Liberty's Sparkle (63)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (63)"
    
   Liberty got bold.  Used that look of a blonde angel, piloting the hybrid with four cylinder fury, hoping it didn't burn out the batteries and all; regardless, she wanted to see Bobby Rook.  The twosome had exchanged phone numbers, and after a series of text messages, he offered his address, very nearby--in a trailer park as well--she figured:  white trash neighbors.
   Still, his poverty and illness didn't matter; she was drawn to him as an altruistic fairy to the blue power of the furious flame.  Thus, she passed by barking dogs, and dudes that looked like Larry the Cable Guy drinking Bud Heavy; next, parked in front of Bobby Rook's trailer, Old Glory's fabric hanging in his window, making him seem all the more cheap yet armed with a patriotic spirit.
   Checking her makeup in the rear-view mirror, just lip gloss really, hair pulled back in a lime-green ponytail holder, and a windbreaker of white to match her faded jeans and neon curious sneakers, she then marched to his door, knocked, heard a vociferous statement to enter, and did so, seeing a modest habitat meticulously clean, no dust bunnies or clutter, yet what caught her eye the best, besides the mysteriously attractive Bobby Rook sitting in a cherry wood chair, rubbing his lean hand over the stubble of his buzz cut, well, it was the noose--the freaking noose dangling downwards, painting an astonished look upon her angelic countenance.
   Rook got the telepathic message, responding:  "It's just in case of an emergency--if things get real nasty for me, like disease."
   Liberty focused, got cool, became the Iceman, letting it slide right off; next, blurted:  "Rook, we gotta talk brother!"  

Liberty's Sparkle (62)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (62)"
  
   Like mystical stardust, the conversation was forever, going this way now:
  
LIBERTY
Bobby Rook, right?  The Monsignor let me know.

ROOK
Yeah, I only move in a straight line, though vertically or horizontally; plus, hopefully bring some light into the darkness.  Metaphysical talk, ya know?

LIBERTY
My name is Liberty.  I lost my father and my husband to bad circumstance; plus, my best friend to holy intervention.

ROOK
Lost my right testicle.  Got Ulcerative Colitis; next, lost half the blood in my body--the wife left and took my son.  Anyway, I evacuate my bowels plenty--so I'm not full of crap like my half-brother.  He used to clog the commode all the time when we were kids with huge piles of stool.

LIBERTY
You're weird.  But, very interesting.  I guess that's why we're all here today--to listen, learn, and cope, using the fellowship of grief as a thing to heal.

ROOK
You have piercing eyes.

LIBERTY
A small blush, yet a true blush nevertheless.  I like your hair.  Buzz cuts sometimes mean a very clean man.

ROOK
Or a white supremacist, which of course--I'm not.

LIBERTY
Laughed.   Your eyes have too much sorrow to conceal any hate.

ROOK
Thanks.  That's the coolest thing a chick has said to me in ages.      

Liberty's Sparkle (61)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (61)"
   
   The suave and handsome Monsignor reached out to Liberty as Faye had anchored herself away unto the City of God's Keel in a Divine Harbor of Safety.
   The Roman Collar-wearing Monsignor got Liberty into a Catholic group, after Sunday Mass, for people coping with tragedy.  Liberty was a bit phobic at first, giving off her glimmer of freedom, yet still on a leash, of sorts.  Then, she saw a thin but scrappy-looking guy, dark buzz cut, early thirties with a tough squint in his chocolate brown eyes.  And she wondered.
   The Monsignor, like a detective:  noticing what others miss, sauntered up to young Liberty, tapped her on the shoulder, and she swung her golden-blonde around, her forest-green eyes focusing upon the countenance of the holy man.  And he told her:  "That's Bobby Rook.  Had a testicle removed due to cancer, and his wife took his son and left him.  But he's one tough son of a holy bitch.  Reach out to him Liberty; he is a lost soul; nevertheless, as free as you are, my dear."
   Liberty nodded, and made a styled catwalk towards the guy named Bobby Rook.  

