Voltaic Junkyard--Leopold Bloom, wondering

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Leopold Bloom, wondering"
   
   Adam, frightened by the reality of all the truths and falsehoods contained in a Sociology class, wanting to wander, roam, vagabond, yet a gentleman; however, more wondering instead of wandering.
   Remembered laying on his couch for two days and reading ULYSSES, which was illegal to own in the United States for a quick wrinkle in time; moreover, he read the judge's opinion on the book, the black-robe making it legal, at last.  The judge said it was boring at times.  Adam remembered the opening, Buck Mulligan, possibly a medical student--he forgot here and there, yet never the culmination--the reason it was illegal.  A wife's internal confession.  Her loins speaking.  Not a true Penelope, forged in fabulous fidelity; still, she loved the wandering Leopold.
   Even that kind of love, well--Adam thought it would be pretty sweet.  So your wife cheats on you--does it really matter?  Adam knew that's why we have Saints.  There are always stranger people than yourself.  People that give hope, and people that are anchors, sinking your smile into a frown.
   But Adam knew his part.  Little brother.  Sheila--the pedagogue.  Would he ever learn?  Lift weights or tear down a small block?  Be content?  Is that life?  Contentment?  Mere contentment?
   Adam remembered when all of his family was alive--as a child.  Friday nights and pizza @ Mr. Gatti's, Dad always smiling.  Sheila could throw down five slices, the She-Hulk, and she always was, like a paragon of ass-kicking girl perfection.  A girl who held her own.  Not very social.  No hair or make-up always on dynamic display for the masses.  A baseball cap and pony-tail.  Jeans.  Flannel shirt.  Tennis shoes.
   Adam wondered who he was.  Little brother, ignorant with the torque wrench?  Would he ever break down and tell her that he was fond of Japanese cars?  Swift.  Sporty.  
   He knew his place.  It was a pack, not a tribe.  They were poor.  Dogs.  It didn't matter to them, but how people gawk when the norm is not surgically followed.  Dub you an outcast.  And yes, thinking these things Adam admired Sheila all the more.  The She-Hulk, not giving a damn.  Loving what she loved.  After a quick wash, she'd eat green beans right out of the can; next, she'd go kick some tires and take a walk in the park with Wagon-Tail.  He'd accompany his sister next time.  Why the hell not? 

The Big Man

   
   "The Big Man"
   
   Resided next door to me, when I was an exiled kid.  Had a tough son.  Tough as steel.  The kid could take on ten other kids--one at a time--the Big Man Father taught him well.
   The Big Man loved my mother, like a little sister.  Loved me too.  Would come over, just to tickle me, innocently, as a child.  Would tell me:  "Mark, take off your socks, for a man goes barefoot.  Cut your nails, look clean."
   He moved away.  I was sad.  Afterwards, we visited his strong family near the border.  Went to an amusement park.  Everybody got conned into a frightening ride; next, weeping as the velocity was too much.  I chose not to ride the ride.  Felt ashamed.  Weak.
   After everyone allegorically pissed their trousers, the Big Man knelt down before me, comforting me, saying:  "Mark, it takes more courage to say NO than to agree."
   What did Christ tell Peter:  "There will come a time, and you will have your own home--there you will have many Fathers, many Mothers, many Brothers, and many Sisters."  Yes, justice and peace will kiss.
   Pax Vobiscum  

Morning Prayers

   
   "Morning Prayers"
   
