Saint and snakes (3)

   
   "Saints and snakes (3)"
   
   McKelvy was collectively in tune with being an assiduous soul--all for his fabulous fidus Achates known as the Holy Trinity, One God; moreover, supported easily (upon his invocation) with an army of Arch-Angels at his side, knowing their power of potent physics, able to superposition their "essences" as the Good Doctor, Saint Thomas Aquinas mentioned they possessed; regardless, he would handle it himself, using the coyote's scent to relentlessly track the deadly demon off of Santa Monica Boulevard, oppressing a child raging internally, fueled by the autistic spectrum of a hidden rainbow beneath--a promise of power from the Otherworld, not a crutch, but an opossum's Totem energy, playing into the quicksand of death, yet resurrected, or ready to fight with fanged fury--if it came to that.
   McKelvy, neither man nor woman, was crafted by divine camouflage, hiding his/her ivory-blade within a trench coat's blue fabric, using his cane of cards, as gravity and determination of the damned thieved away a bit of his dexterity, yet once the ivory-blade's gemstone-crafted hilt was within his firm and true grip, having a pommel of eternal promises, the life of Arch-Angels promoted him to a state of higher constitution, an unearthly endurance to deal with those damning others, as the autistic boy was oblivious his therapy dog had been murdered by cyanide from a toxic peach pit:  first, dilated pupils; next, excessive salivation; furthermore, dizzy spells until fainting graveways.
  The peach pit was not a piquant treat offered by magnanimous hands, yet deadly contagion given by a greedy gamin having his pineal gland calcified by over-processed food and tapped into by the diabolical infusion of demons.
   McKelvy would pay the demon a visit, unsheathe his unsullied blade, gleaming like a tower of ivory, and into the soul of the hellbent, knowing:  reptiles strike out of jealousy, being envious and never wise, dooming themselves as God has determined.    

Saints and snakes (2)

   
   "Saints and snakes (2)"
   
   McKelvy, not doomed by the adversary, that inability to serve Adam (Man) as the Holy Trinity, One God suggested, morphing from the light into night-shade, adorned in scales, vibrating on sinister frequencies--all due to an inability to serve and protect man, causing curvaceous contagion and traumatic toxicity as pride did outshine obedience, wanting to craft further false testimony and the rest, giving the exploding Smurf-like gift of insidious surprise, warping most men into uncouth animals, and now hoping trans-humanism will save his fallen species.
   But McKelvy would have something to say, in utter silence, warped himself, though with the will of weirdness, using his ambiguous gifts as specters to haunt the fallen, and the ivory-gleaming blade forged inviolate, yet to offer sanguine certification of the Son of Man's axiomatic truth of long-suffering, loving it like a mad monk, knowing death belonged to him, igniting the sparkle of life without tentacles pulling downward into the venomous vault of vipers.  
   And he walked the streets of the City of Angels, gone to cosmetic implants, the falsehoods of brace-face, and the lack of loving ugliness, as McKelvy did, knowing:  beauty was with the downtrodden and asymmetrical, not knowing an architect of trickery save the coyote, having eyes to see and ears to hear:  "Ye shall know them by their fruits."
   And with his sniffer, so in tune with the trash, Saint Michael's communicative-blue giving him the gift of knowing, and Saint Gabriel's halo of white, offering words like a wasp's stinging Totem, though he only served the Lord, and those in tune with the fantastic frequency of luscious love.    

Saints and snakes (1)

   
   "Saints and snakes (1)"
   
   In withering withdrawal from night-shame, though finding the succor of Saints (preserve us), even then, the snakes infuse your pineal gland with submission save those infused by light, refusing to break, even unto death is their mastering mark, controlled by the psychotic love of God that King David possessed, so divine and praising, a son born of adultery, though that love, redeeming in Solomon and the myriads of Angels called for the will of weird, like burning myrrh does the will of the Holy Spirit, bringing forth the castrated pudendum of a Holy Trinity, One God.  
   McKelvy didn't care.  Brought forth from the pits of pandemonium unto the living earth, besmirched by madness and a greed spoken against by Pope Francis himself, sitting Benedict down, betrayed not was God by the Universal poverty of possession, especially including those spiritual things that haunt heavenly or hellways till death gifts or gives true disease.
   And everything is stolen by the coyote, like a sword forged by Arch-Angels to slay the fallen Arch-Angels, in a time and space that is relative, yet knowing:  there is no big freeze, for Al Gore has mentioned so; thus, McKelvy, damned by his altruistic intentions, would not give false testimony, but stand by the glowing arctic eyes of a Tower of Ivory, a House of Gold, a Morning Star, the Perimeter of Sublimity, and all for what?
   To not be swine controlled by controlled politicians and the lies of attorneys, yet into the quixotic insanity of TRUTH.  Let it be told!!!   

