Amos Hart--Corruption in Tennessee

   
   "Amos Hart--Corruption in Tennessee"
  
   Amos wasn't proud of his piece, pride being rebellion against God, for we did not fantastically forge ourselves into existence; nevertheless, read a Harvard Blogger, him listing Tennessee as the most corrupt State in the Union--damn, the American South hates that word:  UNION.
   The guy Amos Hart had penned his auspicious article about was followed by a Dr. Grenier, though the guy had no knowledge of the phantom pseudo-physician, nor did the guy suspect negative (in words) ELF waves were being used by insidious forces to disrupt his neurological pattern, but we all know WAR is a ridiculous racket.
   The fact that his Rabbi, his physician, and his brethren were contacted was not by mere chance, and there was always the possibility that money was exchanged for unscrupulous favors, at least involving phony attorneys, rolling around in stolen money and having dirty sex with their wives as they imagine those females to be perfect porn princesses that they regularly flog the bishop to during their down but up time.  How high was the corruption?  Sometimes it takes plenty to murder a little man.  Gotta get him alone, if the ELF waves aren't working.  Santa's elves are nice, and even Amos' brother had pictures of them in a 1980's PLAYBOY magazine, hanging out with Saint Nicholas and stuffing stockings with the serendipity of lip service.
   Nobody would be brave enough to uncover such sinister scenarios, for they would be threatened, and Amos Hart knew bodacious bravery was a bold declaration of past soldiers, pure paladins for the purpose of porpoises.  Amos already knew the hospital and local law enforcement had given false testimony, as well as a guy named Feltner, but Amos didn't gave a damn, because their wives were as asymmetrically ugly as bearded ladies lathered in lascivious longings, yet their husbands couldn't give them anything long save breaths without beatnik beauty, like might Kerouac.
   When corruption is high level, people continue to cover their tracks, reshuffling the deck, turning people over to the government, and believing mercy is in murder.  How enchanting, but My Pretty Pony likes to pounce on non-repenting perversity, with horseshoes made of bronze.
   Amos Hart would not give up, finding fuel in the flavor of beef jerky, like a cowboy, and decided to Christmas Shop for shiny things, as are "Wheel of Fortune" contestants fascinated by such sparkly objects.  
   Saw a drone.  Nah, it was a microscopic Santa, getting small for the love of reindeer aeronautics.    

Amos Hart--Christmas Rabbi

   
   "Amos Hart--Christmas Rabbi"
   
   Amos got the zapping news from gregarious Ginger, though she stayed in her polite pack, never mixing with uncouth hounds.  She told him the scoop on some falsely accused dude in Nashville, all orchestrated by many-a-yutz, and she wanted Amos to pen the solid truth, not the fabrications of envy and lies by pumpkinheads without the ignition of brain candles.
   Amos got on it like white on rice.  The guy was given, against his will, a catheter.  Went down to his prostate.  They didn't care that years before his urethra was re-constructed, along with his bladder walls; plus, they pinned him down, took his anemic blood, draining him more lethargic, stealing his religious freedom, though four nurses, gay men included, couldn't thieve away his Saint Raphael prayer card--his weak arm and hand holding onto it against their monstrous muster that proved impotent and weak.  Like Samson--he wasn't easily bound.
   Put him in with some over-eating simian type, college educated, which in her case meant dumb as a dingbat, having only focused on swallowing aggression in her life.  Too, said he spent his money on tobacco, when they were drinking the shit out of it, collecting porn, and suicide kings themselves, smearing him to his Aunt, saying he had no enjoyment in life, when he loved to eat healthy and shop at the pharmacy as if he was a Wiccan, all in hopes of health for the miraculous masses.
   Worst of all, his inheritance had been thieved away, them saying he wasn't worthy, dividing it up among themselves, as attorneys are greedy guts, always wanting more, constantly speaking with forked tongues--just look at the crooks in Washington--all rich and successful, in a manner of fooling everyone; moreover, his daughter lived in a little room, got one meal a day, as his ex-wife wasn't exactly the Virgin Mary, but sold herself to the highest bidder, taking some of his inheritance, and not sharing it with his daughter, Zoe.  
   Stolen from, lied about, smeared, exploited, manipulated--Amos was just happy that the Archangel Uriel had no sense of humor.  True justice, like with a Virgo, and sometimes peace is kissed, if only in innocent fashion.
   Amos Hart got on the keyboard, gave machine gun script, automatic; plus, ate some cotton candy, lime-green, and recalled the days when people gave a damn, which seemed like never.  Oh screw it, Merry Christmas, all based on a carpenter and Rabbi who followed a higher code and got pissed at the criminals and crooks, exposing the lust so many have, as they are their favorite persons.
   It's good to be a baby in a manger, for Wise Men wish you well.
   Amos cranked up a cherry cigar, remembered the coyotes, and even gave a damn about the bounteous bunnies.  

You know what Ol' Jack Burton always says...

Amos Hart--Celestial Wolf

   
   "Amos Hart--Celestial Wolf" 
  
   Amos Hart gathered up a few coyotes in the back of his pick-em-up-truck, an old Datsun that was re-fabricated, having an electric-blue paint job done by some good-old-boys.  
   He released the family of coyotes, saving the suburban bunnies, and his journalistic nature took over from there, him forging the eternal steel of words and merging it with newsprint for the few that got his vociferous circulations.  
   He looked upwards to the sky that night, lit a cherry cigar, blew a smoke ring to the spirit world, and knew the Heavens housed many dogs way beyond the battle for Earth by the more advanced cultures.  Such as the LUPUS Constellation, which had around 9 main stars, 5 kinda/sorta having planets.  It got him plenty hot under the collar that back in his day the bogus science teacher boasted that there was only a mere 9 live-action planets in existence.   Goes to show science.  As blind as it gets.  But aren't we all?
   Amos bunny-hopped into bed, covering with his Chewbacca sheets, and Bucko was swift to snuggle sideways, the twosome spooning--dog and man, like with Saint Rocco, and his staff wrapped in copper wire.  Hell boy, those old Saints were making their own superconductors.  Wonder if they had bubble gum too?  

