"Prayer To Saint Michael The Arch-Angel"
Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits, who wander through the world seeking the ruin of souls.
In Christ's Name--Amen.
"Grackle Nation (7)--Holy Saturday"
They lack the Apocrypha and the Messianic obnoxiousness, challenging him to trust in his God, as he unmasked as might a wild dog eating vegetation and toxic waste, knowing what it's like being poisoned. Slim Jim Grackle didn't care. Wasn't involved. Knew his last wife buttered the bread of betrayal, thinking her creamy spread was smooth, when fooling the mentality of masses, and yet he forgave, as he did everyone, further getting walked on, until they walked him out into the backwoods of Tennessee; therefore, they were truly happy for his exile, thinking him having erroneous ego, when they possessed a pungent passion for the celebration of life, without knowing they were monitored beyond the spying bravado of Intelligence Agencies.
Slim Jim didn't mind. Good old boy, petting the simplicity of Echo on his lawn chair, watching the Sun rise and unlock the doors to Heaven, him a head dropped, having lost a family they claimed was a catastrophe of his own making, yet he had kept it in his pants, knowing the sophistication of family espionage and egomania, while all a good old boy wants is the love of a Jimmy Carter, not shocked at what the government told him, but following his schedule, yet Reagan kicked Congress in the teeth, and he was celebrated, standing out, slicked back hair like Bob Barker, though not a Black Belt as was the game show host.
Slim Jim Grackle wasn't a gambling man. Didn't shoot shit with a pool stick, or compete against anyone, just a wandering Hebrew, nomadic in lonely spirit, like a prison his whole life, and still no visitors, not that he desired anyone, but a fruit basket would be nice, or a mint on his pillow in the morning; nonetheless, there was no use in silence, holding it inside making it less golden, for others do the underhanded action of communicative tunnel rats, rolling your reputation with double ply and not giving a damn about the forsaken.
Well, the keys to the Kingdom were here, and he obnoxiously spit a load of tobacco juice in the grit of gravel, not giving a damn, for as he was stoically told: Everybody's gotta die, and we gonna hurry that purpose boy, assisting the Grim Reaper, unless you flee to even greater states of poverty--but he was too dumb to be depressed, and never running from a fight, but standing up like a Mahatma Madcap in country fashion, fueled by the unusual, as does destiny determine the deeds of every soul, already dead, his candle lit for a purpose, and some not to be understood, but to finally understand, calling out the cooters for beer cans spilled on his property, and getting a knuckle sandwich, not wearing his black eye with pride to screw an uncouth vaginal cavity loosed by the over lubrication of political propaganda, while he found angels in his mind, weeping at the bow-pointing travels of his last wife's wide hips hurting him for no other reason than to simply hurt him, and he had loved her bouncing buttocks, believing big butts to be a brilliant beauty, but you never know them, unless you eat their fruits, which are too toxic not to be deemed forbidden.
Echo waved her tail, and Mr. Grackle knew the Spring evolved into Summertime shine, and flight would he fancy onward, without the loving V of geese gelled together for flight's forever harmony.
"Good Friday, and pseudo-family"
He died for YOU--not for me, but he did--are you picking up what I'm putting down?
And quasi-caretakers that drop them in the shower, flip them over in their chairs; plus, sleep for three hours during six hour shifts; moreover, talk with profane vulgarities on their cell phones in front of a hallucinating Lewy Body-deserved woman of compassion; indeed, rebuke the fiend; moreover, give the suffering love, and they will fully see love; on the contrary, give them obnoxious and noxious noise like: "Motherfucker! Motherfucker!" And they will see an adversary attempting to further cage their hellish hysteria with contaminated contagion.
They have mundane lives. Have college porn girls in their closet. Ask you for pain pills, when you don't chase the dragon, but take, compulsively, as directed. And they break the true Law, offering false testimony, denying Shakespeare's knowledge of a stepdame making you pay for inheritance, when you are sick and weak, bleeding a bloody river, purifying every purchase with hand sanitizer, as you have to inject yourself with medication that is the ruination of lung capacity; plus, infused by Remicade for years, transcending Wikipedia, and needing an ichor transfusion for Ulcerative Colitis, pooping anguished gore on the Social Phobia of newspaper; indeed, Obsessive Social Phobia makes you, in their minds, a fanatical freak. And you drink a beer; moreover, smoke a cigarette for cool solace and they label you an addict, while their biological systems functions without purgation, them never knwoing illumination, but cursing you away from your deserved union, not understanding: P + I = U, as Saint John of the Cross blindly forged the first theological equation.
Screw their denial, as Christ turned his head from the rich man, and a crossed brethren suffering, only giving it to those that would willingly receive, for the salacious slime are tapped into by pride, arrogance, and false testimony--their proud positions are a loveless life, granting them favor from phony law, but Jesus is big brother, seeing into the locked doors and closed curtains, knowing your intentions in private, beyond the supposed hijack of Russia's spies.
I take care of her. I have footage. You live an approximate 8 miles away and want her caged, while she bravely endures hallucinations, needing the sweet solace of smooth talk, the perpetual preaching of good news and cool consolation, but a McDonald's milkshake is all you can offer, attempting to make a Judas, yet we love you, and pray for you to see the light, even if it is a gentle Godsmack from a living statue of sublimity.
