Birds and Baseball

   
   "Birds and Baseball"
   
   There are plenty flying phenoms as mascots in MLB.  Blue Jays that feed on eggs and can mimic the call of larger birds; plus, Cardinals that show us to take care of ourselves, yet counterpoise it with compassion for others; next, the Baltimore Oriole, 1 of 9 Oriole species in North America.
   Orioles generally are omnivores.  Their bill is aquiline, measuring to the same specs of their head, mostly.  Males generally taller than females.  Cal Ripken, Jr. could slam-dunk a basketball too; moreover, a sign that the hard times are over.  That the Sun is gonna rise on you 
   I wish they had a Grackle or a Robin.  Maybe a Raven would be nice too.  Anyway, wherever I go, I ask people:  "Do you like baseball?"  And they all explain that they enjoy going to live-action games, but ignore it on television.  I tell them to just make a hot dog and drink a beer, imagining that they're actually there.  We need to appreciate the game more.  One word:  CHARMING.  
   

Tim Tebow smacks home run in 2nd game for St. Lucie Mets

Kooky Lucy Frost (30)

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost (30)"
   
   The crisp foliage of Fall had fallen, crunching beneath Kooky Lucy's feet as they pounded the asphalt ballet, her jogging, slowly, with a baby bump--walking swiftly would be wiser, as anthropological records indicate this was the way of archaic man; nevertheless, fuel to the internal toddler, already ignited with a sense of consciousness blooming, eating baby crackers, very crispy, within her hardly used womb, and the Bills of Buffalo had already won a few games, though her eyes were on the Browns; plus, Cleveland, her loyal pal, at her sneakers scurrying throughout the suburban sprawl, dynamite blowing here and there, America ever expanding, forgetting to control intercourse with prayer, crafting a deluge of delinquents, college like the credit card scams of the 80's and 90's, you not even able to rent VHS Tapes without one, and the poor man has a trade, like Christ, or mops up fecal matter, and so happy to hug his children, for him--the six pack is never cold, and reality television has not yet happened, for he has a retroactive reflection of radio and crystals, being off the grid of Facebook, and in the Heart of Christ, living not to serve a dollar, but only as James T. Kirk can't believe we're still using money; however, Kooky Lucy Frost had no regrets, loving Pap, Conor, Cleveland, her growing child locked within a graced womb, and mostly God, not minding the bizarre scenarios of blood types and agendas aged and outdated, for honesty and a path less traveled offers a fresh romp and roll for a junkyard dog with a tick collar, serving him best with fresh grass to mark his turf, Mother Earth letting him know, She can absorb it, for he is rooted in a Mother's sandals, them, as clean as a virginal whistle, never wheezing, but trumpeting the prophecy of a time terrific, when there is no change, and the rainbow's promise is returned eternal; as a result, Lucy smiled inside herself, and at the other precious life she housed within.  

Celtic Woman / Chloe Agnew - ''O Holy Night''

La Santa Maria Gracias

   
   "La Santa Maria Gracias"
   
   Bovine anti-brothers are like a mouse trap's sticky stuff, adhering with sophisticated synergy.  Jesus, she says--don't speak against riches--they'll kill you.  Love ya Mom.  Portly eating disorders, swallowing aggression.  Sean Hannity is not your adversary--it's called:  COMPLEX CARBOHYDRATES.   Make a funnel cake.  Plenty of frosting boss.  He totally and sincerely had four beers Sheriff.  
   Nope, Deputy Dawg; they did a blood-test, ya milkweed.  Wake up and smell the Folgers.        
   It's called an eating disorder.  Me:  Groin Injury.  God forbid she has toe-jam.  I'll knock your teeth out boy.  Don't mess with an old man and his gun.  You're outta the house--threats.  Anxiety.  Your father hates you.  Let's drop him on his head as a baby, and punch him in the face.  Jesus loves you.
   Whale-like women of wonder-lust wandering Wendigo.  They're cannibals Jerry!!!  I should've moved to Canada and joined ALPHA FLIGHT; next, met the Shaman and Puck and Vindicator.  Hell boy, Wolverine did it.  
   Porcine poop.  How can you insert that into cottage cheese.  Jesus loves you.
   Anyway, yup, Martin Luther had an Oedipus Complex.  Had bowel issues and a superfluosity; moreover, wore the checkerboard game of dungeons and dragons; plus, loved the Virgin Mary just a little too much.
   Way to code it Pynchon, Faulkner, Jesus.  Keep them parables flowing.  Riddle me this; riddle me that.  @ the nuthouse, I like the unjust snacks.  First Amendment Babe.  It belongs to the poor man; as a result, God Bless America.  

Memories of a Green Beret

   
   "Memories of a Green Beret"
   
   He was Polish.  He was Catholic.  Still is.  Was a Sergeant Major when he retired.  They offered him a Commission after numerous Tours in Nam, but he said:  "Nope."  Officers get people killed, some say.  
   He drove me to Our Lady of Holy Souls every week.  Best days of my life.  The Virgin Mary glowing like a Tower of Ivory out front--very Gothic stuff I'm talking.  A Monsignor.  A Priest.  Sister Pauline, and my favorite, the ex-Carmelite Nun--Miss Nelson; moreover, she taught me the TRUTH about Our Virgin Mother, saying the Virgin is not to be worshiped, but honored with great reverence, as we say in the Hail Mary:  "Pray for us sinners."  We are invoking Her platinum intervention, and a true Mother will give you Her last dollar.  
   Anyway, I used to spend the night with Sergeant Major Stipsky since his son Brent and me were close pals.  We'd watch ninja movies--hey, it was the 1980's, and the original American Ninja was the stuff of legend.  He too, was an enlisted man in the movie--he worked for a living; thus, you never had to call him sir.
   Furthermore, as the movies would end, the Sergeant Major would gather us around and tell stories about Nam.  Like on how the Fourth of July Charlie threw a grenade into their campsite.  He got a Purple Heart for that, I believe.  Said his buttocks was filled with shrapnel.  Too, said nothing was better in Nam than a hot shower and shave.  Made you feel alive again after being out in the jungle--and never follow the trails.  I guess God is right:  "Take the path less traveled."
   But one night another kid was there.  A prankster type.  A Nordic kid with blonde hair and sparkly blue eyes.  He asked a horrible question.  He asked the Sergeant Major, that honorable Green Beret, if he had ever killed anybody.  The Green Beret humbly dropped his head, and said:  "Yes."
   That's a true American hero.  God Bless Sergeant Major Stipsky.  
   

27 Xanax in a week

   
   "27 Xanax in a week"
  
   Let's say the real caretaker is gone; furthermore, he's locked up in an insane asylum unjustly and an elderly woman is fed 27 Xanax in a week--that's malicious.  And they're 1 MG, baby.
   His Doc says, "They give it to her, to shut her up."
   She speaks, smiles, knows her name, her son's name, her dog's name, but jacked up on that many benzos, who the hell would know anything.  They see her as a burden, when she is a blessing.
   Does this imply they want her dead?  Just a question?  Obviously, all people who have sacrificed their lives for others know the answer.  Hence, we understand and comprehend implication.
   Paranoid and delusional.  They are.  For she and him were both supposed to be dead by now, but they liveth.  The more seeds of death they sow--the more they grow inside the planters, and their loved ones.  How will you face death?  With your money?   Or a life dedicated to Christ?  You're a daisy if you don't.