A Strong B

   
   "A Strong B"

   Was just hoping:  A Strong B.  Never give up, like Winston during WW2.  Talk and nourish them to the end.  Not blaming; on the contrary, I'm just stating axiomatic behavior of those programmed, metaphorically, into always seeing death and never Christ.  Christ died, yet His Light was too bright to inhabit Hades--they kicked Him out for selling electricity.  He was Almighty Illumination, outshining the darkness of it all.  Saint John:  "The light cometh, and the darkness comprehends it not."
   Just don't talk negative about the patient.  I'm a flawed and emotional man; still, I have total empathy for the rejected.  The nerd that never gets to drink a beer with the guys might invent some weird solution and guzzle it.  I have family members like Chet in WEIRD SCIENCE.  Get over yourself, I've never been lazy--this is the proof beyond reproach.
   Yet I've looked at big tits.  Even a guy's ass once, by accident.  Imagined the girl naked behind the counter, her checking out my groceries.  But I never do anything about it.  
   Was just expecting a strong B.  A level of studying the positive concerning death, and taking everyone sweetly into eternal solace and sanctuary from this shitty world.  
   God Bless you all.  But God Bless the defenseless too.  Everybody should get, at least, a strong B when facing death--look it right in the eyes, fella.  

Indigo Sampson (4)

   
   "Indigo Sampson (4)"
   
   Maxie McClaine was an Irish Catholic, a little weepy on Tuesdays, feeling like she was suffering the Sorrowful Mysteries with Christ as the Rosary took her to His Passion.  She was the girl with the pixie cut that Samson Landon adored.  She had mysterious forest-green eyes; moreover, the short shock of a Tom Cruise haircut, and on such a kitten.  Was not a weird girl; specifically, at school she was labelled as a Church Person.  One of them wackos that goes to Mass and believes a little cracker is the Actual Body of God.  Tells a Priest about her private thoughts, him being her diary and journal, her therapy; plus, she did like and long for the long-haired dude dubbed Samson Landon.  That maverick football player.  All bundled up in his father's money, but the dude was brave, putting himself on the field of play and allowing the chance of rough touch, for the sheer elation, and to get in touch with his masculine side.  Nothing spells MAN like football.  
   So Maxie waited by her locker, knowing Samson's was only a few doors down.  She would talk to him today.  She would give him a compliment--go fishing, and hope he bites.  Not harassment, just the free speech of:  "Nice pecs guy."  Is that unlawful to voice?  She remembered the stories her mother told her of America.  When it seemed more free, and less squandered on acceptance.  Her mother once telling her:  "We watched DUKES OF HAZARD, just once--and decided we'd rather listen to the radio and chain smoke in our house.  It was always delightful."  

Indigo Samson (3)

   
   "Indigo Samson (3)"
   
   Samson Landon goes into a shrink's office; next, the shrink shows him ink blots--weak.  Ever hear of transcending theories, now unleashed upon the public; thus, the increase of anti-anxiety and anti-psychotic medication; plus, the more inhalation of firearms, out of fear--as Yoda said:  "Your weapons--you will not need them."  Get a grip; moreover, don't have a bird.  

DOC
Young man Samson, and don't you look it--wiry and adoring.

SAMPSON
Gotta have the flavor, resisting not evil, and saying a decent OUR FATHER--you know why?  For I forgive them theirs, as they are snakes, and it's their job to kill me.  I watched Beverly Hills Cop, and I really liked it.  California.  Mercedes Benz.  Too, a little of Jim Rockford thrown in.  But he didn't have the mustache like Magnum.  

Theories & Relevance

   
   "Theories & Relevance"
   
   As the radio show host SAVAGE said:  "The meek cannot lead to God, but the wild.  I've always been a wild man."  Can you lock up someone for tone?  Probably.  Won't take blood from an unconscious patient--lock her up, right?  
   There's more literature on certain theories that transcend Darwin; moreover, prove the Germans were onto something--it's always Nazi week, and I hate it; anyway, Russia and America thieving away ALL the spoils of future war.  
   More on Tesla.  Free Energy!!!  Capitalism can't let that guy stay around.  We use AC, not DC, save the middle-aged farts like me.
   Proust and Tesla looked similar.  Proust's mustache more dandy and demanding though.

