Razorback Football And Mass

   
   "Razorback Football And Mass"
  
You don't know what to do, boy?
You're in Little Rock, at War Memorial Stadium, watching the Hogs, so coy
In the rosemary roasted sense that they have allure, so modest and sure.
A boring State is Arkansas?  Are you too darn pure
To rally for the Razorbacks and not be hated by other fans adoring the SEC?
Indeed, you get a pass for being impoverished and sprinting with tusks so free;
Alas, hang not your weary heads weak and low,
For you, Razorback fans, have given a brave overthrow
Of many teams with more jingle in their pocket and glorious gleam;
Specifically, the mystical pig never runs out of charging steam--
And ya gotta call them Hogs with quasi-religious ceremony,
Like being at Catholic Mass, knowing the Eucharist ain't bologna.  

Liberty's Sparkle (21)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (21)"
   
   Liberty and the cool mouse chase of wolf-waiting Tom gelled in gregarious cool; indeed, the twosome merged with mystical mojo, exploring the deeper aspects of more than life--into that great beyond of the never-ending, and art . . .
  
TOM
I went to junior college for a bit.  Got by on not doing stuff and kissing ass.  I had this Humanities Class . . .

LIBERTY
So did I!?!  Thinking:  gee-whiz and golly.

TOM
Anyway, it was cool and everything; I studied Norman Rockwell, and got into the illustrated vibe of it all, but I can't paint.  And I hear a voice saying, PAINT, and you will be able to paint.

LIBERTY 
I know, Brunelleschi and his divine architecture was my weakness--if I'm putting it down in proper English.

TOM
Hell, half the people living in the South, don't even speak English--neither do urban kids up North--it's all about the American dictionary.  Ya know, the word "twerk" made it into Oxford's dictionary and we're all supposed to give reverence and absolute respect to such shit, bullshit.  Have you not heard the Country Music and Rap?  That's linguistically cool shit.

LIBERTY
I hear ya working man.  Leans over and kisses his moist mouth, so sweet and savory with the peach of a flower being so true and not true, but beauty and rhythm, that flowery flow of gardens growing strongtime--me love you longtime, and all that jive turkey jazz--those Midwestern folk, in most parts, trying to be the last European people in survival for their pathetic lives.  And we all hate something--it's in the gut, Liberty knew, yet sooooooo free.   

Liberty's Sparkle (20)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (20)"
   
   Tom was like Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin.  Outside his mobile home in the summer, sitting on yet another chaise lounge, waiting for an angel to wisely expound.  A poor, illiterate poet.  Tom's problem.  That damn bit of being a delinquent, in the sense that he could not read, but Mom and her poetry, the seemingly crazy Psalms, when a King once gave great, vociferous ode concerning his fiery loins and desiring the whiteness of snow.  Not wanting the Holy Spirit to be thieved away.
   Yet this made Tom like unto another religious figure, who I shouldn't talk about.  And in no way is Saint Gabriel's literary gift obscene.  
   Tom knew this too.  His mother read to him, almost everything--he just couldn't get the knack.  
   Finding an address for a hot, steaming pie covered in banana peppers and anchovies was a difficult task.  No way he'd graduate to paper boy--tons of mailboxes with words written on them and mixed, like algebra, with numbers--and the paper boy dreams of them perpetually; nonetheless, never goes postal, playing mailbox baseball to chew on his humble cravings.
   Tom heard a howl.  Up here in this Midwestern State, down on the lower peninsula, there were Canis lupus possibilities.  He knew they were here, hoping to be cured of many things by a bold beast emanating promising power.  
   Then, Liberty and her golden calf muscles glimmered in the sense of his beaming gray eyes, underneath the moonlight.  All was well in his grinning direction, for the moment.  

Liberty's Sparkle (19)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (19)"
   
   Weeks passed.  Liberty vocally oozed forth her pseudo-steamy friendship with Tom to the ears of Faye.  Faye got heated--the bitch, she figured of Liberty.  Yup, Faye was jealous.  Envy.  Something wicked.  She played private dick.  Sat outside of Tom's trailer, watching as a medical man with a medical bag went into his house on wheels; next, confronted the physician upon his exit--him simply telling her that he was Tom's psychiatrist.  She let him go with no words; then, toughly entered Tom's home, facing his cautious stance.

FAYE
So, you see a shrink.  What is it--bi-polar, schizo, or are you just a freaky dude?

TOM
I'm dealing, and not just therapy, but medically.

FAYE
Mental patients can be dangerous.  Does Liberty know?  Is she in danger?

TOM
Look at you and your face covered in that metallic shit.  You look like a freaking Christmas tree pinched with ornamentation.

FAYE
I'll fucking kill you if you hurt her.

TOM
My intentions are only that of loyalty and love.

FAYE
You're in my way Tom.  Liberty and me were getting close.  She doesn't need to be swept off her impoverished feet and end up pregnant in a mobile home living with the mentally challenged likes of you.

TOM
Oh, now I see how it is.

FAYE
Offered him the bird.  Sit and spin--get me?   

Liberty's Sparkle (18)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (18)"
   
   Tom was cool and full of the proper protocols when inviting the delicious girl named after freedom into his home, opening the door, giving her a casual knuckle-bump; next, offering her a seat in his crummy, indoor chaise lounge and brewing her up some organic green tea, which he iced.
   Liberty was elegantly gregarious and gracious; plus, had a pulsating pinch of glee, adding to her vocal motions, explaining the death of her elderly friend Mr. McQuade, and apologizing for Faye's politically incorrect behavior, though still, it was progressive--a bit paradoxical.  
   All Tom could think of were love-making lyrics in Country Music songs and kissing Liberty's full lips smeared in the glow of bubble gum-pink lip gloss.  But he kept it cool.  Let her pour forth her misery, him drinking the sadness as friends are supposed to do.  And he couldn't believe that after she left with a departing kiss on the cheek and a warm breast-touching embrace--he now had a friend.  A real one.  

The Dutchman Arriveth--in Arkansas

   
   "The Dutchman Arriveth--in Arkansas"
   
Having, possibly, a Serbian or Southeastern European gene,
I professed, when asked by my teacher, as a freshman in high school of how cool and keen;
Specifically, that I was genetically infused with the Yugoslavian machine,
And that I am friends with a dude having a Nordic mien;
Moreover, the dude said that he was Dutch in that same class,
And when we were free he'd dip SKOAL before kissing a lass;
Furthermore, we energetically engaged in teenage mirth and mischief galore,
For he would lead by toilet-papering the suburbs in order to our benign chaos score--
Paybacks and pranks wrapped in one--
What a heck of a time under Arkansas' Moon reflecting the radiant Sun.  

Liberty's Sparkle (17)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (17)"
   
   Liberty acted more miserable than she was actually feeling.  She kinda, well, most definitely wanted to dump Faye for the day, going on her own way to have boy/girl synergy with Tom, though not in carnal fashion.  Just a guy.  A guy to hang out with.
   She got his address the other night, wending her way through the Midwestern grasslands until coming upon a trailer park, where American flags flapped proudly by way of the four winds.  Too, there were barking dogs chained up, plenty of beer cans overflowing the dumpsters, and noticing Tom's Honda, she gently pulled her hybrid into a gravely parking space next to it.
   She knew her intentions.  To cry on a dude's shoulder.  To remember the musk of man.  To have consolation and a strong upper body comfort her woes.  Indeed, Tom was the only civilized male she knew, even though he was a dashingly dangerous daisy of sorts; still, she held her breath not, exiting her car, and marching with total cool in Tom's front door direction, of a freaking mobile home.  God Bless the American Dream.