Crystalline Cool (36)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (36)"
   
   Dad knew he was awesomely ambiguous.  Put everything in code like Faulkner & Pynchon--the greats, yet shooting straight with his parables of stoic humor.  And he invoked Saint Nicholas of Myra, knowing internally that Duncan was alongside the charitable Santa, praying that the boy got a muscle car, but re-designed with arctic traction.  Ice is beautiful and gorgeous, but presents a heavy danger, unless appreciating the thaw; next, accepting the fertility of what is to come.
   Roadkill was watching Taxi reruns with Tony Danza, and the old man got a kick out of the Golden Retriever's high level of cerebral capacity; plus, the noble beast had a spirit that could innocently enchant, like all domesticated dogs can do, if loved.  He fed his friend a bone.  Watched as the altruistic canine gobbled it up; next, a savory lick of a furry face smiling.
   Sure, Dad missed Duncan.  But he would see his son again.  Then, thought about getting more social.  Merging with the old tribe.  But the Apache man was a loner at heart.  Liked living in the past and facing his sins, saying:  "You can't bring me down, for look what you did."
   He cranked on the fire by way of a sulfur-inspired match; next, the cigar's cherry became aglow, like a shooting star so cosmically imbibed; then, the dusty smoke blown to the spirit world.    

Crystalline Cool (35)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (35)"
   
   The old, leather Apache was feeling better; indeed, the myrrh offered a sweet and sublime solution of smooth solace.  Turn your lights on!!!  King Solomon knowing the beginning of wisdom is fear of God, and what is fear of God but light--the blue fame, the most intense part of fire, burning against pride, arrogance, and the forked tongue.
    Dad thought about Saint Andrew.  Tied, not nailed to an "X" forged cross.  The Northern Europeans understand this, as does Scotland, and more.  Furthermore, Odin on a tree.  The Abrahamic God allowing the lesser gods to mimic, and some to trick.  The 13 stars.  Virgin on the 13th day.  The blue of Saint Michael's vibrancy.  The white of Saint Gabriel singing for ALL, and soon announcing.  The red, no sense of humor--Saint Uriel and his sword of justice against manipulation and exploitation.  
   Saint Andrew saying he was not worthy to be on the regularity of a cross.  And the old Apache pondered the potency of Duncan, doing the slam dunk with them little elves, gift-wrapping glee and the birth of freedom for ALL.  
   When the brothers of Abraham unite, the shit will be wiped clean from the planet with mystical 2 ply--an inviolate white with 12 stars crafted on the purity of a Lady's Womankind--a merge of all hued frequencies, together, gelling for the Master and Maker of Intelligent Design, with a Son murdered in order to be understood, but saying:  "Your father is the father of lies and murder."
   Dad hit the peace pipe.  Took the tobacco deep into his lungs, purifying the fungus, holding it in until he exhaled and passed out--his prayers to Grandfather--and ALL people intrinsically know, if they sacrifice.  

Cowboy -Angel Mary

Crystalline Cool (34)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (34)"
  
   3 + 4 = 7.  Weird Chief Mojo Rising.  Brother against brother.  Civil War.  Suspicious and being aloof--these quasi-axioms considered within all the metaphysical aspects of numerology concerning the number 7.   
   Anyway, Dad, the pensioner or old leather man as he dubbed himself was experiencing a SINCERE ANAL ITCH; plus, he couldn't sit for a week due to pain; furthermore, when he did itch the pain, having an unearthly desire to scratch at it, or rub his buttocks on the carpeted floor like a dog--blood would flow from between his butt cheeks, not much, but enough of an amount to make him worry; therefore, he went to a modern physician, knowing all doctors are not true doctors; moreover, most are Bush League capitalists being only pseudo-physicians with a hostile contempt for ObamaCare; regardless, the old man wasn't gonna find a Princeton Graduate in this part of Oklahoma, one having boldly attended ARMY ROTC--that Ivy League School still proud of the military.
   After waiting a full hour and a half with contagious patients sneezing their twenty feet of germs across the waiting room, the former Apache Chief was called into the examining room, and after a curvaceous nurse with a nice ass took his vitals, a bulky man with a dandy mustache entered, asking him to remove his trousers and get onto the examining table; specifically, in the position of a dog, and that his anal cavity would undergo empirical investigation by way of human eyes and a potent flashlight.      
   The old man did so, and the physician entered, shockingly stating:  "Holy Fire!  Looked like you had mushrooms growing out of there at first, but that's psoriasis buddy--skin cells having accumulated into toxic scales that itch like shit.  And, do you wipe?"
   Old leather man said:  "Use 2 ply toilet paper."
   Anyway, after being prescribed ApexiCon cream and using it for a few days--the pain and itch persisted; thus, the Little Wolf loaded up Roadkill into his truck and went to see his old friend, an Apache medicine man--should've listened to his heart and went there first. 
   As it was Christmas Season, the medicine man said burning white sage into his anal cavity wouldn't be appropriate; hence, he gave him some myrrh, as did the Magi give to the Christ Child; plus, it might have intoxicating and calming effects, which is healthy when what is between your butt cheeks is on holy fire.
   Back home, not even thinking about his crusading son Duncan at the moment, the Little Wolf ignited the myrrh; next, stripped naked and squatted over the burning incense, letting the holy smoke kill the dermal demon, which was up and within, Roadkill watching in canine wonder.
   "Shut up stupid dog; I can read your laughing face like a clown selling hamburgers."  And the Chief went back to feeling the smooth cool of the archaic treatment.  

