Jazzmin Flush (75)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (75)"  
   
   Thomas, cradling the precious pups--three of them, two girls and a little pecker, Rascal wearing a lacuna where the intercourse had, months ago, happened and now fully expired, driving her to dreams of Donald Flush and his hopefully triumphant return to her full moon embrace.  And the male scion barked a yip and a yap, Thomas crying, wanting a family; then, remembering Donald's disappearance--was this how it was with every Flush?  They just won't commit to the process of engaging in blissful matrimony for creative purpose, or whatever.
   Jazzmin came into the birthing room, Fredrica having always been there--the former taco roller now holding two feminine, coydog/human hybrids while her brother, Jazzmin's love Thomas played with the male, letting his pinkie finger get a little bloody from the exploring bites, teeth in and sharp already, Rascal's vaginal cavity having acted like a coydog incubator, cooking quickly a trio of mercurial mutts, and one would be a pestering prodigy.  Anyway, overwhelmed by her younger half-siblings, Jazzmin wept.  Remembering Christ and the shortest verse in the King James Bible, it used by Southern Baptists to this future day, Jazzmin not pushing the Vulgate in anybody's face, knowing all the words were synonymous, leading to the nucleus of God, Christ, like Buddha in the middle, yet bettering the quicksand of balance and cool counterpoise by being the virginal lamb.  And as she reached out and touched the male pup Thomas was holding, looking her boyfriend in the eye--she knew:  no matter how much she loved the arctic wolfboy, she was a lamb at heart.  A quasi-virginal lamb, doing her best to retain the inviolate status of California Girl Cool--in a Saintly sense.   

Jazzmin Flush (74)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (74)"
   
   Rascal--though less than mid-range in physical size and birthing capability; nevertheless, hips and fundament super shapely--vaginally spit her coydog pups out like a pack of M&M with peanuts shooting lifewards, all multi-colored, the eclectic litter bragging of both the beautifully benign and the bad-ass bold in a corporeal sense.  Thomas hearing the canine telepathy doing dog barks in his attentive ears; moreover, technology in Thomas' future (here), outshined by the primal spirit that sparked creation; specifically, the delicate forge and delivery of coydog pups dictated a bone-eating that sucked the mummified marrow out of the dead and then recast them with physical life, in a wicked/loving sense.
   So, Thomas broke off his marriage-argument-proposal to Jazzmin Flush, dashing away in determined style to eloquently usher in other life on this poignant Earth, leaving Jazzmin's mouth open, as if a fly might fly on in, barfing bacteria into her intestinal tract, yet she closed the gawking gap, as if knowing it in Thomas' alerting eyes, and now, she was, officially--a freaking pseudo-stepdame.  What a bomb?  Sounding her own telepathic trumpet to Rascal's pointy and hearing ears, like:  "Bitch.  But, uh, I will love you."     

Jazzmin Flush (73)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (73)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush did not girlishly gush--NO WAAAAY, looking Thomas right in the whites of his eyes, avoiding the hue of eye/soul/color (bullcrap/maybe)--her golden orbs a frigid, Great White North Love, like when she rescued him, but the California Girl was not calm and religiously convinced about matrimony, especially sexuality, since she was a dork and asexual, having turned her back to the incarnate aspects of her bodily predicament, mostly because it would rot and perish save robotic implants, only sharing a few moments of kisses with Thomas, her coldly, but lovingly, NOW, blurting:  "No freaking way!  Look, I house the Holy Spirit--my body does--no way somebody is going to invade that divine space--never--it will never happen dude."
   Thomas, the arctic, Spirit Wolf didn't blink, responding:  "I totally embody a great portion of the Holy Spirit myself, and if I enter you after marriage, that Spirit comes into you--you will only be stronger."
   Jazzmin blinked.  Thomas continued:  "I don't even care.  Do what you want.  Marriage is about being a team.  A contract of love.  A sophisticated synergy, but not dualistic.  A united state of onwards.  And I would tell you to go screw yourself, but that might be rude."  

The avarice of an incarnate machine

   
   "The avarice of an incarnate machine"  
   
If Union Blue was here--they'd sing it better; regardless:

Spirit spiraling in the passionate, human machine,
Like nuclear engines morphing me amorous and plenty keen,
Yet the crystal-hued calm from Spirit when focused on inside
Magnanimously spawns me a glamorous, pseudo-Saint's ride--
I share welcome synergy with my singular spouse,
And I purify with crucifixes my old ghost house.
  

Jazzmin Flush (72)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (72)"
   
   Rascal had begun to deliver her coydog/California-man pups.  Jazzmin and Fredrica were the bar maids, bringing plenty of Wicca-celebrated John Barleycorn rebirthed in bottles after the divine, resurrecting harvest.  Thomas was absent during the female fest.
   Thomas drifted the streets of L.A. in this story's non-linear futurity, observing with keen, wolf sense the streetfire known as the levitation trains.  Too, he transcended the urban despair of it all, wending his wolfy way into the swank of it all, getting highly cosmopolitan in his brain's photography of remembrance.  He watched as the richly elegant walked hand in hand, ornamented in the finest clothing capitalism could buy.  And he wondered woefully.  Would he ever adore Jazzmin Flush in such splendor?  How was he supposed to even buy her a ring?  Yup, even though he was the arctic wolf, the Spirit Wolf, he was still a poor boy.  Then it hit him--a wolf can smell precious stones underground; thus, he would go on a rich man's safari to unearth jewels for his beloved, Jazzmin.   And, if his dog got lucky and had a day; next, he would ask Miss Jazzmin Flush for her soul in marriage.   

Privilege of being Blonde

    
   "Privilege of being Blonde"
    
I can make my own damn money;
As a result, I can taste a man like golden honey,
Dripping the yummy ooze of sticky love on beastly buns;
This shrew ain't need no tame--our family, mommy runs.
It's not about closing my eyes and picturing dollar signs during the nature of sex;
It's about allowing love, getting a sexy guy to devour my jungle like a T-Rex. 

Jazzmin Flush (71)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (71)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush did not recklessly rush back into the suave swing of things.  Of course, her employment at the L.A. Derelict had been logically terminated since the coydog apprehension of Mister Merlin Pope--the entire, bizarre-laced scenario being a set-up by the crystal uncouth of modern media, greedily getting an amphetamine-fueled story by whatever unnecessary means to inspire readers into purchasing product--the esoteric kinda information that should be free.
   Jazzmin Flush was cool with Rascal now too.  Played fetch and Frisbee with the curvaceous coydog girl to keep her in shape during pregnancy; plus, scooped her poop out of the yard, her (Rascal) now residing with Donald Flush in a ghetto house with a Carolina-blue-hued, Astro Turf-like yard--very stylish for the time.  Donald (Daddy) away on financial dealings with the sinister lady of his past, and Rascal fearing he might never return, but Jazzmin was all big sisterly, offering needful nurture.  And just when it all seemed dandy, and that the wacky world was in high cotton, Rascal turned to Jazzmin's California gold and muttered:  "If your Dad and me get married--I'll be like your mother or something."