Tennessee Heroin Addiction Is A Local Political Problem

   
   "Tennessee Heroin Addiction Is A Local Political Problem"  
   
   Alkaloid compounds, opiates, the dragon, whatever--only leads to heroin addiction for the spiritually blind.
   My alter ego, Bobby Rook, had gore-smeared bowel movements for years with unearthly pain, taking opiates; next, off of them--never robbed a pharmacy, never went on the street looking for heroin, never went batshit crazy, cause he already was, and never did anything but find solace in the Otherworld.  The poppy represents both life and death.  Chase the dragon for the high = death; however, understand it is in there, deny the lack of euphoria, knowing it is working = life.
   If you don't appreciate the Otherworld; next, it will not appreciate you.  Great comfort and joy can be unearthed in these Astral Realms, yet even as with Balder the Beautiful, a trickster is prone to cross your path; hence, keep your soul low, don't touch anything unless invited, be pious yet not sanctimonious, and above all:  Humble yourself to a life without chasing tail, jello shots, ripping people off, and any iniquitous activity.
   Too, opiate deaths are waaaay down in Colorado, where marijuana, a non-physically addictive substance has been formed into so many strains, including pain-killing strains, and people can cope without the after-effects of physical dependency.  But again--we are in the American South, and ignorance and pride thrive here.  Like Faulkner kinda/sorta said:  "Are they brave--well kinda.  Are they courageous--well kinda.  But they have no pity or mercy."
   Keep a benign herb illegal, and you will get meth and all sorts of shit.  Get addicted to that--your only chance is dropping out of life and entering the Otherworld--have a mystical imagination, at the least if you reside in the south, which of course, represents the element of FIRE.   

Existence Womb (25)

   
   "Existence Womb (25)"

Miriam wended beyond the intellect of Pascal,
Absorbing American Indian truth, thinking a cannibalistic Wendigo would make a great pal
To kick reptilian ass and free America from lying/murderous billionaire corporations--
Them run by the Satanic Nations--
Just like us; 
Specifically, many infused with fallen Nordic-like angels, now snake-like mutts,
But she couldn't save the entire world--
That is up to the Arch-Angel Saint Michael and his lightsaber-gleaming sword,
And what a swinging hue of victory
To encage the ones who have corrupted human history.
So, that night she took her Davidian pills,
Drifting into dreamland with no creepy reptilian chills,
Seeing Buck standing guard, dog-like, outside,
As if he was a Catholic Werewolf, and soon, that secret from her he wouldn't hide;
Moreover, after waking in mercy after a protracted sleep,
She cracked her rested knuckles and wiggled her joyous feet.      

Advice for Trump; plus, Bernie

   
   "Advice for Trump; plus, Bernie"
   
   A womanizer?  Trump?  What?  Look at the Clinton clan? 
   
   What does Lucille Ball have in common with Monica Lewinsky?
   --They both enjoyed a Cuban!
   
   Regardless, Hillary is making an attempt to gel with the youth, gaining couth--probably taking a high dose of anti-psychotics to get her wild eyes morphed docile to proudly gain her wicked ambition.  
   Do we really want a do-nothing Clinton in the White House, suffering from a form of uncanny Nixonism?  Which is a phobia concerning being adored.  But the Democratic Party wants her coronation.  And doesn't the Book of Revelation say the Anti-Christ will have suffered a mortal head wound?  Yup, and Hillary suffered one, but I'm not saying she is the Anti-Christ, but maybe; anyway, the DNC doesn't want the trouble Bernie will bring to billionaire corporations and the secret elite who manipulate this once Free And True Country.  What did Christ proclaim to the unlikely Samaritan Woman:  "Salvation totally comes from the Jews."  And he was a penniless, excommunicated Rabbi, waging a peaceful war for the impoverished and ill--kinda like Bernie. 
   Regardless, we need the Freedoms of our First American Flag back, sewn on cannabis fibers from George Washington's finest crop.  Cancer patients, bowel disorder people, the mentally anguished--all need the freedoms of ending the Drug War--at least on an indigenous herb vegetating by Godly ignition from our loving soil.  But will war vets abuse that too?  And how can you abuse it?  Isn't there only a certain level of quasi-euphoria gained?  And the varying strains studied by UCLA, Berkeley, and Stanford prove most medical conditions can be consoled with the multiplicity of THC levels, not as Carly Fiorina dumbly doesn't know, thinking cannabis is purely cannabis, which it is not anymore--thanks to American Western Science.  But the American South still popping benzos, wending closer to amnesia-like spawned dementia, along with their two to three glasses of wine every night, not knowing what it is like to have a painful disease.
   And about Gastroenterology--for 7 years I just wanted to be normally treated by a physician--not knowing at the time, one of the leading causes of death in this once great America is physician and nurse error.  Anyway, like the fool I am, I let this pseudo-doctor examine me weirdly.  I know that most Gastroenterology docs are butt pirates at the core, or addicted to dandyism at the least.  And I've been to plenty of these Gremlins, mostly disgusted--though there are a few cool ones.  Anyway, this one guy in Williamson County, Tennessee would make me unbutton my pants, put his hands down my junk, ask if I was ticklish; next, try to tickle my stomach, said I needed some buddies, to hang out with him at his non-denominational church, wink at me, refuse me REMICADE I.V. Treatment during bloody flares, refuse to treat my anemia, and not give me the anti-inflammatory pills that I asked for, which reduce the risk of colon cancer.  Even my ex-wife, who is heavily prone to lie to my face and can sway anybody with her cunning wanted to kick this man's ass.  Oh well.  I say:  Vote for somebody that cares for the sick--because, you will be too, having a tumor growing out of your face or something, unless you die in a car crash; then, you'll be begging for prohibition to end, as the benzos will only make you sleep, drooling stupidly, not knowing the anti-oxidant and healing properties of General George's favorite crop.  

