The Wheat and the Chaff

   "The Wheat and the Chaff"

   I could list names, birth-dates, Steve Brown (assassin), oops, and all the rest; however, keep hoping they get the caveat of their own cruel--what you sow is what you reap.
   Don't put flip-flops on Jesus.  Don't make him a hippie.  And if you label him pink cotton candy--make sure that the cotton candy has teeth.  Trump--uh, subliminal, maybe.  Tough.  Guy is tough.
   So is Jesus, from everlasting to everlasting, as Solomon, a Son of David; moreover, a man of peace might ode; still, there is no peace, for the forked-tongue is alive and living in Belle Meade.  
   What's it been--an approximate 3 weeks?  Regardless, kidnap a soul no more.
   I like Jesus.  Love Him--the Redeemer.  Volunteered for it.  No Father would dictate a douche-bag death sentence.  What a lousy Father He would be.  And Gandhi--we are all children of God--maybe a lesser and more finite god, lower case here.  Look to the Truth as Jesus told Pilate.  And what did Jesus, a mere tradesman say?  Kinda, totally, like this:  "Your father is the devil.  The father of lies and murder.  He was a murderer and liar from the beginning."
  Now, a New Testament mix, forged like Mr. Joyce, the fidelity of the Penelope culmination--words slung in a collective remembrance of the wandering Jew, Leopold Bloom speaking:  "If these were My people, would they hand Me up to you.  My world is not of this world.  And you shall see the Son of Man coming down from the clouds of heaven.  I will separate the wheat from the chaff, throwing the chaff into eternal fire."
   Still think Jesus is a no-good hippie?  There is a time for peace--if people gave a rat's ass, but they don't.  One last thing:  "The love of money is the root of all evil."  The crummy and phony caretakers would always tell me, after insulting me:  "She gonna make sum money--lotta money."
   And where the hell does that get you in the grave?  I've been on my deathbed--since birth.  You got two choices, more or less.  Just know:  There is Light.  A bubble of rainbow promises, gelled together.  Or so I possibly witnessed.
  And baseball--well, as the only smart physician I ever met told me:  "Baseball is charming.  Just charming."  Yes, baseball is still a walk in the park.  Old school.  Even some would say:  "Peace." 

Comey versus Trump--mythical battle

   "Comey versus Trump--mythical battle"

   Shorter than I thought--yup.  Maverick against the Iceman here, genital-like swordplay.
   I actually am pleased to see former FBI director Comey foolishly pit all near 8 feet of himself against the greatest Commander in Chief since President Raygun, when IRON EAGLE was soaring sweetly at the Box Office.
   Of course, Trump will King David the deep state Goliath--it has been written.  Next, as the Talmud tells, wear his scrotum on a Levi Strauss belt, or maybe, Calvin Klein; furthermore, have a pissing contest with Muff Riot from the Russian regions.  At least The Donald finally has a worthy adversary, besides the Big Mac.  
   We must remember, it is:  The United States of America.  You gravitate to States that fit the bill.  Want plenty of dope--go to California like Robert Plant.  Want to collect Quartz Crystals and call Freya's Hogs--go to Arkansas--she was friends with a wild boar and appreciated the fast-diving falcon.  Want to live in a crooked State--there's always Tennessee, for even the country music girls have forgotten the wardrobe of the farmer's daughter, dressing more like Hollywood harlots, as if.
   Greatest country, all due to the competing States--the autonomous freedoms each one does possess and offer.  
   We should never gel into a singular cell lest we forget that we are all different, and that is what makes us so great.  We are all unique, even if meshed into tribes.  I say, Oklahoma is pretty damn cool--love cowboys and Indians.  

Double Entry--this one is NC-17 fellas

   "Double Entry--this one is NC-17 fellas"

    Decided not to get stalked by the Jesuits or Masons today; specifically, took ex-wife to get a colonoscopy--I was kinda happy about it, and I kinda/sorta know why.  The twist of fate here was that she was experiencing her time of the month as well--ya dig.
   Therefore, before the robotic sodomy began, I'll call it what it is, she inserted a tampon, and it was almost destined to be a day of toxic shock.  
   We as Earth people, went thousands of years without this torturous procedure being inflicted upon us by the likes of consciousness complaining, and of course--Katie Couric and her Iron Maiden; specifically, conscious sedation, before physicians grew more merciful.
   And while I take my vitamins, minerals, having had a 30 year affair with green tea; plus, plenty of spice, having also read Solomon and watched the movie DUNE 18 times, where they let you know that the SPICE is the life, nothing erases the faces of frightened men facing the elongated super probe.  Last time, I asked my Doc to put a condom on the phallic device, and no--I didn't ask for the ribbed.
   So, one last detail, cause I was always fond of Uncle Jack, knowing the Joker is Wild--a former Nashville Prosecutor, juvenile division, having been the personal source of many adolescents and their suicidal angst, by way of having locked them up and taken their money to further the phony courts, let us call him, JT Moby.  So, JT Moby woke up in the middle of his intestinal inspection, pulled out his hip, kicking and screaming like a baby.  As it goes with most attorneys--they can 
dish it out, but don't like swallowing, from any end, their own limp noodle cuisine.  Just ask his wife.
   Jesus said:  "You will do better things than I."  Not me; however, I just did a weirder thing.  Ten points for that, and the fat guy on the bicycle in the yuppie lane.  
   And never let a woman give you the old bend over in the lucid laboratory--she'll drive that machine with ferocious fury, wishing she had true dermal pipe to pierce her submissive prizes.

