Saturday, March 10, 2018
Werefox Vaquero--a walk in the park
"Werefox Vaquero--a walk in the park"
They called it Classic Rock now. Max was kinda/sorta a young whippersnapper, though he adored the classics, once having watched an old concert by a rock band, the guitarist saying that the electrical song about to be played had nothing to do with alcoholism, nor a lewd lifestyle; specifically, it was a symbolic walk in the park.
Max knew that wolves spent 80% of their day walking. In almost constant motion. Upon that wildlife knowledge, not esoteric a bit--he decided to get a dog. A pal. A loyal sidekick and eager friend, always wanting to please; next, jump in a creek, and just be the perfect dog that God constructed it to be.
Max knew about Coydogs, the Golden Retriever, the Pomsky, and the youthful spirit of the tough terrier. He decided to grab an old school newspaper, see what was possibly happening outside of Arizona, and when at the convenience store, he also picked up some Gatorade and a pack of breath mints, very frosty, telling the cashier as he made his cowboy exit: "Have a cool one, ma'am."
Yeah, some folk still give a holler to hope and Heaven--casual cool.
Friday, March 9, 2018
Coyote Culture--Native American
"Coyote Culture--Native American"
CANIS LATRANS--and there is a mighty amount of Canine Constellations, enough that a good dog makes friends with the eagle, for if God is praised, as mentioned by the bard/fighter David, transcending the harp, into an outshine of matter, going PURE ENERGY, an icy atomic bomb, not burning them with fire, for that was not King David's style, so I sense, yet he was as cold as beer-chilling ice, encompassing you with frigid water as he soaks the Bud Heavy, an eternal freeze, in Kennedy's coldest of hells; however, with the coyote--you must laugh. The wise/fool always up for a pestering prance, a symbolic shape-shift, second unto the Great Spirit Itself, and Yahshua, under Occam's Razor, transfigures the chosen, if we choose ourselves not to start the fight, but in defense of an envious zeal, weakened by its own pride, hating the benevolent beauty of what they dub a beast, yet beasts themselves, when the American Coyote walks upon a poison Earth, yet attacks the venom, immune to such nonsense, as it accepts God does not make the cruel attempt to bind man, having shown so with Samson, and His own Son, though Samson and the Prophets and Kings, along with the Angels and Saints, and every man that knows there is an original rainbow, spangled by effulgence, like the Fourth of July lighting up a den of falsehoods, though not complaining, yet exposing, knowing the Eagle's quote, beyond canonization, ever true, and the Eagle heard the Sacred Heart beat, electrical and flowing with the pulse of generating water, a living water, a deep cold water, full of potently powerful grace, such as the wondrous Orca, revered and known for its flowing thunder beneath the life of liquid, sealing out the iniquitous impostors and their lascivious lusts, like on a dame's tail-end in her 4 wheel fixture, to a park, and revealing the belly of bogus, slaughtering the Valley Girl, and the Freedom of Taste, for does not taste lead to health? Thus, if you have a gluttonous taste, forged in fake waters; as a result, the animism of nature exists, gelled for those in touch, beneath the Mother's reflection of Her Son, showcasing a Luminous Lady, a Mirror of Justice, a Hebrew mother fighting for Her Son, perpetually. That is what births Her the eternal Victory of being a Mother, fashioned in forever.
Connor Coyote dipped the chaw, favoring only his friendship with the mammals of the sea, every sea, and the canines on America's turf, chosen to support Israel, and backed by the Spirit of 1776, so Holy, and fully imbibed by men of archaic days, forbidden to be remembered, as is the Native American, shuffled aside, yet Jim Thorpe is remembered here, as is the elongated yip and yap of a trash-knowing coyote, not minding taking a dip in toxic sewage, for that is even the Wolverine's reward, if you show true love to a cruising canine, or a posturing critter soul-kissed by the shimmering Heavens, which illustriously illuminate an American Land.
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.
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