Saint Joseph: A Soul of Silence

   
   "Saint Joseph:  A Soul of Silence"
   
   When I enter the confessional, getting the Holy Sacrament, since it is the time of the NSA, I always probe:  "Bless me Father, for I have sinned--you don't have your cell phone turned on, do you?"
   I wish.  I am not that comedic in social scenarios, but act like Jango Fett or Clint Eastwood; next, wash, sanitize, and evacuate my bowels in odd places--as this is me, and be yourself--if it is from the heart and pleases God, the Father, yet the Mother, in my opinion, is the inviolate Eye of the Storm, for a Mother will give Her Son Her last dollar.
   Saint John of the Cross and Saint Teresa of Avila, both super-mundane mystics, though seeking this can be dangerous, for as the Southern Baptists told me, once you accept Christ--there will be a target on your back.
   Anyway, Purgation; plus, Illumination  = Union.  A Theological Equation.  Purge the Church window with cleansing; next, the Sun comes in, illuminating; then, the Church is full of LIGHT, and so are you--connected to God.  And they tried to kill Saint John of the Cross, as they did Saint Joan of Arc, before Twain, in my humble opinion, had her beautified and canonized.
   Saint Teresa of Avila reminds me of a bold Stevie Nicks, living in Arizona at times, and keeping her crystal visions, wisely, to herself.  Yet Saint Teresa of Avila speaks of wending your way deeper into the crystal, and when you see the small reptiles, be not concerned, for even a dirty mouse gets into a clean house's box of FROSTED FLAKES.
   So, as Saint Joseph was the TERROR of DEMONS and SOLACE of the WRETCHED, most likely due to Eastwood's silent and Solomon-like countenance of eye-squinting tough, or maybe not; nevertheless, his mystery is contagious, and protective.  A celibate protector of Mother Church, though I argued with this due to a partial Protestant education, yet I acknowledge even the non-canonized texts, as the Four Gospels were meant for the masses, while the hidden works were meant for the uncanny in their zealous pursuit of Christ.  But I'm just Jack Burton, without the 18 Wheeler, but I have a CB, and you can find me on channel 3, or 4, or even 19--listening to the truckers, still alive on the highway, before computerized-driving thieves away their jobs.  But maybe we can tax computers, use no money, and be giving in life, with Health Care for ALL.  Trust me sister--you don't wanna be sick, unless it is a blessing, and it can be, for we all are called to repent.  

Leia and Lando escaping Bespin Episode V

Business Man--B'dn-man

   
   "Business Man--B'dn-man"
  
   Of course Rh negatives are mutants, but the mighty Wolverine lives--and with Canadian government implants.  I'm a fruitcake, but Saint Joan of Arc and Saint Francis--this is not thousands of years ago, but a few centuries before our time, and they have witnessed score cards; thus, get in line with the Virgin, even if She caused a Great, Cleansing Flood.
   He's a fox.  Or like General Grant--a coyote, second only unto the Great Spirit.  Protestantism was founded on gastrointestinal issues and a singular verse, though the Spirit takes Christ up onto the mountain--Matthew 4:4, and the adder quotes scripture, malignantly--yes, the scripture can be used for iniquitous purposes, but the Living Word says:  "Man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God."  It's ambiguous, but DUDE--know the fundamentals, and all is cool.
   He tells my doctors that they're not physicians.  That the Cowboys never won a Super Bowl.  That you're the problem, cause a man saves his son on the Sabbath as the boy has fallen into a well of water that you need to drink, but we all drink the Kool-Aid, cause people that like artificial sweeteners have the worst relationships with food.  And it doesn't even matter--if you make yourself like Peter Pan, boasting against a Captain who died of jock itch, and you count your money, laughing all the way to the bank, and internal ingestion, like Jabba knew, as did Dante, and Saint Peter sincerely complains:  "We've given up everything--what's in it for us?"  While the Eagle, Saint John laughs, knowing only exile, as he took care of the Mother, and law school teaches you how to lie, not justice like Saint Uriel, but false testimony to win, because America has forgotten the seed it sowed, and Franklin was a hippie, having no Adams-like law school and a crazy cousin; hence, an autodidact-directive towards making Independent Films; plus, Toilet of the Dead, a Japanese flick, really frightens me, but as old Jack Burton says:  "What the hell."
   There's enough money in America, though approximately 19 trillion in supposed debt, that EVERYONE should be covered.  Health Care for the Minute Men, and trust me--I know, you don't want to be sick.  Pray you're never sick.  Cause if you are; next, we'll see how tough your ass thinks it is after you shit blood for near 20 years straight.  

