Yearning Apotheosis (2)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (2)"
   
   Cindy Simpson used to be your garden-variety, ALL AMERICAN GIRL.  Got her undergraduate education, drank heavily and carnally partied while using illicit substances; next, after working as a banker, her conscience ignited to a form of spiritual life; specifically, the Virgin Mary (Queen of Angels) appeared to her vivid imagination, glowing in platinum white and azure blue.  Therefore, Cindy was inspired to throw the past out of the haunted window, and become a Dominican Nun.
   The Dominicans were founded by Saint Dominic, them mystically morphing into an Order of Preachers; plus, associated with dogs.  Domini Canes is a play on the Latin language that kinda/sorta means:  "Hounds of the Lord."
   Cindy loved working at hospice and holding the hands of those corporeally ill; next, their holy-crafted spirits giving flight towards the Almighty Maker.  She fed them optimism in a Christian sense, having prayed over many that had passed away into the Otherworld.  
   Little did Cindy know, she was about to make a new friend.  At Catholic Mass on Sunday morning, she encountered an emaciated, lonely-looking man sitting humbly at the back of the Church; furthermore, she felt an intrinsic desire to speak to him--his name was:  Britt Flynn, the anti-hero of this story.  And the Pillars of Heaven would soon shake with Divine Inspiration.  

Yearning Apotheosis (1)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (1)"
   
   My title is Britt Flynn; specifically--that's my name, in this Universe amidst the Multiverse.  My Dad was Irish, like the only Catholic President of these here States--John F. Kennedy.  But Daddy didn't get an eternal torch over his grave; my nasty mother cremated him, lessening him more than the English did to Saint Joan of Arc--but energy (spirit) never dies, and can be resurrected or implanted in bio-mechanical or purely corporeal forms.
   Mom poisoned Dad with antifreeze.  She molested me too, when I hit my adolescent years.  Her creamy vaginal cavity giving me epididymitis, causing me pain for years in my scrotum, and I never saw a Doc; thus, after years of hurting in them balls, I developed testicular cancer, it's possible, and now I'm what you might call:  Eunuch.  Sucks to be me, right?
   Mom ultimately smeared herself to death, or the fallen adder was calling her for a reincarnated genesis of more destruction; regardless, I go to Catholic Mass, read science fiction in my government-housed facility, and use tobacco products that are smokeless.  It's my freaking life, and all I can do is talk to Christ.  He's nice.  Obedient even unto death, not needing fame or corporations to sponsor a possible capitalistic greed, and even them radio show hosts call Pope Francis a socialist; thus, I'd like to swing on those selfish bastards.  They don't know pain.  Don't know the toxicity of drama.  The dollar keeps them safe, and I'm on the outskirts of Heaven, even here, living among the demonically deranged.   

GLX: Mustang Mystery

   
   "GLX:  Mustang Mystery"
  
Piloting my ambiguous, 1980's GLX Stang,
I got pulled over by a Deputy Dawg, him old enough to recall astronaut Tang;
Specifically, it was 1989 and Heavy Metal was soul music;
Moreover, the cop was sincerely stupefied, yet weirdly lucid,
Asking, seriously:  "What the hell is a GLX?"
It gave his pseudo-detective state an automotive hex;
Indeed, a 255 cubic-inched, 4.2 liter V-8--
Ford's greatest eight-cylinder mistake;
Regardless, he let me go with a polite warning for spinning my tires--
No V-8 exists in time and space without igniting a bit of blacktop fires.     

1964 Pontiac GTO

   
   "1964 Pontiac GTO"
   
   Considered by many to be the first massively-produced muscle car, the 1964 Pontiac GTO (Gran Turismo Omologata) was and is--a ghostly myth of muscle, yet it royally resonates with real and regal speed reality.  And no disrespect to the 1957 Chevy--that is more of a classic though.
   
Standard Engine:  389 cubic inches.

Horsepower:  325.

Torque:  428 lb-ft.

0-60:  An approximate 7 seconds.

Quarter Mile:  Near 100 miles-per-hour.

