Monotheism versus Polytheism--Arkansas, boy!

   
   "Monotheism versus Polytheism--Arkansas, boy!"
  
   All of the gods exist--the determined documenting of the Talmud and Bible Itself is poetic and Hebrew-witnessed proof of that, axiomatic; moreover, King David and his wise son imported herb, spice, clean water, wine, beer, defense, chances, pure and simple health care; specifically, Nancy Reagan says:  "Just say no."  I will--to crack.  But a beer and the garden do not determine character, or if; next, poetic and attempting in the suave of survival--at the least.  
   Pictures of Freya, Nordic fixation, concerning the hue-infused vibrance of tasting colors hang in my atmosphere, like when you were a kid and craved Frankenberry cereal, got your scrotum snatched by a white-coated doc every 12 months, and had dentists drill your teeth, when they never needed to.
   Maybe love, or reverence for the American Indian, knowing at 18 years of adolescence how it feels to be in Arizona, at the witching hour, having anchored a Mustang 8-Cylinder on a dry heat surface; plus, knowing the seriously strong stare of approximately 20 Apaches, and yeah--I didn't feel like a cowboy, but a little awkward, like the intruder, and I knew I should never forget the ways of them home-grown upon this terrain, as if maybe many mixed, yet the living history of a hat's tip.
   Yet Jesus Christ hangs above the rest.  A Crucifix is wise, above all objects, in your room, having nothing greater or before Him.  Grandma always exclaimed:  "Just live your life by the Ten Commandment and forget the rest."  I guess it's that simple.
   Maybe a friend here and there.  Labor-living.  Men, whatever color--cool guys, and elegant chicks. Everybody gets shit yet has the counterpoise of a personal power source.  This country just can't simply absorb everything.  We are great--NOW.  Have mercy Uncle Sam.  The Bill of Rights does totally hang in my heart; furthermore, the Declaration of Independence hangs in my room, and a Southern battle flag with thirteen stars, but Old Glory hangs higher.  Hey, Arkansas made me the soul I am.  Nobody has more turf-forged quartz than those guys--in a way.  A place yet to be discovered by the future--in my opinion.  So yeah--God is Boss; however, an infinite number of sometimes pestering possibilities.  Jesus just seems, well--kinda extraordinary, forged in Holy Script and Spiritual Sublimity.  

Voltaic Junkyard--cuisine of casual

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--cuisine of casual"
   
   And constant consumption of Gatorade, as if surfing on the sonic signals of thunder, or stampeding on that Brave-Heart tundra during Special Teams play @ full speed, the shakes are infused, not just mere milk, and even if--yup:  Nestle Quick, but everyday?  What else.  Sheila was fed up with cage free eggs.  She went to the grocery market like everybody else, used the sanitizing wipes upon entrance; next, pushed a buggy and made not government decisions on diet, yet her own, whether buying sugar cookies, pickles, or blocks of hearty SWISS--she simply figured it out on instinct, not minding a Vitamin C here and there, better absorbing the iron, when eating upon the chewy munch of organ meat, and it's not a crime, though was to Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli.
   Sheila always got the sparkling water gelled with a B-Complex source, and found almonds beneficial to stool evacuation; moreover, a hyssop drop during the dreary days wasn't bad, yet always a Cherry Coke, and then some, on the weekends, for every girl, even a She-Hulk minus the girth deserves random sugar, or so it would be so nice.  These are the products they're offering us.  
   She had piloted the Boss 302 to the store.  She left in a casual prance of white-letters rotating and dual-exhaust growling like defensive German Shepherds, with that wolf's recent snout and uncanny smell of milkweeds and all the rest.  But rock and roll never died, for history will always exist, knowing nasty was never fond of an early bird dinner, where silver hair comes alive.   

