My Toughest Uncle

   
   "My Toughest Uncle"
   
   I don't get back to the Great White North often--what, am I Canadian?  I drink Canadian beer--if I can anyway; regardless, Pittsburgh Steel and all the rest.  Freaking Iron City Beer, having reverent reverie of Robin Hood Cream Ale, where I first found the word:  BUZZ!  Good for me.
   A heart transplant, two of a different kidney, and still kicking modest ass.  Awesome.  That's what I'm talking about!!!
   Survival.  The coyote.  Bad things.  Whatever.  The sublimity of survival.  The everlast and macho, Doc Holliday endurance to drink a pint of whiskey and get out of bed every morning.  Nobody knows save the ill and miserably sick.
   Look at you--you're in your fifties and still haven't had a colonoscopy.  Who are you?  You my friend, are special.  You got this.  But some don't.  Not their karmic faults.  Circumstance?  Chance? 
   The Kings die young, I heard a relative say.  Whatever.  I'm Irish:  "I drink; I smoke; I fight; I die."
   Just keep the icy cool, let the aqua blue flow over you--if that's your thing; otherwise, a green-hued Wicca version of willpower.  Still, you survive.  And of the fittest?  Come on man.
   Indeed, there are plenty of wiry gimps with a Colt .45 or blade unsheathed that can survive the most backwoods of card games and still come out with both kidneys, before a Mexican Gang steals your organs and sells them to the highest bidder.  No, not Trump--not yet; still, he seems to be honest, not wearing the mask of devilry, yet so falsely accused.   

Liberty's Sparkle (10)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (10)"
   
   This bizarre and sophomoric author doesn't wanna get into the female of it all, but represented, Liberty and Faye's girl (young woman) synergy was sublimity soaring.  Hell, a Midwestern song of the freakish and strong.  
   Spanky had a litter box, and took a symmetrical whiz within, aiming along the straight lines of Green Arrow's perfect pullback of the longbow, like a goatee and dandy mustache not making the CONNECT, but swirling upwards, in the direction of antiquated baseball players.
   And no, Liberty will not have a half-sister or half-brother display themselves in this non-lascivious literature, though speaking to things anthropological; specifically, Liberty needs nothing but glorious glee decided totally by God; thus, she looked to the Crucifix Mr. McQuade had gifted in her friendly direction; next, she knew everything was smooth and cool.
   Faye glimpsed the glimmer of that golden moment on Calvary, and some Catholics hate not taking it upon themselves with mortification of the senses, but Christ proclaims:  "No little brother, I want this burden--it is My Father's Will."
   And you give it to Him buster, after beating up on yourself for years, knowing the toughness of the Father, the bleeding heart of Christ, and the forever energy of possibly feminine love granted by the Holy Spirit, understanding the fundamentals of the Trinity, and being in a symmetrical sanctuary--a harbor of pulsating peace.
   Faye farted, and all things magnanimous were lost unto Spanky sniffing the toxic air, further creating a giggle-mode for the girls.  

Liberty's Sparkle (9)

   "Liberty's Sparkle (9)"
   
   Liberty and Faye were in Liberty's apartment, throwing back some light-girl lager and sneaking in a few puffs from organic coffin nails--the sizzle of tobacco and blitz of alcohol so American.
   Faye was recanting some storytelling bullshit; specifically, two young women just playing pool without the sticks and balls, talking the volleyball locker room sorority of secret sisterhood, and still, females want guys to trust them, when for the guy--it's all hanging out right in front of you, mostly.
   "Balance!?!"  Yup, Faye was shouting:  "What hogwash!  I was like, what are you, a freaking Buddhist?  You're just my damn dentist.  I'll floss once a week.  Not to sound like a werewolf movie, but I like a little gristle in my teeth, sucking down the day's old Colonel Sanders and feeling the angry chickens giving me an extra zap of protein."
   Next, Spanky made his presence known. sniffing Faye's t-shirt, a raven black solid with quasi-graffiti tattooed across the breast area, highlighting her little cupcakes, yet so young and perky, as most girls of that age had some buxom spirit, even if not layered like an implanted tramp from the spiritually wrong side of the toxic tracks.
   The girls continued to laugh and beautifully bond, Liberty not remembering when she had laughed such gut-busting giggles, and it healed the solitude of personal sanctuary that the girl with freedom's name had defensively structured around herself.  Laughing--it gives you life.  And remembering, Liberty added to the cool conversation:  "As King Solomon said--a merry heart doeth like good medicine."   