Crystalline Cool (33)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (33)"
   
   3 + 3 = 6.  Tony Dorsett.  Dallas Cowboys.  In numerology this might mean:  Counterpoise between helping and interfering.  Tony didn't interfere, not totally.  Changed his name.  Won the grand, super game.  The old, Apache man knew his son was a great running back in high school; specifically, could take a hit; next, come back for some more.  
   Wasn't ashamed of being the frequency of supposedly red--was proud of his humble and tame coyote.  General Lee was the Silver Fox, yet General Grant was the Wily Coyote, stealing fire from the gods and birthing free man.  The modern New York Coyote stood over Grant's tomb in reverence.
   White is a gregarious mesh of all vibrant hues within the light spectrum.  White noise contains all frequencies.  Molecules have vibrational energies that are lower in frequency than aqua liquid.
   Colors are determined by frequency; then, frequencies are mixed with the seeing eye--like the hue of Indigo:  Approximately 668-789 THz--Terahertz radiation, so to speak, as Twain might argue, and freaked by his friend, Tesla.
   What did this mean for the Chief, that Little Wolf?  It meant:  God loves us ALL.  And ALL will be okay if we vibrate towards Mary's words:  "Listen to My Son."
   The old man knew Duncan was bat-shit crazy, but he wasn't stupid.  The arctic is ALL, gelled and meshed with more than mere synergy, but it ALL.  
   So, the Apache elder continued to puff away on his cigar and kill the parasites within his oral cavity.  Smokes purifies; plus, kills fungus and thrush and the like.
   Next, the old leather man put on some Barney Miller reruns, getting all the metaphors for life.

Crystalline Cool (32)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (32)"
   
Duncan gallantly gawked at Santa's workshop;
Moreover, even though beyond the tree line--there was sparkling evergreen, yet no bunny hop;
Still, Jack Frost was there, and regardless what they say--he was cool and nice,
Having the icy mien of a superhero, armed with aqua-blue ice;
Furthermore, frankincense was being burnt by wise men to make sure there was no fungi;
Plus, ultraviolet light did emanate to keep the parasitic yeast from the action of MULTIPLY,
And Santa Claus laughed with a heart full of cheer and rapid-beating jingle,
While Rudolph's red nose did on Prancer's antlers tickle.
Surely, this was the most awesome place to be,
For they had the world's most brilliantly lit Christmas tree--
A rainbow of hues and sparkly, vibrating colors,
That usurped the garden-variety mortals and their no-belief glare upon well-lit others;
Indeed, Duncan knew where he belonged,
Being next to the healthy fat of Saint Nicholas, all year long.

Crystalline Cool (31)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (31)"
   
   3 + 1 = 4.  The Co-Redemptrix.  Dad knew Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd was shot around the 13th, and lived, further placing a bullet casing in the Crown of Mary's twelve, as she displays Herself on the 13th day.  Revelation Chapter 12; furthermore, the Acts of the Apocalypse, crowned in 12.  
   Dad had his Apache heritage, yet was wise enough to gregariously gel with his half-breed son's revelation from an ill matriarch.  That Catholicism.  That medieval and archaic axiom from a Holy Virgin's mouth, proclaiming, even in the King James:  "My soul doth magnify the Lord."
   Dad lit up a hot cherry on a strawberry cigar, wishing he could afford Castro's dictating soil of finely ground bliss; however, it was cheap here in this part of Oklahoma, and all he could do was go to the gas station, unless order from the Internet and be observed by the overly-spying American government.  Let's make America honest again.  The old USA!!!
   He knew Duncan was okay, as long as the boy had reverence for the little elves, and wasn't a bad Boy Scout; next, the old leather man joked to himself, thinking:  "Why did the Boy Scout get excommunicated?  Because he ate a Brownie."  It was all laughter, cool, blue, antiseptic, Saint Michael's cure, burning away, even with laughter on higher frequencies, as do colors vibrate.
   The Franciscans came to visit Dad.  They asked of Duncan's whereabouts.  He told them:  "The white dog can spot the North Star.  Saint Nicholas of Myra and isolation to stay pure, or as King David might say--Lord, make me as white as snow."
   The Franciscans liked dogs.  As do the Dominicans and Saint Roch----if they're tame and domesticated.  It was all cool.  And Saint Joan of Arc's fiery blue, the most intense part of the flame, rising, rising, rising.  They blessed the old man with the sign of the cross, and he humbly thanked them for their meek benevolence, knowing Saint Francis might say:  "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace, where there is doubt, let me plant faith, where there is sorrow, let me plant joy, and where there is darkness, let me plant light."  It was all so everlasting and brightly brilliant.
   Dad puffed away, sending his prayers to Grandfather; indeed, the Little Wolf would never eat the baby buffalo, but obey, and be so tremendously tame.