Platinum Scapegoat (1)

   
   "Platinum Scapegoat (1)"
   
   Mason was a myriad of messes.  Fallen, or dropped--better yet, by a step-family member, yet so sublime, like having the Old Testament falling hard onto his absorbing head; next, paralyzed and wheelchair bound, seeing it all, though unable to speak.
   He never told his Dad what his new wife's daughter had done.  Tanya, her older, an angry, angst ridden adolescent, while Mason was only nine years of age; moreover, he never told Dad about how Tanya's Mom treated him, for he couldn't.  Lost unto a world within himself, deep in trances and silent prayer, begging Saint Uriel to bring solid justice.
   The worst that Mason reflected upon was that his step-mom was attempting to frame his father for neglect, when in fact, it was the polar opposite; indeed, all for the money--smell the money Johnny Football, and you get lost in the fiction of it all.
   Mason's Dad's name was Rob, and he was being robbed.  Mason figured they'd have him (Mason) killed and his Dad blamed in a few months.  So, as the shortest verse in the King James Bible goes:  "Jesus wept."  Too, Mason wept, his tears still able to run down his scrawny face within the fiction of a happy suburbia.  

Weredog Tart (35)

   
   "Weredog Tart (35)"
   
   The Old Moon was waxing, so much so with effulgent neon-cheese glow, and Steel City underneath, within the heavenly glare downwards and easy reach of the One, True Almighty; indeed, Siria felt mighty; regardless, she pondered and attempted to fathom the cerebral insight of loyal Lance, wanting to give him the weredog chance, but would this be true Catholicism, with Saints and dogs, or Wives' Tales gone sour and old--she wondered?
   Lance approached her suburban habitat lopsided as was his ego absent--just a dude, a dude with no attitude, absent of pride and fasting on the bread of life, yet man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God, as did the Christ mention to forces monstrously maleficent.
   And as he approached, she gulped a beer stolen from Dad, not melancholy and sad, but to imbibe the brew from John Barleycorn, making her resurrected in a decision-making storm, reaching out to his pineal gland, so that he might completely comprehend and understand--he did.
   She fanged herself not for the kill, and Lance was so chill, the Iceman in him did live inside, his confidence only viewed by Mark Twain's Seeing Eye, and he took the incisors deep into his flesh, having a wolf and golden retriever mesh; moreover, all was cool now with faith and plenty, for Lance was crowned a weredog, and many would be their pups and all that jazz, no longer would their fairy tale be blue (in a sad sense) but communicative and true--so damn golden and glad, armed forever with no prose gone mad.      

Jack Kerouac on The Steve Allen Plymouth Show 1959

Weredog Tart (34)

   
   "Weredog Tart (34)"
   
Siria was not enchanted, yet truly elated--soooo in love with loyal Lance,
Giving her best buddy matrimony's lifetime chance;
Moreover, unearthed him a bone she had instinctively buried--
The Earth up North as a refrigerator, keeping us to the dead, like unto married
To a state of futurity's risen flesh,
Which is why love always needs the sublimity of a synergy-like mesh--
To nicely nurture and creatively care like Rose Quartz brings,
Making the mirror image of the heavens bring us lovely things.  

Weredog Tart (33)

   
   "Weredog Tart (33)"
   
   Serendipity suddenly calling; specifically, Lance's ex-football Coach wanting him to toss the baseball, having the empathy and intuition of Saint-like females to know the boy could spin the laced heat of a baseball, possibly.  And after the wiry Irish kid cranked it out, though not well targeted, the speed was in the mid to upper 80's.  The Coach with:  "I knew your arm had something."
    Further testing aimed Lance at the Minor Leagues or Junior College teams around Pennsylvania--Scranton had plenty, but if he was going to travel, he wanted to have cowboy romance with the road, and horseback it Westwards.
   Plus, knew that Siria had guarded her virginity, and him as well; thus, wasn't marriage perfect, he figured.  But before breaking the news that he had an unseen potential, the boy prayed by way of invoking Saint Patrick, having a funny feeling about the Saint morphing a once royal soul into a wolf, or so Catholicism and canines go, very bizarre, but truly dogmatic and traditional.
   And it was like he knew Siria would say "yes" and that Mom, in charge of his ghostly father's greenbacks, would assist him with a humble ring, to show the seed starts small, and if not scattered in thorns; next, it grows on fields that trump those Elysian fantasies, Christ being so true, as He actually walked upon Terra's terrain.  

Weredog Tart (32)

   
   "Weredog Tart (32)"
   
   Things were moving swiftly along with a quicksilver exodus from summer school for Siria and Lance; specifically, the teenage twosome had finished their academic purgatory, passed, and now both ready to receive their diplomas.  
   Noah and Mandy McGee were not proud, for what came next for their children?  Regardless, the adolescents were not worried about the states of their future, not putting pressure on themselves, yet still capable of crafting metaphorical diamonds--in the sense that Siria was ready to open up to Lance concerning her weredog status.
   Would he tell?  Be fabulously freaked and want to be turned, forever in touch with the supernatural himself?  And furthermore, Siria pondered the government, werewolf hunters, and all the uncanny things mentioned in the wisdom of the perpetually pondering underground.
   Still, she knew it wise to trust her best buddy.  To show him her canine suavity.  Hell, to marry the guy and wend Westwards, where freedom lurked by those thirsting to live a more antiquated and idealistic lifestyle among that mystical, American geography.  
   Sometimes, less is more, like Idaho or Oregon, and what wise fools do not look to the nature of the Northwest?   West is water, and North is Terra; thus, combine the two, and a magical sense of power takes hold of the traveler, him having an intrinsic arsenal of all the weapons and tools needed to survive within the mystic groove of things bizarre, forbidden to regular men, them phobic concerning Crusade, wanting an American Dream long lost save for the selfish, them misers miserably praising with lips, yet hearts as black as coal.

New Moon: August 2nd, 2016

   
   "New Moon:  August 2nd, 2016"
   
   Totally, Reagan had astrological intent and guidance when meeting with Mikhail Gorbachev; moreover, over freaking nuclear weapons; regardless, I am not that potent of a toxic avenger; nevertheless, there is truth and falsehoods in all things, yet a singular truth from the Son of David, in a sense.
   This August, on the 2nd--the New Moon in Leo, offering you chances at loyalty, creativity, dignity, and courage.  And after the New Moon--it does WAX, growing brighter and stronger, offering you more motherly intensity till birthed Full and Born again.
   The Virgin Mary with the Moon at Her feet--many historical depictions, showcasing purity and perfection--if we give Her a chance to offer the True reflection of Her Son.