The Mystery of Life

 
   "The Mystery of Life"
   
   600,000 people, approximately, disappear each year.  Feds called into the State of Alaska like none other.  Implants.  Abductions.  Get a certain blood transfusion; next, pseudo-physicians take your blood everyday.  People, music, television--all programming you to doubt.  Like we're being bred for death, if only to become food for the Earth.
   Are all these people crazy?  Some things I've mentioned are fact.  Depression, blah.  But Multiple Personality Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Schizophrenia and others seem wondrously weird, as if not natural.  What man doesn't want to engage in sloppy intercourse?  From his perspective, a harlot's genitalia resembles a beehive, and he will not insert his dingus.  Good for him.
   So, you know everything?  I don't save that the possibilities are limitless.  Look at Schwarzenegger:  "Hey, I'm not a cop--I'm a player."
   But we forget.  We don't remember.  And as my German grandmother's father said to her when she married a poor Serb:  "You've made your bed, now sleep in it."
   Her heart however, did her well.  It wasn't all roses, or was it?  The best part of having a spouse--there's always somebody to nag.  Every spouse yearns for their significant other to die before them, mostly.  How many dumb guys I've met that say their tramps love them, and that they would never hurt them.  Possibly.  Possibly not, way more.  So, learn how to love, even yourself.  Be who you are, and not the envy of your sister's larger breasts, for they can knock a guy out.  Cupcakes are yummy.
   Is this like a caveat of Christ?  He is the Author of Life, and Big Brother (Him) wants us to believe, even if the world calls us fools.  Jack Kerouac never met a beer he didn't like, never saw it coming, and is iconic, so alive.  My butt doctor won't receive such recognition.  But there's a place for the authors of confusion as well--they get to meet their Daddy, while those that reside in truth, get to meet their dynamic Dad.  God Almighty.  

Mafioso without magnums

 
   "Mafioso without magnums"
   
   A savage saint kinda/sorta mentioned this; thus, I'm coyoting and paper-slinging the good news; next, delivering that resurrected media print, here we go:
   They say Trump can't get things done.  Hell, he's the only non-politician in the mix, save a few shiny objects in the flooding fountain.  Politicians are Mafioso without magnums; specifically, they're crooked goons, too wussy-washed to fight like a truck driver, but have dime-store thugs do their dirty work.  They're bought, sold, and paid for.  Of course they kinda labor, yet so does the bum, strolling from trash can to trash can--if only to feed himself; however, politicians are in the pocket of a corrupting power--give them term limits.  Trump reigns under that idea.  Conservatives, it's not his problem--blame the cheaper suits.
   Reagan and Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd were pals, of sorts.  Zodiac knowledge, survived assassination attempts, thirsted for the reversal of communism in order to actively allow people faith and some green.  Both, sharp dressers.  
   Not much in the skies lately, here.  But King David's words concerning the clouds and what they conceal reminds me.  You can check the flight schedule for commercial aircraft, and you know the Piper-types when you hear their piston-driven propellers; at the same time, the other ones have a sense of mystery.  Uncanny craft.  Maybe just ours.  Maybe going to the Pacific to hunt seminal submarines.
     

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Bob Falfa

 
   "Bob Falfa"
   
   Is Bob Falfa, Boba Fett?  He piloted a 1955 Chevy in 1973, back earlier than that, actually.  Time is fluxing, boy.  You got Toad, the Pharaohs, and hot girls with cherry lipstick; plus, a magnanimous martyr.  Every girl likes it when a guy peels out, putting rubber to a road determined.  Mother Earth can take it, throw a cigarette butt out your window, just don't tell Her.
   Cowboy hat or buzz cut?  Western shirt.  White.  A man looks his best in a white shirt.  John Milner always wore a white shirt.  Didn't have a blaster, ya know--laser-like piece to shoot stormtroopers. 
   Mace once asked, in a periodical:  "Does Jabba the Hutt look like a bitch?"
   Carry your oil, your prayers, your faith, hope, and charity, never letting go of your portion, though sharing a tithe with others, at least.  Approach the bridegroom, always.
   C.S. Lewis, kinda/sorta:  "Jesus was either a lunatic, or the Son of God."  They didn't even have Prozac back then, and Jesus controlled His passion well.  Not a problem.  All in the northern direction of resurrection.  

Mercurial Blurb, Sorta

 
   "Mercurial Blurb, Sorta"
   
   Better in Redlands, California--always, mostly, sometimes, I guess.  Still, a Yankee gets up in the morning being brutally cool--instead of immediately "knocking the chill off" by way of resisting the frosty hell of winter, he kinda/sorta embraces natural adaption.  It's just a frosty hell, not a bitterly cold one; nevertheless, the southern man cranks on the heat, gets in his comfy fuzz, and brews him some java for enjoying the weather-girl from downtown; on the contrary, the Yankee people, and I've had protracted time with some northern kin; anyway, leave it cold at first, adjusting to the northern Earth of it all, do too brew the coffee, using baby water with added minerals and no fluoride; next, light a Lucky with a sulfur-sparked match, never flicking their Bic to betray old school, and watch the main anchor man with no contempt; however, still talk to the television and call him a toots.  
   And then, Lee made his surrender @ Appomattox, but never forgotten in the crystal-clear chronicles of history.  

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