Morning, while everyone else sleeps

Indigo Samson (2)

   
   "Indigo Samson (2)"
   
   Samson Landon didn't mind being called fag due to his long hair and androgynous looks.  Pondered it for a while, but got over it, telling them:  "Hey, I'm a party type of guy."  He was 18, an adult, like all those slaughtered in NAM.  Young men and women don't know how good they have it today.
   Kept safe from horror, while poor kids are being molested, given narcotics, and nobody gives a rat's ass.
   Samson Landon knew he was fortunate--that's why he prayed.  Not due to his father's wealth, but thanking God for the sublimity of suburbia.  Strip malls, coffee shops, drug stores, and an Asian massage parlor here and there--he wondered if they gave happy endings, well, not really--there was this one girl he really liked.  Pixie cut.  Green eyes, like a moving forest in MACBETH.  And her lovely legs carried her down the row from his high school locker, with a cat's pomp and strut.  The Senior Prom approaching.  Should he ask her?  Was she interested?  
   The nervous frog in his creaking throat.  The anticipation.  A silent chase.  A view of adoration from afar.  
   He went home and talked to his Dad about it.  Not much there.  Next Mom.  She just told him:  "Be yourself Samson.  Just be yourself and ask her.  What girl wouldn't love my son, sweet boy."  

Priests and Doctors

   
   "Priests and Doctors"
   
  I begged for years to get that pseudo-caretaker out of here.  Coming over with horrible coughs at times, spitting in the sink; next, attempting to make Mom a greasy meal lathered in contagion when phenomena is a predator.  Going across the street to a near 90 year old woman and weeping, telling her nobody is doing anything, and they're going to get Mom sick, and they put on the ID channel in front of a woman with hallucinations, her having the blanket over her head, crying:  "I think I murdered somebody."  And I voted for Obama--just once.  Throwing towels at my face, calling me a fool, scrawny, asking if they could trip me, telling me not to back up or a knife will go into my back, my step-dad laughing; furthermore, the peach pit with the dog, and her always saying:  "I watch ID, cause I'll know how to commit a crime and get away with it."  Nobody would listen.  Quit complaining.  But nobody was here anyway--even then.  After the phony diagnosis, they all ran from the storm.
   Next one comes in, playing sick and unfriendly songs with vociferously loud lyrics, like:  "Motherfucker!  Motherfucker!"  Talking thug-like on their cell while turning Mom's television down, me watching like a hawk with tears.  And they all blew me off, the only words I heard from them were:  "Xanax--get me another Xanax!"  5 Haldol a day, when the bottle said only 4--I tossed them a while back, right in the garbage can.    
   I told him what I was going to do.  Still, he didn't listen or care; then, I have his cold steel under my skull; next, run away to Arkansas, but I couldn't leave Mom in death's macabre and twisted grip--coming home the next day, confessing to my Priest, and telling the Doctor--he wanted to call Social Services, and the Nurse backed him up.  We talked, I got over it.  Took the threats, and Mom out as much as I could to keep her away.  All documented.  Going through 2 surgeries, blood loss, chronic pain, sleep deprivation, with no help.  Every morning for more than half a decade getting her up, still do, dressing her, changing her, feeding her, showering, brushing, and actually talking to her, because nobody else did, them giving her the silent treatment, as if she is a corpse when the woman breathes.
   Mother of God, help us.  Wore out a set of blessed Rosary Beads.  Always praying with Mom; them telling me not to talk to Mom; I can't get through to her.  Telling me not to talk with a woman who gets no TOUCH.  They cut off physical therapy two years ago.  Now I do that, stretching her every morning.  And they load up on me, a million against one, because I know what it's like to be sick and dying.  I've been there, more than once.  Yet you soldier up.  You do everything to stay alive.  But like one family member told me after my hypoglycemia was dragging me down, and aimed these cruel comments at myself and my medical conditions:  "Mark, everybody has got to die sometime."     
   Gimping around, Mom in one hand, and Rosary Beads in the next.  I never failed her.  Never have given up, and won't for a lady who was there for me.  And there's more, but why bother.  They've had us both buried for years, play-acting to save their hides.  Two sick people, and they're play-acting, like bad-acting torture.