more of a spirit than an animal, loving the most bizarre of things, including Sister Chicken.
   Blue Fox didn't like chicken bones; they were tough on his intestinal tract.  After all--he wasn't a crazy coyote capable of eating a dirty baby diaper and then producing normal scat, no, he was just a weird fox, and didn't want a tummy ache; thus, he mainly lived on chicken eggs.
   Indeed, when intrinsically called to haunt the hen house during the nocturnal hours, he met with a hearty female chicken, her dubbing herself Sister Chicken because she was a sort of debutante in the domesticated fowl community, being a star, hanging the Moon, and laying the most luscious of ivory-white eggs.
   Sister Chicken told Blue Fox not to eat her; specifically, she was a bit phobic concerning the small and blue-hued fox upon their first meeting, not wanting to be his nighttime meal; however, after explaining to her that he didn't like chicken bones, she offered him two fresh eggs each night if he wouldn't gulp her or her sisters up inside his predatory belly.   Blue Fox thought it a great deal, and they shook on it.
   So, every night, whether the Moon was Full, New, waning, or waxing--under that neon glow of Luna's Daystar reflection, Blue Fox met with Sister Chicken, and she had his two eggs ready.  And yes, they were scrumptious and totally yummy, filling his sensitive stomach, and easily evacuated into symmetrical scat.  It was a friendship and deal forged in heaven to display the differences of creatures labelled this way or that way.  
   Yes, we are all the same, but different too, some like the darker Yankee Blue, while others still pull for the Dodgers and their homemade hot dogs near the Pacific Ocean, swirling with aquatic life in perpetual swim and mammalian snorkel.  

Virgin Mary Statue and Ireland

   
   "Virgin Mary Statue and Ireland"
   
   The only mythical thing about the word MYTH--is that it's a myth; specifically, myths are forged in axiomatic truth, kinda.
   Wending my way through quasi-mystics and all the rest on the Internet, my Search Engine has done its share of the bizarre--I found a story about a Virgin Mary Statue and kids on the Emerald Isle.  
   It basically informs that some eager for action adolescents were partying too hard, in a park near a Virgin Mary Statue; alas, never be bad in front of your spiritual mother; thus, the legendary lore tells of the Statue coming to life and kicking the iniquity out of the teenagers, hopefully giving them a taste of the Holy Ghost Itself.
   Regardless, these are more than mere metaphors, but the weird on its way.  Like Christ taking enough.  Dealing patiently, but returning boldly to cage the contagion, one glorious day.  
   We are all saved by a glimpse into the Otherworld, if the pursuit of the high life doesn't bring us down in the end, that is.  Thus, keep your eye on the prize.   

Crafting a strategy for your sickness

   
   "Crafting a strategy for your sickness"
  
We all fall ill;
Still, the greater the view, if we have the constitution to ascend a volcanic hill,
And with severely scatological stuff like Inflammatory Bowel Disease--
There are years of I.V. infusions while catching every cold and having to acquire ease;
Hence, be pious and patient; plus, never lie to a medical man;
Specifically, like the coyote--adapt and architect a courageous plan--
All is in God's Hands,
Yet we have the privilege to petition the Heavenly Lands
For grace and reflection--all that mystical jazz;
Indeed, God is the Author; still, we might ignite a sparkle with humble pizzazz.