Ectoplasm and Ulcerative Colitis

   

   "Ectoplasm and Ulcerative Colitis"

   

Is that glowing mucus in my macabre misery, which is scatological but clean?

Regardless, I wear the mustache of Doc Holliday's mien;

Indeed, the blood of life, and it flows, sometimes, with anguish divine--

Making me a quixotic gimp that can fantastically forge mere rhyme.

Yet, am I cursed and offering amusement to spirits unseen?

The evidence:  Their ectoplasmic matter in my stool's unclean, reoccurring dream.

Ya never know how things really are,

And Jonathan Winters was totally bizarre,

Saying:  "If your ship doesn't come in; next, swim out to it."

Grab the goofball galore, and don't have a freaky piece within you of nasty grit;

Specifically, rid negativity by popping the zit

On the mirror,

So cray; still, so clear--

But no infection;

Thus, make a man that adores his own reflection.   

McMahon and Staubach

   
   "McMahon and Staubach"
   
   Beer makes you smarter, for:  "It made Bud wiser."
   Anyway, Coach Mike Ditka wanted Jim McMahon to be like "Roger the Dodger" Staubach, memorizing the playbook meticulously, as if Peyton Manning, not reading porn magazines with Donald Duck sunglasses on; indeed, McMahon could throw back the brew and still Tame the Defensive Shrew; alas, and in a positive way, the 1985 Bears were pure excellence.
   McMahon has proclaimed that when Ditka started running William "The Refrigerator" Perry near the goal line; specifically, when he handed the ball off to the juggernaut dude, it felt like a tank ripping off his arm.  These dudes could play, as would admit Grogan and the Patriots of that time period.
   And weren't those Patriot outfits awesome?  I dunno--a Minute Man in a 3 Point Stance or something tattooed on their ivory-white helmets?
  Still, Staubach could've been the only Quarterback to rush for 1,000 yards in a season if "The Old Man" would've let him call his own plays; alas, and still in a good way, the Titans got a runner at the helm.  
   You never know what's gonna happen in football.  Neurological damage?  That's why they get the millions baby.  You, as a white collar dude have no pernicious anxiety about getting tackled by a Defensive End--so enjoy your health care plan and shut up.  
   NFL players are pure gladiators.  Give the people what they want.    

Liberty's Sparkle (8)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (8)"
   
   Liberty was driving Faye back to the apartments in her dented hybrid.  They laughed and giggled, talking a bit recklessly about guys and how they mostly were pointed in one pernicious direction--to plant their personally believed phenomena within that of any woman's womb.
   But Liberty knew better in her beating heart, for her Dad was rock solid concerning his ethical behavior.  Some say he might have quit or given up.  No way.  Guy was totally focused on doing the best for his daughter, wanting not the slightest of distractions.  A quasi-Saint, or maybe more; regardless, a damn fine father.
   As the twosome wended their way closer to the apartments, Liberty turned up the radio--some 80's hair metal, which Faye seemed to totally dig; next, Liberty had sweet reverie of her father holding her child-like form in his wiry arms, whispering to her:  "Ill never leave you sweet child."  
   Alas, the specter of death was upon both him and her; moreover, the worst of it--people assuming that Liberty had done something wrong in life to have become the poor in spirit pauper that she currently was.  Yup, people always assume, or hear the lying whispers of a grander and more sinister scheme.  

Christ: "Behold thy Mother!"

   
   "Christ:  "Behold thy Mother!"
   
   Though I am Catholic, will use the KJV to display John 19:26-27--here goes:
   
26)  When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son!

27)  Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother!  And from that hour that disciple took her unto his own home.

   This is Saint John--the Disciple whom Jesus loved as proclaims the New Testament.  The only male Disciple to be at the crucifixion; moreover, the only Disciple not to be martyred, curious.
   Nevertheless, a wondrous sign of devotion and loyalty.  A dismissal of pragmatism and the nonsense of an earthly world hellbent on denying the sublime aspects of care and nurturing.  
   Yet even in fleeing, Saint Peter is still the Rock, curious.  Again, I will quote the macho cool of truck-driving Jack Burton, him having artistically shaken the Pillars of Heaven:  "Never can tell."