Friday, March 9, 2018
Big Daddy's Advice
"Big Daddy's Advice"
Cowboy. Live-Action. Gently, gently.
He put it in my hands at 12 years of age. A classic piece. Was trained properly. Respect and reverence for the gunpowder antiquity, which wasn't exactly then--back in the yonder 80's, thataway.
Arkansas boys. No good. Hoods. Horseshit. Best men I ever knew lived in the second poorest State in the Union.
Holland would just come to see it. Not violent or dangerous. A piece of history. A cowboy. A dream of Clint Eastwood on the small, thin cigar, giving a shit about himself; moreover, loving himself, as we all should, from our genesis--not thrown into fear by phony superiority complexes.
We all have sinned. Nothing worse than sinning due to ignorance. Ancient Hebrew Scripture says: "We perish for lack of knowledge."
Who can you trust? You got the fundamentals. You know them by their fruits.
Anyhow, cowboy step-dad told my son, coming up here talking modern cinematic weapons, cops militarized, and the lack of Starsky and Hutch, saying: "Boy--it only takes one."
I wouldn't touch a piece. But the Old Man carried it throughout the State of Arkansas, not needing a high-capacity bullshit magazine. Single-Action. Could crack the block of a muscle car forged in the 1970's. .357 Ruger. Nothing wrong with still having a pocket watch; plus, a sense of time.
Werefox Vaquero--Mexican Lasagna
"Werefox Vaquero--Mexican Lasagna"
Francisco, a free man, was legally cool, more or less, wearing a white sombrero, and standing for truth, justice, and the American Way--like Alec Baldwin in the movie: The Shadow, though--he was more of a luminous light, with a dandy mustache.
Francisco would use the regular, pre-baked noodles, the ground chuck (grass fed), yet would replace the Italian sauce with salsa gone mild, and instead of mozzarella, he wrangled up some queso asadero; plus, a few other herbs--here and there. He baked it for his Mama and Papa; also, the boy living next door, having autism, and deserving a hot piece of the multi-layered cuisine.
Francisco loved people. Yet not the nasty ones. He didn't go all Clint Eastwood or nothing; still, made sure to wave his American flag when he could, for he loved baseball, weirdly believing it to still be America's greatest sport. A charming athletic display of patience and psychology.
He drove a 1968 Ford Mustang, do you here me boy--with a 390 Thunderbird Special V-8 Cruise-O-Matic. Was RWD--automatic 3 speed gearbox, and could gallop to sixty faster than a wiry jockey on a horse named Crackers.
Papa was pleased with his Stang--the 1960's muscle machine having the pony spirit, roaming over the fragrant Earth, that smell of asphalt and travel, just here and there, like to the grocery market for Mama's Saint John's Wort and Vitamin C (chewable)--a hint of rose hips layered in.
Thursday, March 8, 2018
Werefox Vaquero--hunting by singularity
"Werefox Vaquero--hunting by singularity"
The Moon was waning, not completely meaning dim things; on the contrary, a kind culmination; moreover, resulting in possible transformation--Ela really didn't give a darn, for anything at any time resides on the horizontal horizon, like getting mugged in an alley if you're in your 20's and living in Washington during the grunge rage in the 1990's, having gone into that alley in order to puke up some carbonated alcoholic beverage ordered from the lesbian beer princess before she is nowadays more generally accepted--perhaps we have made progress as a country.
Ela didn't blame the two teams in Washington, nor the Special Interests, for there was always a spark of hope, and she was glad tax dollars went to pay for a NASA toilet seat--she liked astronauts.
But the American West, the way of any ideal, even Asian Monks without revolvers, buzz-cut, and armed to the max, wearing maybe perhaps a shiny shuriken on a silver necklace under their STAR WARS t-shirt. American Indians harnessing the Earth. Cowboys and quick-draws. A Miner with a pony. A Banker. Bar Owner. Prostitute. Franciscan Priest. Dogs on dirt streets. A pharmacy where you could get anything, yet more importantly--what you needed to survive. Sure pharmaceutical companies ban natural substances that heal with more medicamental swift than chem-lab constructed drugs, both which can kill--though some less than others, yet finances and money usually dictate the legal protocols, and we brag of capitalism, yet it all seemed like a bad idea to her. Though knowing the Western Parks still stood, and that America gave a Bill of Rights to all people--it seemed, honest after all.
Conflict and counterpoise. A perpetual struggle. Impressing. Ashamed corporeally, in any way. She just knew to look over her shoulder, for everybody is wacky and weird.
She stripped down, gently. Morphed into the Kit Fox. Scrambled on all-fours, making a mercurial adjustment. Found a mouse. It saved on groceries.
Werefox Vaquero--Han and Chewie
"Werefox Vaquero--Han and Chewie"
Jeremy didn't give a rat's pseudo-royal ass about indoctrination and falsehoods--as long as you lived the Multiversal energy that you are, more or less. What--he never pondered? Cause they call him a midget with short limbs--appendages made for the characters of Lord of the Rings? Throw that damn ring away--you stupid hobbit; indeed, that was Jeremy's philosophical gripe. But he knew: ask any Bush League cop or cotton-picking attorney, too lazy, unlike Grant and Sherman, to pick their own shit, if they know the Ten Commandments? Mostly, no cops or attorneys residing in the United States of America can quote the Ten Commandments, nor the Beatitudes, yet proclaim to be law enforcement--what, unjust law? Of course. What, are you Harvard Law? Nope. Berkeley? Even Philip K. Dick dropped out of Berkeley to work @ a record store, and wrote the greatest of science fiction in a weird hippie era, after being hit by a pink laser beam, so he claimed, and still he transcends the mosh-pit of modern humanity.
Put theoretical physicist Michio Kaku on any stand in a courtroom--in this not so free america, kinda/sorta limp--and he will tear any phony lawyer to pussafied pieces. What--there is everlasting to everlasting? Ancient Hebrews that accepted True Law and made a Divine Exodus from slavery? Like Moses, what is your problem? Get your older brother Aaron with the topaz breastplate, and we can get the hell out of here--I'm tell'n ya. Infinite possibilities, AND BEYOND--IMPERATIVE!
Jeremy knew there was no hope. A twisted, phony America. Paul Ryan--a prep-school brat. And Rand Paul gets rolled cause he's a Libertarian, not into the phony bologna? He stood up, while the gremlin attorney general camouflages vociferous acts in a rear-view mirror? Jeremy wondered if it was legal to ponder truth.
He cleaned his tire iron with a baby wipe. Headed to the Suzuki motor-scooter, of sorts. Cranked the dual-exhaust to a sputtering life. Next, gone, and alive--for now. Like Han and Chewie, smuggling for gangsters, cause the Empire is crooked as shit. Thank God for Lando. He even was a guest-star on the Jeffersons. A damn fine show. Ya know.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)