Existence Womb (24)

   
   "Existence Womb (24)"
    
   Miriam was sweetly settled into the Mr. T van--no gold chains though, gold--a mighty conductor, possibly fueling the Ark of the Covenant and its radioactive properties, destroying iniquitous armies, yet kindly making anti-cancerous almonds out of two brothers' Staffs of God, being not a mere statistic, maybe two of them if you're a Talmudic Scholar knowing such, and mere statistics are where TRUTH falls through the linear cracks in a varying existence.
   Miriam had a futon mattress with a Yoda sleeping bag as a cover, her Chiastolite, and quite a weird collection of literature from greedily going to the bookstore, liking to possess her own books and sniff the yummy print, when not using the free, public library where many nose-picking fingers had paged through the vented texts.  She was currently reading about Blaise Pascal, knowing it was wiser to adore the Otherworld than deny it and end up forever stupefied by an eternal realm not appreciating you, as you did not appreciate It--after exiting this life, which is just a womb, like us in the vaginal cavity at one time, eating baby crackers, thinking this is all there is; next, the real and genuine BIG BANG!!!  You're greeted by a roomful of old people wearing masks and cutting your cord.
   Mr. Pewter, uh, Buck, came over and checked on Miriam during her non-working hours, bringing her canned pineapple and bananas; plus, candy bars with dark chocolate--them always containing almonds.  He always mentioned she should read CALL OF THE WILD and get in touch with her Canis lupus arctos, and while she knew much about the American Indians and their Animal Totems--not that one; moreover, Buck would tell her how the author, Mr. London, him saying anyone can make it, even after being arrested for vagrancy, and at one time believing education the answer before exploration and the mighty quill; plus, a love of dogs made him ever so frosty and cool; also, he was beyond the corporations of today that possess everything and trickle down bullshit peanuts.  
   Too, Buck provided her with a stash of the herb-derived pills her father had given her, saying he adored the strain and took them himself, wanting one day to move Westwards, reminding her of the beautiful bard Jim Morrison singing:  "The West is the Best!  Get out here and we'll do the rest!"
   Buck also said he had adopted her in a spiritual sense as a little sister, needing family, but not a snot-squirting baby always getting sick from putting everything in their mouths, just like most sorority girls do.  And then there was his confession about the reptilians.  She gasped that he was so plugged into everything, yet pushed him for no further knowledge that day, him boldly stating:  "We will talk about it later Miriam--in great detail too."
   Again, even with the loss of her biological family and household inheritance, she remained in a state of minor glee, just knowing, knowing that someone cared, and was also a freak, armed with a wisdom superior to the mainstream masses.    

American Pubs, Politics, and Star Wars

    
   "American Pubs, Politics, and Star Wars"
    
Stand-Up Comedians rarely visit, anymore, colleges or universities,
The punk kids not wanting to genuinely laugh with sublimity at ethnic diversity;
Regardless, have a dangerous drink with a white man forged from Europe in a pub/bar--
The conversation might starburst like the Milky Way--very far;
Moreover, in the new Star Wars we see varying genders and hues;
Next, the only white man is slain by red-shimmering blues.
Is there a war on the white man?
Was he not, in majority, the one anchored on D-Day's gore-smeared land?
We are settlers, not merely immigrants.  And has diversity made America great?
Know:  I'm voting Democrat; thus, how can I be filled with hate?
Nevertheless, there is no different species of human--just one race--
The human race.
Yet Snipes in PASSENGER 57 says:  "Always bet on black!"
What if I proclaim:  "Always wish on white!"  Is that an attack?

