Weredog Tart (24)

   
   "Weredog Tart (24)"
   
   While Lance clumsily sauntered off to produce urination, and as a clean boy, probably would whiz on the mint-colored thing in the urinal, to fascinate himself by making his water turn pink or blue, Siria contemplated the supernatural essence of herself.  There had to be more out there.  And as John Donne mentioned:  "No man is an island, entire of itself."  Or something, for her summer school classes all seemed so crazy with everything going on.
   Regardless, she knew she was a mutt.  A weird creature.  Did she need a pack?  Canines thrive and are stronger with a pack.  But being an Omega would suck.
   But isolation?  Then she pondered Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder in Stir Crazy, where after locking Mr. Wilder in the dog house for a night or two, he said:  "Three more days, please, three more days."
   Yup, she was wired on weird, so much so that she figured she could handle being a lone wolf and golden retriever mix wending completely solo; next, Lance stumbled back into view, working on his button fly.   

Weredog Tart (23)

   
   "Weredog Tart (23)"
   
   Lance was like:  "In vino veritas."  
   Siria was like:  "I'm Catholic--what do you mean about wine?"
   Lance further pushed:  "Yeah, my overly sober, Irish Mom is probably giving your Dad the business for drinking, though he seems a sublime drunk--no offense."
   Siria pushed:  "He's not a drunk.  Wine to make man's heart happy did King David proclaim, and his son King Solomon with prescribing the downtrodden wine.  And all my Dad drinks is beer nowadays; plus, he is downtrodden.  Lost the love of his life--for real, not just words to get in her pants.  Watched her die slowly, there every moment, at her side while the help didn't help.  Held her hand, said prayers, and burned candles.  Willed her to live 7 years through it all, making her laugh, feeding her, brushing her, washing her, like in the French movie Amour; indeed, he was tested, but never broke."
   Lance nodded:  "Anyway, I guess the cops will be investigating my Dad's death.  The crap will hit the fan."
   Siria knew that wouldn't happen.  Fang marks from a weredog would stupefy the bumbling, brutal cops.  Yup, weredog lives matter and all that crap.  If only everyone had true love and loyalty--nope, they're out for themselves.   

Weredog Tart (22)

   
   "Weredog Tart (22)"
    
   Mandy McGee and Siria's Dad sat alone as the adolescents of this story-tell did wander through Steel City, hand in hand, speaking of purity, noticing the urban birds and all the wonders of the four winds blowing wherever they chose.
   Mandy asked:  "I never did get your name?"
   Siria's Dad with:  "It is Noah."
   Mandy further probed, noticing the brew in his hand:  "Early to drink.  And did God not tell the Hebrew Noah not to drink?"
   Noah replied:  "I am not here to save the animals; moreover, my heart is made happy by creamy lager.  Gee whiz, back in the day, there was Robin Hood Cream Ale made up here in this city--it stated on the steel can that men of adventure, well, their name is being called by the bow-slinging Englishman."
   Mandy snorted a giggle:  "All is for some, and some is not for all, but I can tell by your face that you are a kind and gentle man."
   Noah with, after a gulp of the lager and a mustache of foam:  "Life is too short to be a demon; plus, don't they know what they'll get in the end?  It's in both Scripture and myth--the poor and downtrodden shall be lifted, made white as snow, though tried, yet the wicked, well, we know how that ends."
   Mandy blushed, and was like:  "Yes.  Yes we do kind sir."   

Cursory, yet dreamed commensurable

   
   "Cursory, yet dreamed commensurable"
  
   Mercurial stream of consciousness or automatic; regardless, tears in the other room, false testimony, and sloths I pray for; plus, penetration of pineal pea by demonic wizardry.  
   Hence, take an hour or two before inhaling the breath of my Blog, for at first--there might be an explosion of Swamp Thing smog, and how touching with Adrienne Barbeau; specifically, so much better than crazy like me.  We are all things together, and so much better, yet protect your portion by sending it outwards.  

Weredog Tart (21)

   
   "Weredog Tart (21)"
   
   Siria, motherly Mandy, Lance, and a blushing father of the the weredog girl were all huddled around the tube, watching The Lone Ranger, the original show starring Clayton Moore as the masked man, and Jay Silverheels as the Mohawk, Tonto.  They had finished their yummy egg sandwiches.
   Moreover, all was gelling gregariously, until the jive-turkey journalism and the falsehoods of political news did arise, spilling the fake beans of American Mainstream Media.
   Siria knew the smart television was watching them.  She displayed her fangs, but was wise enough not to make the fur grow; plus, would they really dig her hairy beard?
   As time went on and communication continued--it was obvious that Siria's Dad and Mandy McGee were crushing on one another, as if kismet's kiss had scored a touchdown, or more properly, as it was the summer, knocked one out of the park, with the once All American crack of the baseball bat.   

Weredog Tart (20)

   
   "Weredog Tart (20)"
    
Siria interjected herself personally, professing:
"I hope all is well with egg sandwiches, them having kosher relish dressing."
Indeed, neither mother Mandy nor Lance did feel bumfuzzle,
Nor was it a dystopian daymare that did puzzle,
For Lance's Dad was like unto taradiddle,
Though a Yankee, not playing the fiddle.
So the threesome hugged; next, Siria's Dad awoke;
Then, like the Tarot Fool being the wisest joke;
Furthermore, the foursome, as if intrinsically knowing, spoke:  "Amen!!!"
Grace being given; thus:  La Sainte Vierge--Merci Bien.  

Weredog Tart (19)

   
   "Weredog Tart (19)"
    
   Mandy McGee, a mystic of sorts, knew Siria was what she was, so non-Irish, yet canine-like, having a brave heart.  It didn't bother her, the difference.  For there was no fear.  Not even after the macabre death of her husband--are not most deaths macabre?
   And Siria, with that canine telepathy, backed away, Lance suddenly appearing next to her, and the weredog girl retreated with magnanimous couth, verbally offering to Lance:  "It is for you."
   When Lance opened the door, greeted by the ghost of a mother, so alive with the same shamrock-green eyes, the twosome were pulled by mystic gravity into a loving embrace; next, the silent communication of azure blue, so metaphysical and psychological, in that it is in tune with vocal verse well read, besides this asymmetrical craft of humble words.
   And he melted with sadness, yet a fire of pink encompassed his beating heart, knowing the differences of life do indeed lead to FEAR and LIES and HATE and ENVY.
   We are all constructed by God.  Yet fear and envy separate us--you fools, we all have power as humans, yet none transcends the other.  He is handsome, he is funny, he is good in bed, he is good with oral lovemake, he is stunted yet charming.  Do not be proud!  Pride is a demon's gift.  Thinking you're actually better--that is contemptuous hubris which architects fear and envy and hate and false testimony.  
   No man is better save him who trusts in God.  Him having a wise fear of the Creator--this being the beginning of wisdom, and don't let it be the end, but morph it into courage, united with the Godhead and all that wholesome gravy of superb sublimity.
   Lance burst into tears of sadness and joy--a counterpoise crafted as a matter of relative fact.  His mother held him.  And while her kind, drunken father snoozed on the sofa, Siria understood the gifts of Adamkind.