Amos Hart--Sheepdog & Gom Jabbar

   
   "Amos Hart--Sheepdog & Gom Jabbar"
   
   Okay.  Ginger was a Nun.  A hound for the Lord.  A Dominican.  Chaste, save her nicotine habit; specifically, an ascetic Nun who burned Chief Mojo Rising.  Good for her.  Back in the 1950's--a Nun could have a smoke break.  
   Amos Hart was a dog, in many ways.  Every Good Shepherd needs a sheepdog.  Ginger said to Amos:  "My friends had this dog they said was human; next, the mutt tore open a chatty chipmunk in gory fashion.  The dog was just a savage animal."
   Amos replied:  "What?  Are you the rainbow-eating angel spirit-feeder.  Like you haven't eaten meat.  Cows have PAX in their eyes.  And Jesus cast the demons into swine; thus, I'll bet he was a real Hebrew.  Totally, I bet he never ate a pork chop."
   "You're such a brat."  The words from Sister Ginger.
   Amos knew he had to trap a coyote.  But when setting a trap for second unto the Great Spirit--the animal usually traps you.  Amos meekly kissed Ginger's hand, she was a Sister, maybe his, saying:  "There is no way out."
   Yet Ginger also vocalized mercy: "A sheepdog never goes to slaughter.  And if he does, puppies are golden.  Get me?  I've already played the pestering part of steroids and their side-effects.  Now, take your hand out of the Gom Jabbar.  Too, save some bunnies, will ya . . ."  

Amos Hart--Cutlass Blue

   
   "Amos Hart--Cutlass Blue"
   
   Ginger's scarlet mop; moreover, an explosion of girly curls that crowned a pair of emerald-green orbs pointed at Amos in the face, and with her bird finger no less, exclaiming:  "Dude--those eyes are hazel, you blind fool.  What's that, like 7 percent of the world's population?"
   Amos puffed on his cherry cigar:  "Shit, like the metaphysics is talking again.  Gonna get locked up Ginger.  Besides, I like chocolate brown--it paints my blonde nimbus with mystery and savory copper flavor."
   Ginger struck back:  "If you want your cage rattled, deny yourself.  And don't think the lady with purple eyes doesn't care--she was there to encounter you, so delicately, and you piss it all away on worrying."
   Amos blew a smoke ring, not like Gandalf:  "Tricks are for kids and shamans.  They taste good."
   Ginger's face flushed to match her passionate mane:  "And the blood is the life.  Too, spirit counts--gotta have that gel."
   Amos fed up:  "Look, are you gonna help me save the bunnies or what?  Coyotes freak people out, and these spoiled suburban types living on golf courses while the homeless rot--well, they are very keen on shielding their rabbits from a canine's carnivorous grip, even though coyotes are omnivores, like Bucko, he even drinks Coke; next, after licking it up, offers a big burp."
   Ginger kissed him fiercely, on the mouth, just to remind him, there was no carnal cravings involved--it was just an anti-gravity anchor, so that he wouldn't be pinned down with pessimism; then, she smiled, saying:  "Okay, save the coyotes, and the suburban bunnies.  And by the way--George Washington wouldn't have survived with the press as it is today."  

Amos Hart--Multivocal

   
   "Amos Hart--Multivocal"
  
   Ya, I dig spitting on the sidewalk; plus, why can my dumb by delightful dog urinate in public and I can't restfully relieve my urethra's need to dynamically dilate and happily whiz behind a dumpster in an alley after the diarrhea on the commode in the shady eatery made me change my mind about urinating in public?
   My name is Amos Hart.  I'm blonde, have chocolate brown eyes; also, I'm a modern journalist, penning the squeeze upon criminals, and nobody seems to care, but I spit on the sidewalk, so I figure I'm in league with prostitutes.  I carry a snickersnee for protection.  Tennessee knife laws are pure freedom, and a blade is good for close-quarter combat, or as my educated dame declares the act of sharp fisticuffs:  "Combative anthropology."
   She's a firecracker.  Chaste, metaphorically; specifically, she only falls in love with love, falling forward, and never dresses pretty for herself--she just is herself, and pilots a cycle, an Enduro that's lime-green and mean, running like a scalded dog.
  But back to me.  She, uh Ginger--is just my partner.  My story is where it starts before I crafted her with my rib; moreover, the portion of my rib's frequency, so to speak.
   I like the smell of antiquated print media.  A magazine, a paperback book, and a newspaper.  I can't smell the EMF stuffamajug from the computer screen, and I always get shocked, not always, but when I touch my dog after surfing for a new Ka-Bar to possess, only in order to make me feel more like James Bowie.  But don't want a blade as long as his; I'm no showman.  I like puppies and seeing the ponies run.  Wanted to be like Bogart or Magnum; however, I don't own a fancy coat, and journalists are all considered riff raff nowadays.  Go figure.  Like Joyce knew--when you put words on paper, somebody is going to get pissed off.  Hell, it's even true with just talking.  So, I go to the park and take pictures of birds, mammals, and the sleeping beauty of the Moon losing a bit of reflection.
   Liked Huckleberry Finn better than Tom Sawyer.  Sawyer seemed a bit of a snob--in my opinion.
   Oh well, gotta get on the beat.  There's an angry coydog picking off suburban bunnies.  Not a hunter, just gonna write about it.  My dog's name?  Simply:  Bucko.  When I take him to the vet--it's Bucko Hart.