Love Contrivance (8)

   
   "Love Contrivance (8)"
   
   I lifted Grandma out of her wheelchair, my ectomorph-like frame aching afterwards, but I chewed some Tylenol and had a cool glass of iced green tea; next, I felt better, locked up the house and jumped into my powerful Plymouth, cranking the 8 cylinder to a furious life.
   Driving through the bucolic backwoods merged with suburbia, I spotted a Ten-Point Buck, though never kill a stag--my opinion, but I don't live off the land like them fellas up in Alaska.
   So, at the warehouse where I rolled the newspapers, I cranked the Plymouth off, and smoothly exited the classic muscle car, strolling casually inside the blue collar work area.
   I was greeted by coffee-drinking types from all walks of life.  City architects attempting to make extra cash, and hillbilly dudes, kinda like me, slinging the news as an entire lifestyle concerning economic support.
   Football season was approaching, and as I rolled the political headlines, I started talking to a tobacco-dipping dude name Wally.  Wally was a Tennessee Volunteers fan, used to say stuff like:  
"I bleed orange; plus, shoot black and gold."  The last comment referring to Vanderbilt and the animosity that thrived between them and the University of Tennessee.  Next, Wally stated:  "Gotta watch the Big Orange play the Gators this weekend Simon, for they'll be playing way down south, in The Swamp."
   I thought about, and figured hell, I might just do that.  

Love Contrivance (7)

    
   "Love Contrivance (7)"
   
   West Arkeen, wrote many songs, including a plethora for Guns and Roses, with:  It's So Easy, and I still don't know if I got it.  Like:  "I'll see your sister in a Sunday dress."  What the heck?
   Regardless, it is all relative.  The Sun, the Moon, the twists of fate and the awesomely arcane; indeed, this world be weird, and I ponder the Nordic gods.
   Yet I serve the God of David--who doesn't--who be in tune with jive and urban and smart?  The Abrahamic God kicked the living shit out of all the others; next, if we would gel; then, Our World Again!!!
   They're waiting for America.  The Canadian Prime Minister of Defense and wholesome journalists talking the metaphysical trash, and ABC reports on Disney Fun.  WTF?
   I love it.  The broken mirror.  The lack of a Tower of Ivory.  And yet, on those long journeys, through the suburbs, thinking of Grandma with an Upper Respiratory Infection; alas, I shrink to my disease, though not demonic decapitation--a cerebral mind saved for the persecuting hypocrites.  
   I saw rabbits that night.  Chipmunks too.  Scattering their fury of Good News (Gospel) gossip.  And why do Fox News Girls look half naked?  It sells.  And so do we.  A shame.  COME BACK, Shane.   

Love Contrivance (6)

   
   "Love Contrivance (6)"
   
   Who says you can't be bullied by large breasts?  Then, they turn it around, make you see it on the flip side of bullshit, but:  "You can't prosecute this man; he's practically a goblin."  Old Jackie Chiles from the neurosis of Seinfeld episodes.
    Yeah, I desire that darn, solid gold attorney Jackie Chiles.  But who talks the talk and walks the walk?  Usually one or the other.  Never super-symmetry there.
   And Grandma filled a pee jar, or her respected honey bucket with a furious whiz from a vaginal cavity determined to make and produce proper aim, bull's-eyeing her personal lack of penis envy.  Do female politicians want a pipe armed with all the urethra-like disadvantages of passing kidney stones, being a thumb, if it's cold, or a tube-like appendage that can crush a masculine demeanor with protracted pain?  It's not easy being a man.  Nor a woman.  It's all hell, until you find the Nordic Virgin of Ice, melting away with everlasting-green and a harvest untold, so bold.
   I attempted to be normal.  To push the reality of the supernatural away.  But why be a Pantheist and think there is only a Universe, when many exist?  
   William Blake, wanting fame, yet so determined to have breakfast with arch-angels and witness fairy funeral processions.  I cannot be who I am not.  Yup, Simon Swiss, on the list, yet in the Book of Life.   

[HD] Kacey Musgraves - Blowin' Smoke (@ CMA Music Festival 2013)

Love Contrivance (5)

   
   "Love Contrivance (5)"
   
   I awoke to the mirthful sounds of righteous laughter, and I immediately knew my cousin Lucy was visiting.  She liked to check in on Grandma and me from time to time.  Lived in Smyrna, Tennessee, and was married to a dust-cropping pilot, him getting his degree in aeronautics @ Middle Tennessee State University.  They were a sweet family--even had two dogs.
   So, garbed in my pajamas, but not needing to be totally proper and British in front of my American family, I slowly sauntered into the kitchen where Grandma and Lucy were smoking cigarettes and eating chocolate covered cherries, two cups of coffee nearby.
   After knuckle-bumping Lucy, I sat down, and she gave me the business, but not like a bully would, for Lucy loved me; specifically, she blurted in protracted fashion:  "Simon Swiss, when are you going to get a NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC collection?  Or a PLAYBOY magazine at least--to inspire your southern heat?  You can't be a bachelor forever?  Who will take care of you?"
   I replied:  "Grandma got married, yet her spouse is not here to take care of her, but a grandson."
   Lucy snorted a giggle; she knew it was all cool and horseshoes and holy water with me.  Just a soul existing in the fairy realm, yet so enchanted by the reality of our own existence, when we step back into the hardcore flow of death and taxes.  

Love Contrivance (4)

   
   "Love Contrivance (4)"
   
   I wended my weird way through the pastoral scenery of it all, approaching the ending of Franklin, a stone's throw from the Nashville line; however, I never penetrated that particular area of Music City, and yes--I do consider Franklin to also be part of Music City--that's just my opinion.
   Anyway, in a weak and barely middle-class suburbia did I anchor my rough and tough Plymouth on the concrete driveway running up to my house.  I entered through the garage, making my wild way into the incense-burning house, Grandma loving to drive the tempting fairies away, yet embrace those full of love and luck by way of offering up jasmine incense during the Moon's monitor of us Earthlings.
   I was Grandma's concierge of sorts, being her LOVE BOAT Gopher, and as I sat down during the hint of a Sun's rise, Grandma was drinking coffee, breathing normally, and sucking in the tobacco down to her toes.  Hell, I lit me a Lucky Strike up as well.
   Grandma looked at me with her spirited-green eyes and probed:  "So Simon, did you see any foxes or cops?"
   I replied:  "I always see foxes and cops on my route--part of the job."
   Grandma next with:  "Well, eat some fruitcake, have your chocolate milk, and go get plenty of sweet rest.  Maybe you can push me through the mall in my wheelchair when you get up, and we can eat at the food court."
   It sounded like a plan.  But was something missing.?  A female partner?  Or was I forever to be engaged to incorporeal fairies, though armed with a type of essence, hungrily haunting me for their own pleasures, but when something truly loves you--why not love it back?
   So, I went to my bedroom, got on my humble knees, offering a spirited prayer to the Trinity; then, made the sign of the cross over myself and climbed into bed, pulling the aqua-blue quilt over me that offered communicative dreams during my daytime slumber.  

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.