Weredog Tart (18)

   
   "Weredog Tart (18)"
   
   Siria attempted, or made a brave and courageous attempt to revive Lance and her Dad from drunken and melancholy slumber, with the smell of scrambled eggs, bleeding yellow, but mixed with the green goop of kosher relish, and a little ketchup from the state of Pennsylvania, rhyming with Transylvania, and she didn't even want to think about Bram Stoker's Irish guilt after penning such macabre bloods-sucking, before an American Bowie Knife offered heroic culmination, or so it seemed in her wacky world of cognizant reality.
   Shit--how was she supposed to explain to Lance that she bit his Dad's face off?  Loyalty from a Golden Retriever mixed with the Canis lupus Totem?  Bullshit.
   Regardless, Siria knew she was a meta-human now.  A hybrid already, yes--gentlemen prefer blondes, of course, but her arctic-blue eyes and mousy brown hair made her appear almost girl-next-doorish, but she was better than that--didn't lie, or better yet, give false testimony to cops about a pseudo-harassing neighbor, when she would be the one harassing, if it was solid gold, allegorically.
   So, toasting sourdough bread to architect further the egg sandwiches, she contemplated the mix of America.  The South importing minorities; next, pissed after Ulysses and Lincoln kicked ass; moreover, the divide of history, and what made America.  Not people.  Not drunken Paine and the astrological signs being a metaphor for the Twelve Disciples of Christ, but the actual Holy Spirit of 1776, when the first flag was forged from General George's illicit crop, and the history books leave that out too.  Summer school--more shit.
   Then, a hard, Irish knock at the door.  Her pineal gland knew.  That Third Eye highlighted by canine keen.  Oh, further shit.  And it wasn't even Steeler season in Pittsburgh.  Gotta be a Pirate 2day.    

Weredog Tart (17)

   
   "Weredog Tart (17)"
   
   Mandy McGee knew of mystical things, like the four-leaf clover; specifically, that fourth leaf representing the Virgin Mary, in her mind's eye, united to the Trinity, and bringing forth good luck--though nothing is good save God, even Christ would admit as much.
   Regardless, Mandy knew she too had to toughen up her son for what was to come.  Lance was innocent, skinny, though did have gristle; still, children born and put in incubation have lifelong problems; plus, her late husband would never allow a visit to a shrink to get a proper diagnosis; hence, Lance could be suffering from something truly monstrous, and still coping, actually being a bit strong, in a stealth-like manner; however, he still needed to be a mirror image of what Steel City once was.
   She went to one of the last bookstores in America--they are dwindling, yet futurity will open the pages once again, as vinyl too made a comeback.  Anyway, she bought a copy of G. Gordon Liddy's WILL, an autobiographical tale on not being afraid of your fears, but making your fears be afraid of you.  The boy was gonna weep at the loss of his father, even though it was a terrible relationship the twosome had, for Lance was all heart, and while that counted--he needed a macho mentor.  

Experience is useless, unless met with identical experience

    
   "Experience is useless, unless met with identical experience"
   
   Of course, certain philosophers knew this before, for there is nothing new under the Sun, as did mystics know this before, as has every man known everything before--in a matter of speaking.
   But truly, experience is useless unless met with identical experience.  Look at feudal Japan and the imperialistic, honorary samurai always fighting face to face.  His experience in battle was not ready for the shinobi (ninja).  A farmer, a slave, a man practicing the coyote's art of deception.  More than mere guerrilla warfare, but dressed as a clown or a cripple; next, stabbing the honorary samurai in the back or blowing pepper in his face--the samurai were not ready for this type of war, even though they had more experience in combat.
   Oh it's true--it's freaking axiomatic.  I won't get into Trump versus Hillary.  Republicans talk freedom, but won't allow the benign use of anti-oxidant, natural narcotic-like substances for the ill, and Democrats talk unity, but our America can't absorb the entire world without chaos ensuing.  
   Moreover, look at James Tiberius Kirk.  Yes, he had great experience in the bedroom with green-hued chicks.  But was he any good in carnally-handling the three headed, hot alien woman with four breasts--two on the back for dancing?  
   Furthermore, Bones wisely proclaiming:  "Damn't Jim, don't do it; she has got three heads for God's sake."   