Theotokos and the Wily Wheaten

   "Theotokos and the Wily Wheaten"

   Shelley wasn't keen on Percy and his Ode to death; nonetheless, she was the Green Eagle, in a non-literal sense of quixotic cool, and feminine splendor, needing a sporty dog, remembering all her faith had given her, absorbing only the salubrious air of Saint Roch and it ALL.  So, armed with the golden curls of befriending barks and gregarious glee--Shelley sang:

O Theotokos, giver of Light--Glory to You!
The Wily Wheaten don't know defeat'n--
The Wily Wheaten gives joyous greet'n!

   Yup--it's cool to make a return to genuine innocence.  Fear the Father, yes.  Too, love Him.  And a Holy Mother will love you all the more magnanimously.   

  

Shelley: Entitled Thunderbird

   "Shelley:  Entitled Thunderbird"

   Shelley wended her weird way to Oklahoma, having great reverence for an approaching storm, using organic tobacco to purify her corporeal portion of fungi-like mites; next, while not giving a Cherokee's actual dance, as she wasn't infused with the total memories of the spirited people, she offered her Christian praise to show even more reverence to the awesome Thunderbird--So Alive with lightning in Its Eyes, and the storm did pass, morphing into Luna's feminine reflection of a Sun's kiss.
   Shelley, like all beneath the Throne of God save those symmetrically built like unto God, or the One Who was begotten, had had sin; on the contrary, pointing to the Christ-Man, and ever-questing towards Him and Absolute Truth, she was redeemed.  Yet as a Paladin, she was prone to great violence even; however, would not resort to using poison, nor dirty tricks, being merely a heart-stabber in times of war.
    When the lucid lesson exacted culmination, she rode the fossil-fuel burning light of a Ford Mustang's life-giving energy, an 8-Cylinder, roaring by way of two mufflers offering high-powered outtake--if ya know what she means.
   Away from the cowboy geography, back in the southern drawl of certain situations, she imbibed only the sublimity of all things, discarding any dastardly determination to bring her down, being fashioned by God Almighty in her own unique mold.
   She went to a tavern, and even as a classy lady, she was allowed the mildly sober effects of two golden brews, offering the bar wench, a term of two-beer endearment, a mercurial burp that seemed to escape from a source of momentary jocularity, and all was way cool and well, her wearing her battle scars without pride or shame, and believing that was the single reason she never needed to get a tattoo--not even of an angel.  For her angel was a warrior father, who endured more than his proper portion, and she was the rebellious child, who always kept that adored patriarch alive with her eternal heartbeat, hearing it always, like mighty Samson pounding the Earth better than a rock and roller's beating drum.

Shelley: Notes

   "Shelley:  Notes"

   A Mother in Russia.  Saving.  America sees through trickery.  Or Lady Liberty does.
   Host no school, shapely; specifically, innate gifts, beyond the phony degrees of a thermometer; plus, can't entertain as does true girth and grit.
   The codes.  Inherited.  Passion.  One god; next, for us--if we could see:  Orthodoxy = Transfiguration.  
   Did Vonnegut know?  Maybe Dick?  Gospels:  Blake, Jefferson, Tolstoy.
   Brothers Karamazov, minus the cunning bastard child.  Maggie Cassidy.  Twain and Tesla make TNT.  They say his white suit is on a starship now.  Jack London knew how to do it.  Make us more like him.  

Ice Blossom

   "Ice Blossom"

   Shelley ventured on, after the Sasquatch scenario, of course, a platinum blonde beauty never betraying herself, not giving an acquiesce due to a self-love, yet transcending soul preservation, though not Vulcan-like, knowing:  "The needs of the empathetic outshine the needs of the wasted collective."  Where the hell was Bones when you needed him, that cranky bastard, so pissed at bus boys and lollygagging servers, especially the waitress who inserts a sewer sour booger in your roasted duck, though the bird was plucked properly.
   Little Rock had a cruel division, proper in the form of a fading America.  A separation of man due to forged history.  Yet when America falls; next, goes Israel--and that seems the insidious attempt, not of James T. Kirk time-traveling to save the mammalian whales.
   Shelley just knew:  She needed a muscle car for this southern-fried rodeo.