Voltaic Junkyard--Montana

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Montana"
   
   Sheila had to venture beyond the bordering perimeter of the junkyard and get some milk and eggs; moreover, she vomited first in her bathroom sink, thinking about the whole soul-washed world--the gods putting us in a state of war against each other--they like to see a good fight; at the same time, testing us--not all bad, for they're weaning out the phonies.  Sheila knew that God Almighty wanted more for her--it bothered her.  She was hiding like a guilt-driven monk.  Sure she was tough, yet maybe more.
   She didn't make eye contact with anybody when at the grocery market.  Cautious.  Not knowing if a teenager is going to pull out an antiquated Mac-10 bought from a Mexican gang, who are known to stockpile weapons of mass destruction.
   Montana.  Get away from it all, but not within, yet merged in a sense.  Wide open spaces, when you can see the crooks and cowardly law enforcement coming, or the cops will just accept false testimony, pick up an innocent man, yet sit in their cars when they're outgunned.  Give Barney Fife more guns?  Does being a pussy cop equal being mentally ill?  Is being a liar mentally ill?  Is taking a pay-off mentally ill?  Or are these people far more dangerous and toxic?
   Sheila knew they were in the skies.  Is the F-18 pilot mentally ill?  Was he hallucinating?  What's he doing flying an aircraft armed with enough weapons that could destroy an entire city and yet he's talking bullshit about flying alien craft?  Or is it real?  You saw it.  So, who is full of shit now?  All pilots that report UFO's are mentally ill and should be grounded.  They're hallucinating.  Sheila smirked.  Everybody has an agenda.  Hers just happened to be fixing muscle cars and lifting barbells; plus, watching out for her little brother.  But yeah, Montana, far away--nothing but Indians, Cowboys, and wildlife. 
   She thought about it hard.  Grab Adam, take the Boss 302 and Wagon-Tail; next, head West.  Who needs the half-naked ladies on Fox Nasty News being just as phony as the mentally ill liberals.

Guns N' Roses - Sweet Child O' Mine

Guitar Riffs and Multicultural Octaves

   
   "Guitar Riffs and Multicultural Octaves"
   
   Feel queer about showcasing an 80's metal Rock Band.  There were no school shootings, just long-haired angels, hot women, high frequency, and men that simply punched out guys, or cranked them with a crowbar, drank beer, played kitchen poker, read science fiction, spit tobacco, and gave a shit about Ronald Raygun and Rambo movies.  Remember old men, like me.  
   It's the arch-angelic octaves; plus, the galactic guitar, so humble and classic the Gibson, yet supremely electric when the strings are mystically touched, beyond me.  

G. Gordon Liddy with Don Rickles on Conan (1997-01-27)

Voltaic Junkyard--She-Hulk

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--She-Hulk"
   
   Sheila just didn't know why she hadn't turned green already; moreover, the whole GOOGLE images of She-Hulk, some in pink high heels--like so valley girl gross to her, yup--the cool Valley Girl, lost forever in a fabulous history not remembered.
   Sheila knew to be herself.  She didn't like it always.  Maybe she should wear pink high heels and grab a guy and some Chinese noodles or a slice of Italian pie with anchovies and gummi bears like a woman nearing the birth stages, yet no dilation, as if a beamed out C-Section.  And that grossed her out, being pregnant.  What did the Hebrew Prophet possibly ponder about children:  "Children are like arrows in an archer's quiver."  It went along those not exact lines.
   She always had Adam.  The fool, being played and manipulated--as if she should not just smack down the intruders, invite Aunt Tootie from the East for a visit, display to Adam the true meaning of a torque wrench, but there's no money in a bunch of wrecked muscle cars and redneck pick-up trucks from the 1980's.  

Hold your portion

   
   "Hold your portion"
   
   Of course we all get a portion, even if sickly, we get a portion, layered deep within us.  And no man or angel has the right to take it away.  People always play you if you possess a kind heart, even if your blood is electric.  People want to thieve your portion--not all; there are Saints among us.
   I know I met a Saint once.  She was as white as snow, and fully charged with the Good Ghost.  An image that cannot be distorted, for God is Good.
   I guess if you want to lay on your bed, cry all the time, take your Xanax, and let your androids do everything for you--well, it is a Free Country, or used to be.
    What about a paperback book, and you can sniff the squid ink like a cerebral junkie?  And that watermelon incident still bothers me at times, yet not the poop in the pumpkin on Halloween with Holland in the Halls of Haunted History.
   Yeah, God gives us a portion, and we let people take it away.  Who is in charge of you?  The cranky nurse sedated on too many a benzo during her lunch hour, yet she still practices a type of medicine?
   Just lay there and die--that's what they want.  Hate yourself--that's what they want.
   Or like Jesus Christ, you can go out screaming.  "Woman--behold Your Son!!!"
   Good for the One, True King.  

My last wife: the Burning Bush

   
   "My last wife:  the Burning Bush"
  
   A great and passionate woman, descended from Italian and Scottish stock; still, she'll kill ya, allegorically.  She's metaphorically removed the testes of many men, sowing into them the timidity of trepidation.  My step-dad saw me put Kosher sea-salt down my pants the other night; moreover, he vociferously shot off:  "Boy--you salting your pecker like a holy man."  Holy crap, one woman kept me from being a virgin; furthermore, she gave me jungle rot.  I'd have to hose her down before the carnal mount, give a good swabbing off of her corporeal deck, and splice a lime--and I think I know what that means, even though I'm not an American Odysseus with a green parrot that channels the historical communication of others, though not shapes-shifting, like the American coyote; specifically, CANIS LATRANS.
   I love my last wife, like a sister, and an ugly sister at that--she wears no nose ring like an inviolate  virgin in the Old Testament; also, her intrinsic sexuality got me my own private hospital room when I was practically dead, and for the second time; plus, I'm sure the Chief of Staff enjoyed her yanking his, so--good for her.
   My last wife gets things done.  No horseshit.  She's a survivor.  Street smart.  Too, her Uncles love her, yet everyone else in her family bullshits her with tender mercies, and maybe her half-brother craves the creepy.  Shit happens.  Look at your own shit--not mine.  Like what--you never screwed the symbolic pooch?  I'd be rolling around in salt water like a Levite Priest if I did.  I'll weigh my sins against any man or angel.  How many dermal-layered pipes did you, naughty nurses, take into the vaginal cavity?  Yet you shoot off your mouth as if justice and peace have kissed.
   Like I said, forgiveness is great.  I don't hold no grudges.  I just SEE and know:  People are drunks, medically-induced drug addicts, have eating disorders, jerk off to reruns of Game of Bones, forge false testimony, give their children Pez Dispensers loaded with Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors; next, make you spineless with Benzodiazepines, getting the nervous system used to a chronic relax of the Italian noodle; next, you're screwed.
   I'm going to take some American Ginseng and slam a Bud Heavy--good for me.  Who wants to be a Valley of the Dolls Zombie?  We need energy, not sleep.  Bubba--you can sleep when you're dead.