Weredog Tart (16)

   
   "Weredog Tart (16)"
  
   Mandy McGee, once lost; now found, had a lucid dream; specifically, heard an angel's trumpeting sound.  So melancholy and non-communicative blue was her psychological hue.  A son birthed to corporeal animation by way of incubation; furthermore, fed through the head by a nourishing needle, and his father never getting enough from the boy, or more potently strong children from a wife's stagnate ovaries.
   Regardless, even though Mandy had exiled herself from the situation of matrimony, leaving a challenged son (Lance) behind to cope with a corrupt father, she was not guilty of abandonment, only sorrow and anguish.  Mr. McGee having screamed at her before she made her exodus:  "You are enabling the idiot--he needs to play football and be a man!"
   Lance was in Mandy's prayers daily, her invoking the guardianship of angles, always asking:  "Angels of God, our guardian dears--His love commits your synergy here; thus, ever this eternity be at my son's and my side--to light and guard; plus, to rule and guide.  Amen--In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit--please do hear it."
   So, upon waking to seeing her estranged husband's death, she dressed herself in casual garb; next, as if echo-location from angelity giving her symmetrical rules for a cradling intention, she rushed to her son's pinpointed direction.   

Wyatt Earp is my friend

Weredog Tart (15)

   
   "Weredog Tart (15)"
   
Siria swiftly bolted with quicksand dismay,
Slaying a man, though she was elegantly ethereal in a weredog way;
Moreover, a mellifluous sound did trumpet from justice-seeking angels around,
And the Pittsburgh morning was full of an iridescent look and sound--
Rainbows gleaming from a petty rain, giving limerance to her love of Steel City;
Thus, she dashed to Lance and Dad, both so metaphorically pretty,
Yet like a soul with social phobia, she didn't know how to completely explain
A death done out of loyalty; still, would this scenario be a harvest of sublime gain?    

Demonic Infestation

   
   "Demonic Infestation"

   All the hate; moreover, certain ax-wielding leprechauns and their greed proclaiming:  "It's my gold ya suckers--all mine!"  Christ, with the Sermon on the Mount, offering the Beatitudes, further knowing:  "He who is first shall be last; he who is last shall be first."  And as for the controlled, as the New Living Translation wends:  "I tell you the truth, they have received all the reward they will ever get."
   Are we lost unto hypnosis by Darwin confusing anthropology with demonology?  The unseen, so sophisticated in their shape-shifting glamour?  You will die.  You will meet the Maker.  And many NDE (Near Death Experiences) speak of blackness pulling the spirit away from the brilliant, platinum light of Love.  All things have an infinite number of possibilities, possibly.
   Such as the blind Milton, though putting down the fools for Christ (Franciscans), he mentioned the Adder being the inventor of gunpowder.  Live by the sword; next, die by the sword, as Christ explained.
   Why protest without charity?  Why hunger after an Earth filled with Saint Michael's toss of demons?  To seek God is to seek peace, and freedom, off the leash, but never far from your master, as goes the righteous Golden Retriever, so innately obedient, yet keen to cruel things.
   The Lord's Prayer says:  "On Earth as it is in Heaven."  Possibly, a mirror image of sorts, a galactic battle now; specifically, as Luna reflects the daystar, we are reflecting the Heavens--possibly another riot in the Celestial Realms.  
   Keep Christ's Sacred Heart in your heart, lay low, don't be tempted by a hot chick in a mini skirt while married, and why does she dress like that anyway?  Regardless, safeguard yourself with love and a humble habitat away from the monopoly of demonic control.  We will all know.  The veil shall be lifted.   Stupefaction for myriads, and solace for others.  Buy silver, get a crossbow, live in the country, though near a hospital, be prepared, and live a life of charity and never neglect the sick, selfishly praying for their swift deaths.   
   Dominus vobiscum, Et cum spiritu tuo.