* * * * * * * *

The 1st Amendment

Wrongful Prosecution or catastrophic irritation if:

1.)  No fighting words

2.)  No clear and present danger

3.)  If it's ambiguous  

And buster, I was arrested for penning a tart a poem.  I know my RIGHTS!!!

Existence Womb (23)

   
   "Existence Womb (23)"
    
Miriam's psychiatrist father was obviously on the lam;
Moreover, her mother in Freyja's arms cause reptilians don't give a rat's ass damn;
Plus, government spooks in Johnny Cash attire had secured and thieved her house,
Yet she willed herself to not be the quintessential, docile mouse--
Miriam flew to the junkyard, throttling the KLR 250cc,
And ran passionately into Mr. Pewter's skinny but spirited arms--a love that might be.
She confessed to him the nefarious news; plus, all the rancorous rest;
Next, Mr. Pewter's face became alive with animation; indeed, Miriam had passed the test
Of long-suffering and being, for years, swamped down into the quicksand mire--
Now it was time for Mr. Pewter to be her knight and birth her his squire.

MR. PEWTER
Miriam--call me Buck.  I loved Jack London; anyway young lady--that's what all my friends call me, and now--you're one of em.

MIRIAM
What?  What do you know?  And, uh, thank you--Buck.
  
MR. PEWTER
Anomaly-spirited people outshine the regularity of statistics.  Linear-minded people are born to test and thrive in a regimented formation and capitalistic society--they are the common man.  Attorneys, physicians, nurses--all surmising we as humanity are at the apex of knowledge; however, we are definitely not!  You can stay in that A-TEAM painted and restored van, a Mr. T fan sold it to me years ago--I keep all my books in there, but I'll move them into that old Dodge Charger with the big block--got a massive trunk.  Ya know a big block Dodge is an axiomatic MOPAR, which is an acronym for MASSIVELY OVERPOWERED AND RESPECTED.  Soon, you will be too.
   
MIRIAM
Thank you Buck.  And Miriam felt hope, smiling a woeful glee.  

Existence Womb (22)

   
   "Existence Womb (22)"
    
   Miriam blurted:  "Oh my God!!!  Oh my God; I'm sorry if that's taking Your Name in vain--for the love of the Virgin, I just don't know anymore!"
   Indeed, Miriam had exclaimed her tremendous turmoil vociferously concerning the gore-smeared scene of her beloved mother laying in a bubble bath with scarlet-like water, her wrists slit vertically (properly), and a razor blade floating among the bubbly red champagne of it all.
   Miriam teared up something awful, bawling hysterically, and immediately tried to phone her bio-Dad (Dr. Luke), but the receptionist at his psychiatric practice said he had recently and quite suddenly quit.  Miriam loudly uttered a profane vulgarity:  "Mother of shit!"  Then, back to the macabre and gory horror of Mom's corporeal mass, lost without the breath of life.  Yet as Miriam's eyes cleared of redness, tears, and the puffy clouds of unbelief, she noticed a note taped above her Mom's body on the granite tile--duct tape no less, how redneckish and appropriate for a woman beyond a Bush League education, but always with a sense of humor--even to this bloody end.  So, Miriam ripped the note off the wall and took a tearful glimpse--it offered:
   
   Miriam, my darling child--they have a hold on me, and have--for years--pestering, probing, making me as wacky as a doodle mixed with a neurotic terrier.  I love your father, but he was always too deep within the secret government, their conspiratorial Illuminati and such, and was well within their ranks as an Ivy League shrink.  But fear not; I have been brave to the maximum end of things.  And hungry bravery equals Nordic salvation ya know.  Not just the reptilians floating around, but the angelic Nordics.  The thunder god Thor, much like the Arch-Angel Saint Michael, always hunting the murderous World Serpent, and now I will eat pork chops forever--your Dad used to be an Observant Jew (giggles).  But suicide is no sin for a Norse Wiccan if life has been fought with a zeal and courage to exist; thus, the blonde Valkyries will come, take me across Bifrost, the glimmering Rainbow Bridge--or some crazy ass shit like that, and into Folkvangr, where upon Freyja's Fields I will live eternally--she is so beautiful with her shimmering mane of honey blonde, and was part of your fertility--I believe.  I had my secrets too daughter.  So, trust your instincts, and that Abrahamic God your father insists upon, and know that He has friends among the lesser gods as well--them that loathe Greek shenanigans and hunt the serpents.  Be in peace.  Your loving mother.
   
   Miriam was perplexed--to the bone of it all.  Her non-linear mind going hazy and haywire.  Her asking:  "Why God?  Why me?  Oh shit--I sound like Nancy Kerrigan."