Who is the curious and crazy?--Those that seek help, or those that hide porn, addiction, betrayal, and a hatred for America if it doesn't vote your way. Support whatever King, and make America great again; otherwise, you sow confusion and belligerent betrayal against the poor in spirit, needing the mercy of the merciful, and the meekness of an Earth inheriting calm rotation.
We are not off our meds; specifically, you need some monstrous meds, before the shinobi stabs further in the back, not facing a samurai face to face, as honor is dictated by the joyously jovial and just.
"Grackle Nation (6)"
Good Friday. Not for them. But for you--you and you alone--beyond the supposedly awesome atomic consciousness!!! Don't feel the sorrow; feel the love!!!
Slim Jim Grackle wondered as the sinister straw was inserted into the inviolate uterus. A 7 month year old baby fighting for its life. The straw-like object attempts to suck the baby's brain out, yet the baby dodges, to the left; next, to the right; however, the straw-like object pierces the baby's hopeful chance. Was not Merlin half demon and half man? Yet he was allowed to live, and admitted the luminous Life. If you do not admit Me; then, I will not admit you.
Like Chess Pieces, it has all been arranged against you; on the contrary, belief in the Book of Life ignites existence beyond the honeycomb of being hornswoggled, for it is written by God--the Law, and Christ kicks it up a notch, telling you to spread it, forging a disciple of your own, for He is the Vine, and you become the branches, if you drink His non-symbolic blood, and eat of His non-symbolic body, giving the bow finger to Jung and his megalomaniac monster, knowing allegory is saved for those blinded by the Light, like a white snowflake, unable to perceive an ocean of melted frost birthing forever fertility. And the Virgin cries, but the Eagle preserves Her, him only being exiled afterwards, and penning that She is in us, as is He, and Magilla Gorilla is a mere militant, tamed by Heston, pooping in the forest, as Soylent Green infects without the bright glimmer of Saint Raphael loving a man that washes.
Slim Jim Grackle took a bath in the creek-water, Echo wagging and shaking off the negativity of less than Pert Plus, dancing off the Red Lobster and creepy crabs of a situation seduced by sin, loving the platinum perfect of Sunshine shimmer, like a Crown Chakra.
"Grackle Nation (5)"
Jack Soo from Barney Miller couldn't comprehend the moonlit werewolf, as he had no facial hair, being more highly evolved, resonating with a fabulous frequency as do the American Indians, being blood brothers with the Great Spirit--in a matter of speaking. Harris, the cool, black dude--never ever bought off-the-rack, into the finer sophistication of James Joyce's dandyism, and was penning a novel while trying to solve crimes, like possibly, a cop distracted by the camouflage of the badge, not respecting its loyalty and fidelity towards the true justice of a Red Saint Uriel--in a matter of speaking.
The true Law, outshines what is to be rendered to Caesar.
Regardless, Slim Jim Grackle would not resist the big mouths, the racket of dastardly devils needing Prozac the size of an enormous golf ball to be silent--them women with big and violent verbiage, though the Goddess is white and virginal, yet bitches dismiss Her stepping on the forked tongue, which tempts man like an Eve conquered by self-image, and nobody loves women more than Mark Twain and the Catholic Church--giving them the best HONOR, and yes, they made Joan of Arc a Phoenix, forever.
Slim Jim washed Echo, purifying his Northwest journey with the platinum pooch, as it would be, having Saint Raphael as a guide for that Fool Card, knowing a white dog and a wise/fool has all the traits of possessing true power, if they deny the racket and boast of a bodacious blessing that burns some fish. I like catfish cooking on the slimy creek-water--sung by the bard of cool country circumstance.
Don't listen to your cell phone. Don't watch network news. Put your feet on the grass--so beyond finding Pokemon and his freakish fibs, which unearths only radical robots with nefarious nanotechnology placed within during a debutante's dream-state.
Damn boy, Slim Jim Grackle put him in some mint chaw, got a beautiful buzz, and knew the path of light's excess leads to the palace of ultimate illumination. Thus, get a dog, take the bus, color with crayons, and never wear your baseball hat backwards, unless you have the macho mustache and magnificent might of Mike Piazza.
"Grackle Nation (4)"
Slim Jim Grackle and Echo were hanging out, way cool, in the double wide, listening to the Green Hornet radio show on his transistor radio, as he had no television, knowing Bruce Lee used the power of water, and if you drink of Jesus' water; next, you will never be thirsty again. It cleans, as Tobias knew, and his angel dog, and what is more pure than water, if made holy.
Slim Jim didn't blame his ex-wife for leaving his lack of not living ON the grid, and allowing himself to get tapped into by the hood-sliding pineal love of Bo Duke, heck--even Boss Hog made him laugh, but don't throw pearls before swine, and so much of the swine have the pearls, as that is the way of confusion.
Mr. Grackle had nothing but love for his ex-wife, lifting her up in his mind to know Jesus, gotta luv ya sum Jesus boy, and know Easter is always here in the hearts and minds of coyotes who prefer mice over a bunny's happy hop. Slim Jim just wanted to love the nature of clean things, putting light into darkness, giving those in despair hope, and preach them not to be controlled by war, unless you're being bullied, which gives you permission to love yourself; then, smack the bully in the mouth with a teachable episode of Barney Miller.
All should be loved, but thieved away, for the darkness is void; however, the light cometh, and the darkness comprehend it not. Slim Jim Grackle loved on him some Echo; next, a handful of washed green grapes, followed by a little pinch of peach chaw.
