Don't Count Your Chickens . . .

   
   "Don't Count Your Chickens . . ."
   
Never count the mysterious chickadee
Until you've taken a kidney stone pee,
For though your patriarch pooped a heart attack--
This don't mean sister, you need an anti-depressant for a fluxing serotonin jack,
Though even an ascetic can fail to enter paradise,
If God's sense of keen dream is smitten by the fallen, strange but not nice;
Alas, Calvin armed with his theological point of predestination
Is like unto the Web of Wyrd and The Norns' temptation;
Thus, without hesitation, pluck out your own eye and hang on a tree,
For even the lesser gods can with a singular eye see;
Hence, love the Christ, love the Christ, love the Christ--
A Trinity:  Holy, Holy, Holy Lord, embarking into death can be a benevolent heist.  

Why Read James Joyce?

The lowly Saints of everyday

    
   "The lowly Saints of everyday"
   
   He works in the yard, and I doth protest.  It's hot, and you're old--I tell him such things.  But he persists in communicating with God in the garden of suburbia.  We don't always see eye to eye--who does?
   I feel his anxiety and tension, yet his corporeal self is withered, like unto a fading flower, though never in the image of Narcissus.  
   I cook and bake for him.  He likes whiskey and hard spirits, as did Hemingway.  I told him to write like that guy:  machine-gun sentences.  One.  Two.  Three.  Linear thinking, which I'm incapable of, questioning everything, and testing every spirit.
   We are not Starsky and Hutch, for we don't drive a "Striped Tomato" as Hutch had dubbed the monster Ford, that cool yet fiery Gran Torino.   
   It's all high horsepower 6 Cylinder engines nowadays, mostly, but they lack the manipulating rotation of torque produced by the behemoth big blocks of old.  Still, he loves working outside.  I keep an eye on him, even during his rants at the political news and the Bravo Sierra it doth spilleth on the quasi-airwaves of today. 

  

Sarah J. Connor--the Sheltie

   
   "Sarah J. Connor--the Sheltie"
   
   My name is Sarah J. Connor; I am a Shetland Sheepdog.  I have many nipples, but was spayed, for my owner, a wackadoodle named Jimmy, didn't want me to wear a diaper, go into heat, or have any raunchy boy dogs come sniffing around.  Good for the wackadoodle.
   Yeah, I loved Jimmy.  He took me for walks, let me chase lizards, and fed me real, live-action bacon--center cut, as it should be, unless you're a Jew or Muslim.
   I don't want to offend anybody, but nowadays--that's all that a person or dog can do.  If you tell a girl at the grocery market that she looks good in jeans--it's domestic terrorism or harassment.  If I take a stinky poop in the neighbor's yard, people will put me down or put a shock collar on me.  Yup, folks are real assholes.
   I always thought I lived in a free country; then, I realized--that's Canada.  America has gone down the tubes.  Poor General George, and they're even taking Old Hickory off the twenty dollar bill pretty soon.  That really pisses me off, for I live in Tennessee.  Why don't they just make a three dollar bill and put a chick on it?  Did any chicks fight in the Great American Wars like the men, or have the mystical initiative of Joan of Arc?  I don't think so.  But whatever.  And I like being a girl.  I'm just saying--it is America, and once was a free country without all the overwhelming security.  Yikes.  
   Yeah, I know I'm not perfect, nor are my opinions, but what soul didn't love it before girls grew the hanging scrotum?  Okay, I'm wrong again, for my name is Sarah J. Connor; still, that's fiction--like me.  Then again--there's always the knuckle-thrusting axiom of Hope Solo.  

Near Death Experience

   "Near Death Experience"
   
   One of my near-death-experiences, my favorite really, was in Little Rock, when I was in my late twenties.  The cleaning lady at the hospital, where I stayed for a week would say:  "But you're so young."
   I kept telling my physician about the blood loss; he wouldn't listen.  When I checked myself into the Emergency Room, and had lab work done--I had less than half the blood in my body; furthermore, my brother called me on the phone--heroically, I stated:  "Walk in the park."
   Next, I kept running to the bathroom, more blood shooting from my bowels, all hooked up to intravenous saline, among other things, and the nurses were laughing at me, saying with much weird mirth:  "There he goes again."
   When I finally got my transfusion of less than ichor, the nighttime nurse told me that she wanted to die when she lost control of her bowels.  Hell, didn't she know why I was there?  Of course, but like the bad guys in KARATE KID:  "No mercy."  
   Some are like unto Elijah and Enoch, becoming Twin Arch-Angels, going up into Heaven, as did the Virgin Mary, without corporeally passing.  I understand the Passion of Christ, in the sense of nearly bleeding to death.  In and out of consciousness.  But I didn't want to die, for the second X-Men movie had come out that day, and I was determined to be entertained before meeting my Maker.
   After major Cardiac Arrest, back in the day, people usually only lived for an approximate five to six years.  My Bio-Dad made it over twenty, and he told me that he saw the Light.  
   Will.  Will.  Will.  And he smoked and drank like a true Irishman.  
   It's all in God's Hands.  Or God puts it in yours.  Just shut up with the negativity, or karma may kick you in the ass, and I've been there.  Love, hope, have faith, and know the Passion of Christ--He did it for all of us!!!  Even the nasty ones.  

Snoopy's Brother: Spike

   
   "Snoopy's Brother:  Spike"
   
   Spike is very skinny.  He used to live with coyotes; as a result of their selfishness--they wouldn't share any food with him; hence, he moved to Needles, where his best friend became a cactus.
   A cactus has endurance.  Gives the essence of life.  And has needles, much like Spike's mustache, which is needle-like.
   A common trait with Snoopy is that Spike also writes.  Maybe he's not as fast on the typewriter as Snoopy, but he's able to craft a nice letter, mentioning that he's coming to visit the Peanuts Gallery.
   Mark Twain didn't like the typewriter.  I believe he thought it a nasty invention.  Kerouac was a master on the typewriter.  So is Snoopy--him still alive, surviving in the memories of myriads.  

Feeding the Monkey

   "Feeding the Monkey"
  
   There was no Atomic Consciousness for Leeza; indeed, to her belonged the archetype of a banana-eating mind, dulled and confused by what she could not fortunately fathom in the fresh fruits of the Divine.  No one is to blame, and Leeza had her own radio show in a local region of Oklahoma.  

* * * *

   She broadcast her bravado with a dragon's fiery selfishness of laid gold; moreover, she hated Hobbits and the rotation of Earth by the mere monkey man.  The non-evolved in a sense of style, for Leeza was a fashion critic, adoring the Beaver's blonde mother clothed in pumps and pearls.
   She had a daughter named Bonnie.  A kind and magnanimous soul, heavenbent on raising the dead and feeding the monkeys; plus, rabbits, and even mice, never trapping them, but adoring all animals, and drinking plenty of grape-flavored soda-pop.  
   The dualistic dichotomy of the two was counterpoise perfected.  And a mother's love, not jealousy of her daughter, well, that would allow for even a better union, outshining balance.
   Fortunately, the twosome engaged and embraced after their differing opinions saw the identity of equals.  For no soul is without the stovepipe hat of Lincoln; specifically, the cerebral and spiritual aspects underneath.  Did they love each other and ignite into a strange yet paradisal eternity?
   Of course; otherwise--it would not be worth mentioning.  God not spank, but save the Queen.