Voltaic Junkyard--anchors aweigh

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--anchors aweigh"
   
   Adam didn't quite comprehend the HAPPY DAYS episode during which Ralph Malph was cruelly criticized for wanting to be a sailor, get a grappling hook, wear stripes, and have a Primary Military Specialty of Gunner's Mate.  Nothing gets a woman more loose in the loins than the Cracker Jack uniform, unless all they want is the money; then, they marry an officer, and the UFO didn't even bother to talk with the F-18 pilot off the coast of California, yet it talked to Ezekiel--wonder why?
   Of course Adam knew they'd call him mentally ill anyway.  Yet attorneys everywhere take Lexapro, Effexor, Xanax; next, wash it down with a bottle of Dago Red every night; then, give people bullshit, grope women, and are celebrated for serving the Lord of the Apes--where is Tarzan when you need him?
   Adam knew he wasn't like Sheila.  So special.  Built for war.  A conductor.  Still, he had couth; moreover, just a down on his luck guy with a comic book collection and a duty of hubcaps and more hubcaps; plus, socket wrenches and all the rest.  He didn't know if he wanted to leave the junkyard or not.  It was his home.  Sheila was his sister, angelic as she was, and always in her prime, ready to give him a quicksilver defense at a moment's notice; indeed, she would always make mercurial haste to save his bacon.  What a girl.
   He owed her.  Too, he owed himself.  But more importantly, he knew he was put here to please God; thus, he contemplated how to do that, drinking a Bud Heavy and glaring at the neon-cheese of a Motherly Moon.  

Jango Fett vs. Obi-Wan Kenobi HD

Voltaic Junkyard--hey Bubba Cheese

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--hey Bubba Cheese"
   
    Sheila recollected the residue of past memories; next, breathed herself in; then, breathed herself out, kinda going off like an atomic bomb, emptying the theater, and filling it only with herself and the Spirit.
   Hit so many times in the past, infused by way of false testimony, plotting, and every trick in the fake book to make her trip, yet a good right hand to the jaw usually settled things for her.  Like Frodo Baggins, that homely hobbit from her past, attempting to corrupt and smear her reputation as he hated himself, knowing that no matter how much money he had--he was still trapped in the body of a dumb dweeb, always wearing the noose of a necktie, and once, it got stuck in a mercurial shredder at his office as he was erasing his phony forgeries concerning Sheila; moreover, that unflattering salmon tie, hooked into light machinery, pulled his pubescent face towards the actuality of almost being shredded itself, until after a quick giggle, his secretary hit the cancel button, and the jerk-off remained on the planet for a little while longer.
   Yeah, Sheila knew they were all full of shit, so she built a wall around the junkyard, that sublime perimeter, to keep the contagious vermin from penetrating from what they couldn't have--control over her; plus, they were always pondering a slimy juggle of her bodacious breasts--she could feel it.
   She was filtering out all the darkness, it all culminating with laughter as she remembered telling a shrink:  "What about premonition?  What kind of mind-altering, brain-sedating medication are you going to give me for that?"
   Sheila flexed her bicep, grabbed a wrench, and tore down the big block of a Mercury armed with a 351 Cleveland.  

Song of Solomon--Chapter 5:1-2

   
   "Song of Solomon--Chapter 5:1-2"
  
   I AM come into my garden, my sister, my spouse:  I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honey-comb with my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk:  eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved.
  
   I sleep, but my heart waketh:  it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled:  for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.  

Voltaic Junkyard--adoration of nature

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--adoration of nature"
  
   Adam was lounging alone within the cramped yet salubrious situation of his junkyard scenery, not minding the metal, yet adoring the outside--unlike Sheila.
   Specifically, birds entertained him--he was amazed; moreover, marveled at the elegance of their flight and aeronautical achievements made with swift ease, as if instinct to fly; plus, survive.
   Too, he enjoyed She-Hulk comic books, and the pages were clean--it was the fictional art of a beauty, but not like his sister--yuck!  For he knew Sheila also fancied the green super-hero chick with a great punch.  It was his chance to exist.  But he had to make an exodus from his mundane labors, not out of lack of appreciation for what the junkyard gave to him--a history, a place that he came from, and in Heaven will return--if ya know what I mean.  Everybody is a unique soul--forged by the fuel of God Almighty; however, that doesn't mean His Son (Jesus) was not the surfer Jesus type.--never bound by the law as He was True LAW, following it with ease.  The rest of people are mostly schmucks, everybody, even those with kind hearts or money or a player in the Canadian Football League (CFL)--ya hear me.
   Ah, Adam did not discount his fortune, even if it was so casual.  And being casual is where it's at--not like that, but be yourself, kinda.  For True Law does exist.  Yeah, Adam liked birds, She-Hulk comics, and a surfer Jesus.  Not so bad.