Love Contrivance (3)

   
   "Love Contrivance (3)"
   
   I'm from forwards; specifically, futurity.  We all are, or there be reverberation of graveyard life, resurrecting ghostways; regardless, I just sling my newspapers; plus, keep my nose inviolate and clean--though the heretical critics think I'm blitzed.  As Mr. Miyagi said:  "Afraid you got your facts wrong."
  
Nothing like a Nordic blonde girl, well constructed--spacious with a plethora of buxom,
Wanting to eagerly absorb life's Spider-Man suction;
Still, I keep the coydog crazy,
Being the meek nemesis of hazy and perniciously lazy--
So damn keen and in vibrant touch,
Nothing is gray save the smutch.  

Love Contrivance (2)

   
   "Love Contrivance (2)"
   
   This brunette, a chick of course; plus, she was a cop, used to pull my dusty Plymouth over all the time and chat it up with me in suburban Franklin.  She always asked about my night; moreover, said she was just checking on me, and would make her exodus after hinting at something by offering me a moonlit wink.  What the hell--it was all cool.
   I'd burn the time with tobacco and COAST TO COAST AM, a paranormal late night show on the radio, discussing everything from Catholic exorcism to flying saucers and little green men being prone to bite you--if they landed in your back yard and went through your trash and shit.
   But the nocturnal wildlife under the big neon glitter's glow was the sweetest of my laboring observations.  A couple of coyotes here and there, but they were shy or cunning, super agile, moving with a stealth-like mercury through their invaded homeland, living off of sewage, trash, rabbits, mice, and all the things that pranced through the mystical night during the witching hour.  Not skunks though, and skunks were plentiful in Franklin, when the Moon did ignite a day's remembering reflection of tomorrow.   

Love Contrivance (1)

   
   "Love Contrivance (1)"
   
   Nashville and sibling Franklin have a geographical and metaphysical synergy; specifically, Civil War specters on one side; moreover, a new named stadium, to hold the gladiators that play for the Athens of the South.
   I was in the warehouse, folding newspapers, like putting them in plastic bags and all that shit, rolling the ancient newsprint for all the old people without the Internet.
   A twenty-two year old girl thought I looked okay, possibly decent, and she made a soft flirt; next, I told her what Old Jack Kennedy used to say.  Afterwards, a dude my age came up to me, when she had exited the scene, and dude said:  "Man, she doesn't even know who Jack Kennedy is."
   That's me.  Simon Swiss.  A cheesy guy, but I like anchovies and banana peppers on my Italian pies, like a pregnant woman.  I'm sorry if my sense of humor bothers you.  But you're the one reading this.
   So, I loaded up my antiquated Plymouth; next, hit the nocturnal suburbs, slinging papers, and getting pulled over plenty by T. J. Hooker types, but once they looked inside and saw my hundreds of newspapers, it was all cool.  I would go on my way, catching special glimpses of wild yet suburban foxes and the chickens or rabbits clasped between their hunting incisors.  

Goose Clover (7)

   
   "Goose Clover (7)"
   
   ABC was my favorite television network; anyway, Freckles and me were watching DONNY & MARIE, a variety show that had debuted in January @ the ignition of the Bicentennial year for these here great States of Liberty.   
   My company seemed to be persuading Freckles to be more spirited with much mirth and glamorous glee.  I never knew that a soul's spiritual energy could outshine their corporeal aspects and make them glow like a radiant Full Moon.  Well, Freckles was sparkling.  And it was all cause of me, Goose Clover, or wiser:  our adoring synergy.  Two clumsy old timers in this wacky world.
   We weren't having a relationship that was carnally hinting of cool, like might a 1960's Dean Martin movie, but I got her off the downers; indeed, didn't need VALLEY OF THE DOLLS around my chain-smoking sophistication, and like Bette Davis used to kinda say:  "I loathe a man who doesn't smoke."
   So, deciding our gregarious gel was smooth, like a 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass with a 350 Rocket, yet only a two barrel, I asked her to marry me.  Picked up a small diamond ring at a pawn shop, and she let me put it on her freckled finger.  Yup, my sister, the chemist, was right.  Love can matter, if you look and listen to somebody enough--somebody disarmed by circumstance, yet still standing, just patiently waiting to be saved from the contagion of existence.     

Goose Clover (6)

   
   "Goose Clover (6)"
   
   I, Goose Clover--so that's what they call me--yup; anyway, was in the metaphorical ditch of melancholy.  No, don't get me wrong, for I have no lack of interest.  Just major concern for Freckles, and sublime contempt for all the nasty toxicity that had been thrown in her meek direction.
   Yeah, possibly, corporeally unpleasant, or rather, non-advanced femininity seems to lash out with vulgarities, yet Freckles was so darn pleasant and fresh, like a fancy soap made by those educated people--them in their labs with diplomas hanging on the wall.
   I just had to lift her up.  To be her spiritual cheer and benevolent spirit.  I prayed when I pumped the gas at Amoco; next, I'd take her back to my place and we'd spin the vinyl.  It eased her.  A few KENT cigarettes too.  And yeah, she still had the darn Ford Pinto.  An accident waiting to happen.  

INXS - Jimmy Barnes - Good Times (Live)

Goose Clover (5)

   
   "Goose Clover (5)"
   
   @ the Amoco, I was pumping the dinosaur fuel for an auburn haired lady in a Ford Pinto; next, I knew Ralph Nader would get involved, and in the waaaay future, Donahue too, in all his weirdness, supporting him as a Green Party Candidate.  Us gas pumpers know plenty.
   Regardless, the lady with auburn hair lifted her head, revealing tears running down a face smeared in freckles.  I asked her to pay me for Amoco's services, and she was crying; furthermore, said to my astonished soul:  "Nobody likes me.  I'm not even an A cup; I wear a training bra, and I'm forty-seven years old; plus, everybody calls me Freckles."
   I took her payment; moreover, I consoled her; plus, asked her out on a date.  The shapeless divine and  those born with asymmetrical features--their corporeal aspects ridiculed.  Yet there is always a mirror of justice.  Bullies have to sneak up on themselves in the mirror.
   Anyway, we went to an Italian place for dinner.  There was candlelight.  She was humble, head down, but I asked to see her glimmering face; next, she displayed it for me, that sweet countenance totally covered in freckles, and deep-green eyes, haunting behind.  Could this be the love of my life?    She was so fractured and frail, yet had carried on for almost half a century, fighting the bullies and their beefy bravado, though wilted when the mystical rose reveals her bitter thorns.