Liberty's Sparkle (60)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (60)"
   
Liberty did loudly bibble,
Knowing:  nudiustertian was 2day since Faye birthed a mystic riddle;
However, so sublime, so sublime,
Having a holy, apolaustic rhyme,
Praising poverty and chastity during incarnation, always in holy verse,
Which trumps riding in the back of a well-earned hearse,
Unless into Papa's Arms do the lovely angels carry,
Smacking the reptilian black into a light so very
Platinum-white and laced with joyful noise;
Hence, Liberty burped her eggs and regenerated her purpose and eternal poise.   

Liberty's Sparkle (59)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (59)"
   
   Spooky Halloween had arrived, Liberty perpetually flooded in canned foods, stuck in the Purgatory of the canned vegetable aisle, and Faye was singing more often:  "Holy, Holy, Holy Lord!"
   The once heavily, and in the face, pierced Goth girl, born again by Liberty's sparkle and the super-symmetrical script of God, came to visit the trailer park, informing her best friend how she was joining a Sisterhood of Carmelites as a novitiate, sailing away immediately, the handsome Monsignor assisting her holy purpose.
   Liberty was crushed as she watched Faye drive away, perhaps for the final time, leaving her and Spanky even more isolated and alone.
   Was it her freakish fate to lose and suffer all the time?  To give off a golden glow sucked into others but receive none herself?  The heart always takes blood for itself first; next, offers it to the other organs.  But Liberty couldn't do that.  Christ couldn't do that.  It was a Divine Will that forced her into giving everything to all those around, taking nothing for herself but agony and a crushing passion, marching closer to Calvary, metaphorically, but so real, and nobody gave a damn save the unseen.
   Liberty started carving the orange pumpkin she had purchased, without a discount, from her grocery store.  She made a smiling face and placed a candle inside, Spanky sniffing the oncoming traffic of trailer park children getting yummy candy purchased by Liberty's last few dollars.  Like a mother, especially a holy mother, not wickedly told she is enabling, but loving her special son as did the most famous mom in mystical, historical records--Liberty gave her last dollar away, always.  

Liberty's Sparkle (58) HUBRIS SYNDROME

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (58)"  HUBRIS SYNDROME
   
   Liberty was now stocking the modest grocery store shelves with beets:  sliced beets, whole beets, garden beets, golden beets, organic beets; regardless, healthy for Scorpios, so lore does hint towards the totality of truth; next, the Monsignor walked by Liberty, looked down with his Rock Hudson countenance, saying:  "Working hard young Liberty?"
   She blew her golden strands out of her forest-green eyes, getting a better glimpse, from the daze of tedious employment, robbing her of imagination, but she knew him, and his bizarre benevolence, responding:  "Yes Monsignor."
   "Your friend Faye has been coming to Mass, much more than you, giving me face to face Confession, spilling the beans on all the nasty and nefarious figures in your life.  The ones having contempt for the downtrodden and weak, wishing Darwin was axiomatically true, which he totally isn't.  Anyway, don't be afraid of these people.  God can be your right hand as King David did sweetly Psalm.  Anyway, these people have a Hubris Syndrome.  Or are just rotten to their scummy, reptilian cores.  Have no fear."  Then, the Monsignor departed down the aisle, Liberty feeling a sense of insight into the wickedness of man, so controlled, so controlled, yet deaf and dumb to the reasons.   

Liberty's Sparkle (57)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (57)"
   
   Liberty blew back into the autumn breeze, away, yet so simply connected to the relativity of the past, remembering Bobby Kennedy somewhere, kinda/sorta mumbling:  "A society gets the criminals it deserves."
   And remembering the hatred of many modern Christians believing the gays evil, yet Pope Francis saying of their sublime numbers:  "Who am I to judge."  Not asking, stating.  And now--who to blame?  A government conspiracy to tie the hate of Islam with radical Christians.  What is it all?
   Liberty back to stocking the grocery store shelves:  sliced carrots, baby peeled carrots, whole carrots, organic carrots, and always--peaches in extra heavy syrup not far away.
   Would the Son of Man ever come down from the clouds of heaven?  She started praying, everyday, that it would happen soon.