Ali vs Foreman--my Yankee opinion

   
   "Ali vs Foreman--my Yankee opinion"
   
   All Saints' Eve--a day before, in the rhyme of the year 1974.  Make it like Hemingway, Mark.  No college--a 4 year vacation.  Not machine gun sentences, but a short, 3 shot burst.  1, 2, and 3.  I saw a fish.  It was a big fish.  I caught the fish.  I ate the fish.  The fish gave me spirit.  
   Foreman was bigger, uglier, meaner, nastier, had a German Shepherd on a chain, was stronger, saying:  "I gonna kill that pretty boy."  More or less.
   Africa, of that region, accepted the monstrous Foreman's dog, though it was unclean.  The children accepted Ali, and he looked like an adolescent in a state of glee.  Ali, a great philosopher, kinda/sorta preached:  "Repeat the mantra, and it shall happen."
   The BELL Rings!!!  Foreman--strong as an ox, slamming the svelte Ali--over, and over, and over, and over--Ali's hands up; plus, a dance here.  And a dance there.  No offense.  Hands up.  A mere dance.  Round after round.  Big, big, big, angry and mean Foreman beats the shit out of little Ali--so it appears in our Kool-Aid-drinking souls.
   Next, after many rounds.  Ali exits his corner.  Foreman, so big and strong--is simply exhausted.
   Then, Ali has his opening.  A jab here.  A jab there.  A dance.  A dodge.  A dance.  Another dodge. 
   Foreman can't hit shit.  Has made himself a sluggard due to anger and hate.  
   Ali.  Another jab.  A right.  Next, picks the bigger monster apart.  Picks him to crumbling pieces. 
   Ali has victory.  Nobody still believes.
   And Foreman becomes humbled, selling grills, and morphing into a magnanimous man of virtue and love.  A great man.  Ali prayed for his enemy with punches--in my humble opinion.
   Ali, a resting pulse of 50.  Parkinson's for over an easy decade.  Surviving.  The mantra.  Say it.  It comes true.  Believe it.  It comes true.  
   Be at rest CHAMP.  You are not arrogant.  You taught.  You gave.  You endured.  You were and totally are--beautiful.   

Thoracic Animus (23)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (23)"
   
   As Doc and a bemused Mutt exited the modified B-25 Mitchell, Mutt swiftly forgot to process the insidious snakes, for the tall, svelte blonde woman called Miramaxus approached with her laser rifle in a firm grip, and besides the symmetrical features of her chiseled face and her sunshine, cascading blonde; plus, full kissable lips and aqua-emerald eyes--he noticed her legs exposed from between a pair of white snow boots to a furry pair of what could be described as exercise shorts--her legs were tan, muscular, and extremely golden with a kiss of glisten like glitter, and as a werewheaten-terrier, he felt a bit nasty for wanting to hump, but immediately got control, having enough empathy to know that this angel deserved immaculate love--nothing less.
   The threesome made their salutations, shared a few chuckles with Doc's humor taking the lead, and then Miramaxus glared into Mutt's puppy dog eyes, saying:  "You deserve a bone after those cool heroics."    
    Mutt honestly replied:  "I didn't do anything, and was freaked."
   The angel further said:  "No, I mean for hanging out with this crazy cowboy."  Her pointing at Doc; next, they all chuckled again, and it felt like home for Mutt's depressed dog inside.  

Martina McBride - Independence Day lyrics

Jonah Hex | Trailer US (2010)