   Beaten down the day before, lathered in the spicy aroma of Icy Hot, waking to see an old yet lovely dog, given a toxic peach pit by a nasty intruder at one time; next, I pet her, tell her I love her, find Mom, and I sing:  "Good Morning!  Good Morning!"  The wiping, the washing, the lifting, the medicating, the dressing, the brushing, the feeding, and plenty more.  And there are other decent souls who sacrifice their lives to look after a relative, because they feel when they die; next, they'll have to answer to God.  God will ask:  "What did you do?"  The phonies will say:  "Hey, I'm rich."  I think we all know how God will respond to such laziness.  
   Mom and myself start off by invoking Saint Joan of Arc--it's a great invocation--part of it:  "Ride with us in battle today Saint Joan."  And it feels like she does.
   My Mom loves horses.  I tell her:  "Brush the horse.  Ride the horse.  Feel its might and power beneath you."  If she sees people murdered on television, gruesome shows they always project to us, and starts getting a little melancholy, I tell her:  "Ride your powerful horse right over the bad guys.  Let nothing unclean enter the Temple of your mind."
   When I used to sit and tell my mother about the great French Saint, family members would look at me and say: "Don't talk to her Mark--you can't get through."  Screw them.  That's my Mom.  She deserves the best.  Not over 100 damn people barging into HER house over the last 7 years, talking about disease and death in front of her, pitying her as if she is nothing, or getting drunk and passing guns around in front of her, acting as if she's not there, and it all gets so much worse.  Most things I've documented in life.  Have all her blood work, her medication over the last ten years--the shit they were giving her.  Possibly, destroying a nervous system.  A pretty lady, and her whole damn life treated like a trophy or a subject.  I just always thought she was kinda/sorta a sublime flake.  Now, and for a long time--I see the strength in her eyes, the determination, and we pray, holding hands, tied together by our blood.
   We always start the day, and throughout the day, and end the day with prayer.  If I'm not totally zapped by all the crummy news and people showing up left and right, barging in, I read to her Psalms 103; specifically, a Psalm of David--the King James version.  "Bless the Lord, O my soul."

Good for Bob Marley

   
   "Good for Bob Marley"
   
   Listen to the lyrics--the freaking words:  "But I did not shoot the deputy."  It's a song.  Today, there's plenty worse.  Furthermore--Marley's instruction:  "Your best friend can be your worst enemy; your worst enemy can be your best friend."
   Paranoia?  Why?  You surgically say those words due to the axiom that he has got YOUR crooked number.  He knows you're a rat bastard.  So, my mouth is like Nixon's.  A quote from Nixon, or by Nixon, rather:  "Damn."  You heard me.
   They look at my Driver's License @ the grocery market if I buy a pint of Australian beer.  I say:  "1972, year of Richard Nixon."  They look at me like I'm mentally ill; however, they are just plain stupid.  Bush League college graduates--more or less.  What, you read THE CATCHER IN THE RYE and got wasted for four years, but didn't like Holden Caulfield?  I think Jesus might have liked him.  Just saying.  Is it wrong or illegal to be an autodidact?  

Pregnant White Wolf Killed In Yellowstone National Park | The Dodo

@ Insane Asylum

   
   "@ Insane Asylum"
   
   I never got to meet the Riddler--he spoke in parables, like Jesus--you picking up what I'm putting down?  I don't think so.  Anyway, they'd give this guy amphetamines and anti-psychotics; next, I'd ask him what they gave him--he'd tell me; then, THEY'D (Williamson County--Rolling Hills) say all the drugs were in the same class--giving more bullshit.
   I'd ask the nurses what Bush League schools they went to.  They'd say:  "It's accredited."  And I didn't tell them that so is bat guano.  Then, the Bush League nurses would ask me if I was hallucinating, and I'd basically ask:  "Are you ugly?"  They'd say:  "No."  Therefore, I guess they were hallucinating.  Then, they would try and dope me down, and I'd name off all the classes in which the medications belonged; as a result, they'd ask:  "How do you know all of this?"  I'd say:  "Jesus told me."  They'd ask:  "Are you hallucinating?"  I'd ask:  "Are you ugly?"  And believe me Bubba, they were--in more ways than one.
   Thanks to Belle Meade for fornicating with the Sheriff's Department--a wicked synergy of false testimony, when they were plotting to give mercurial burial.  Just look at Belle Meade's medicine cabinet, their alcohol intake, their porn, their family importing good shit from the West; moreover, the hatred of two decent people.  Everyday, Mom would always pull me aside--every damn day, saying:  "Mark, they said this and that--I'm sorry Francis can't live with us; I guess we'll just have to babysit all of their burdens."  And we did.  Mom and me.  Even saved a spoiled brat from a crazy man at the park.  They don't give a shit, never did.  But they'll call Priests, Doctors, hell-everyone I know.  Too bad their shit stinks real bad, worse than the common man.
   Anyway, Mary watches Her Son pull the weeds, metaphorically.  Nice.  Very nice.   

ZZ Top - All Your Lovin' (Lyrics)