   But what nobody understands concerning the eight cylinder motor is:  the potent performance concerning wending your way up the geography of high asphalt hills.  When that four barrel of old opens up, it simply pulls you to the top, way beyond the turbo-charged six or four cylinder motors of today, sucking up all that extra power, yet without the "Great Eight" number of cylinders, there is a lack of muscularity and stable performance; nonetheless, with today's mercurial six and four cylinders, things remain relative, and ya never know.  As the villainous Max said in Schwarzenegger's movie RAW DEAL:  "Depends on the driver."    

Full Harvest Moon: September 16, 2016

   
   "Full Harvest Moon:  September 16, 2016"
   
   The Full Harvest Moon is the most brilliant reflection of the Moon mirroring the Sun (it can be argued); plus, closest to the autmnal equinox.  This large-seeming glimpse of nighttime Luna offered illumination to farmers in the old days, giving them the light necessary to reap the rewards of their crops; thus, it is truly harvest time.
   Maybe appearing a bit orange, which signifies abundance and prosperity--heck, it's gotta be true, for an approximate week before the Full Harvest Moon waxes to completion, the Big Orange will take to Terra's turf and engage Virginia Tech in a grindhouse game, where the Bristol Motor Speedway has purchased a super-plethora of beer for the myriads in attendance.  And is not beer John Barleycorn resurrected in every glass, bottle, or cup?  Don't drink it through a straw dudes.
   Too, armed with such effulgent luminosity, the Full Harvest Moon gives werewolves a little extra burst of mystical power.  Supposedly, they can run near 70 miles-per-hour during such a dazzling ignition of Luna; therefore, if you're being chased by a Lycanthrope in your car, you may want to crank it up to eighty, hoping you have an 8 Cylinder, or a turbo-charged 6 or 4 cylinder.
   

Truck-Driving & King David

   
   "Truck-Driving & King David"
   
   Being a voyager, or even worse--a freaking pilot of an automobile making the attempt to transcend an eighteen-wheeler is strictly intense; thus, get a muscle car, or pass with as much macho muster available; next, hug the outer, surrounding line, and be on your merry way.
   Or you can hug a truck.  Get behind the eighteen-wheeler and do the turtle dance of a mere seventy miles-per-hour; specifically, you'll make innocent and decent time.  But with navigation systems speaking robotically to us, doing all the thinking, shit--this is trans-humanism.  But what the freaking hell.  Plug it into the brain--in the next score of years; then:  downloading Ivy League Education, approximately twelve minute.  Moreover:  downloading Bush League Education, an estimated thirty seconds; plus, you get to drink and carnally engage sorority sisters in the virtual sludge match.  It's cool though.  
   We disintegrate our heroes--slay them actually; then, we build new models, yet your iPhone 5 still dreams lest you demolish its technological wizardry.
   But of King David--and a bard on the CB Radio would he be, back in the SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT days, outpacing a singular, monstrous gravity-sucking eighteen-wheeler with vociferous verse and the pure energy of a Holy Spirit, dictating:  (PSALMS 31:24)  "Be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord."
   And I still wish Jack Burton was driving . . .   

Mystic McDonald's

   
   "Mystic McDonald's"
   
   Splintered by rapid disease encompassing around, I find no total solace, yet peculiar frequencies occasionally vibrate with sublime sound.  And at Mickey D's do I always find things that sincerely amaze me.  Yes, like a contestant on WHEEL OF FORTUNE--I am fascinated by simple, shiny things.  And we all have "Bankrupt" and "Lose a Turn" on our spinning wheels of perpetuity.  
   So alone, as always, or possibly not, because nobody can see my friends--I notice the old and withered; plus, the Mexican workers covered in green grass and labor-like dirt, but what caught my eye today, during my omnivorous involvement with a Big Mac, was:  an older, completely bald man, with wire-rimmed glasses, walking with an unstable gait, simply ordering a coffee; next, taking a seat in front of me, shaking as he drank his hot beverage; furthermore, hands clicking on the table; specifically, he was not neuro-typical.  Are you neuro-typical?  Just a go-getter with no demonic villains attempting to slay you since birth?  
   Regardless, I prayed for him.  To have the Energy of God, Multi-Hued, Surrounding--and that he may be reminded upon his next entrance of these magical marvels.  Maybe he too will not be alone, making friends with the Angels and Saints--them always pointing to the Trinity.  
   God Bless McDonald's.  Quiet, quick, and for some reason--easy on my bowels, what the hell--I like it.