The Price Is Right: Spinning Wheels

   "The Price Is Right:  Spinning Wheels"
   
   Drew Carey's debut as host was:  October 12, 2007; however, Bob Barker is a game-show legend; plus, a Black Belt, as my Pap told me way back in them rock and roll 80's.
   I love when they spin the Big Wheel--like Stevie Nicks singing:  "Spinning Wheels...Crystal Perfection..."  Kinda/sorta reminds of Saint Teresa of Avila and her mystical INTERIOR CASTLE, wending your ascetic way into crystal caverns, and if you see a small reptile, don't bother with it, for it's not a massive dragon, but you never can tell.
   Anyway, the show was forged and produced by the television army of Bob Stewart, Mark Goodman, and Bill Todman.  It has brought happiness and glee to many seniors and disabled people throughout the years.    

Saint Roch; plus, laying on of the hands

   
   "Saint Roch; plus, laying on of the hands"
   
   Saint Roch, the Patron Saint of dogs, the falsely accused, and other things, well--he fought against the plague, assisted the poor, and was devoted to positive energy.  After getting the plague himself, he retreated into the woods to die, yet a holy hound found him, bringing him food, and licking his wounds until they healed.
   If someone is disabled, never offering them the positive sense of touch is a diabolical thing.  You must caress and put "your Kingdom of God within you" into them, much like a mere mutt does when it licks and loves, offering companionship and adoration--dogs and man have always lived side by side since the conception of human consciousness.  
   On the flip side, if a disabled person in a nursing home is cruelly tossed and turned, only touched for the purpose of the caretaker getting a paycheck; next, that negativity promotes the early death of the patient.  You gotta try; indeed, you gotta try.  Humanity needs the love of loving hands, rubbing, stroking, and not neglecting with the insidious intent of selfish malice.  
   What to do with a sick person?  Would you take them out in the backyard and shoot them in the head?  Plenty of people would, controlled by selfishness, only caring for themselves.  We know this, as Christ called the venomous Viper in the Fourth Gospel:  "The Prince of this world."  Yet Christ, knowing the Kingdom of God was within Him, stated:  "He has no power over Me."    

Yearning Apotheosis (12)

   
   "Yearning Apotheosis (12)"
   
   During another nightmarish craze in his locked facility--Britt Flynn passed away.  At first, he saw a luminous, white light encompassing all around; next, tentacles of blackness were grabbing at his spirit, pulling him into an abysmal pit.  He couldn't fight any longer, and the guilt of his life was dragging him down, making the black tentacles stronger.  
   Then, Sister Cindy knowing what was happening in her mystical dreams reached out to him, singing so sweetly to his departing spirit:  "Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you!"
   Britt Flynn's spirit heard clearly, and with acknowledgement that God is the only Good, the toxic tentacles released him, and he was taken into Papa's Arms.
   Sister Cindy did not weep in her curious slumber, yet smiled softly, knowing though not knowing, her spiritual charity had assisted in letting Britt Flynn know, and finally love the Trinity, releasing his guilt and shame, finding eternal solace and joy.  

Yearning Apotheosis (11)

  
   "Yearning Apotheosis (11)"
   
   It was Sunday, and Britt Flynn was caged for having another nightmarish frenzy; moreover, Sister Cindy's vociferous intervention did not persuade his release this time, even though it was ignited with electric-blue communication; hence, she remembered when Christ did not heal at one point, having been "amazed" at their lack of faith; regardless, she held her head high unto the Lord and went to Mass as the peasant Nun she was.
   Furthermore, the pseudo-like sermon ignited her melancholy deeper, for the Priest had said that God did not answer Christ's prayer, when He mentioned:  "Father, do not let me drink of this cup, but Thy Will be done."  Did the Priest not know the Scriptures?  About tearing this house down, and it being rebuilt in a Trinity of days?  Or how nobody takes His life, but He gives it freely, openly admitting this before His obedience unto death?  Or how He denied the Adder's attempt to give Him fame and riches, knowing His doomed yet glorious ignition at Calvary?  Indeed, Sister Cindy was having a bad day, yet she knew the shocked and overly-sober Britt Flynn was even under more oppression from the camouflaged and fallen.
   She went to get pizza anyway.  Rubbing the Crucifix that hung boldly between her breasts, untouched by any man for a decade.  She only made love to the Trinity in an energy format; plus, the sublimity of the Celestial Hierarchy.  So, she had hope; moreover, faith.  Trust in God that Britt Flynn would find his Irish charm, and sweetly sane himself into only fearing God--the beginning of wisdom; next, adoration and love for the Father arrives, almost as if a friendship.
   She suffered in silence, though had victory, knowing the promised culmination of Adamkind, which is true life wending eternal for the laboring and faithful.