Yearning Apotheosis (5)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (5)"
   
   Britt Flynn was back in his government-housing, silent and pondering as the night was alive outside his locked chambers.  He knew he had sinned; thus, the wages of death--the forced, though sometimes enjoyable molestation by his mother, and he had paid in full.
   Moreover, he was humbled now.  Like Saint Francis always was.  Yet Joan of Arc--was she bloodthirsty, being beyond humility, or in a noble state, fighting to save her homeland?  And King David differed than the perpetually-washing Levite Aaron, armed with a Staff of God, topaz on his breastplate, among other things that I will not mention.  There are many differing personalities that inherit the Energy of the Almighty, yet none are reptiles--even though Christ said:  "Be as cunning as serpents, yet as innocent as doves."
   Britt Flynn was neither.  Yet Sister Cindy would infuse him with something special.  She had that altruistic energy.  Was no reptile, or working for them in a filthy rich corporation.  And Britt Flynn knew he could admit such things to his shrink--for who was going to believe a mad eunuch?  

Yearning Apotheosis (4)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (4)"
   
Sister Cindy and Britt Flynn delicately digested their pizza covered in savory anchovies,
By way of a walk in the park, though not carrying band equipment like tattooed roadies;
Regardless, their hearts made a joyful noise unto the Luminous Lord,
Knowing Saint Michael will "Be Back" with his flaming sword;
Moreover, all shall see the Son of Man coming down from the Clouds of Heaven;
Plus, those Divine Angelic Entities standing before the Almighty's Throne--all Seven!
Them able to superposition their grace using physics unknown,
Which would give Einstein a headache if only corporeally known--
So just as did Saint Raphael superposition itself, walking alongside Tobias and a mere dog--  
Sister Cindy and Britt Flynn enjoyed their walk, finding a Federal Reserve Note behind a log.
A small favor from the Goodness of God--
Him being Super-Symmetrical, and can be an impenetrable shield, if given David's praising nod.  

Yearning Apotheosis (3)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (3)"
   
   Sister Cindy, after Mass had found culmination and the Virgin Mary was sincerely invoked by way of the mighty Rosary, sought out the poor, little man known as Britt--the Priest had informed her of him.  She humbly, yet with suavity and cool, approached, as if on a holy mission, near an ivory-white statue of Our Lady outside of the Catholic Church; next, the conversation sparked.

CINDY
You're Britt Flynn--are you not?

BRITT
Yes Sister.  He felt no wolf-like suspicion, only love and arctic cool.

CINDY
I've heard your story; moreover, the torrid tales of your suffering and trauma.  You don't have to be a veteran to be disabled.

BRITT
Are we not all soldiers for Christ?  Is not Saint Michael invoked for exorcism; plus, Saint Joan for strength and steel?

CINDY
You know the Universal Saints--I like you.

BRITT
I like the Trinity--it gives me spiritual fuel to exist.

CINDY
And you will always exist in time and space--Christ is the Author of Life, even before theoretical physicists believed us to be living in a programmed hologram--but it's all synonymous--isn't it?  Now, come have lunch with me.  We can get pizza with anchovies.

BRITT
Fishers of men, huh?  I like it.

   The twosome made their way to a pizza parlor, and Britt got a beer, Sister Cindy not minding.  

The Cult - Brother Wolf, Sister Moon

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.