Goose Clover (1)

   
   "Goose Clover  (1)"
   
   My Uncle once mentioned:  "You can't spank autism out of a child."  And to think, they could say that particular parent is enabling?  Sure, you want the kid to try; moreover, to make the attempt at time travel as might go the galactic prose of James Tiberius Kirk; still, I, Goose Clover think:  could my parents have been better to me?  What about Clinical Depression, where all you want to do is hang yourself with a noose made from the fabric sold at The Home Depot?  That's it--every weird-freaking day--you want death.
   Your Dad says:  "Get laid."  But you are asexual, or you only want the hot, blonde cheerleader--nothing else will be like SNICKERS and satisfy.  So, can you spank or tough love mental illness out of a person?  What about Crohn's Disease?   Can you spank that out of somebody?  Or Lewy Body Dementia?  Should you tell that person to just walk like a man?
   Indeed, diseases and disorders are misunderstood.  Yet there are people armed with saving grace and plenty of mercy.  Like Canadians.  Okay, I'm a bit freaky weird too.  I watch SCOOBY DOO to gain euphoria in times of severe melancholy, where the blue hue does not psychologically or metaphysically communicate.  Shit, am I Agoraphobic?  Can you spank that out of someone? 
   Look @ THE MADNESS OF KING GEORGE, the movie.?  They tortured his regal and royal ass until a state of sanity.  Put glass in him.  Better than Saint Francis throwing himself into the thorn bushes when he saw some hot women walk down the dirt road.
  Oh well, that's me, old Goose Clover, fifty-seven years old, and I pump gas.  It's 1976, and I wash your windows too.  I'm somebody.  I hold a job; plus, got some jingle in my pocket as a futuristic, Nashville song will sing, one day.  And I love my truck.  I live in Richmond, real cosmopolitan.  And my sister is a chemist, working on some fancy, new toothpaste. 

Platinum Scapegoat (2)

   
   "Platinum Scapegoat (2)"
   
   Bush League college kids never get to read Jude the Obscure; specifically, it would torment them terribly, knowing that autodidacts exist in time and reality; regardless, Rob had read it.
   He wasn't going to let things end this way for his son Mason.  Cameras in the house.  Unlike the storytelling Irish, he was into documentation like the British, and it was 7 miles long baby.
   Tanya and her mother were soon expelled with mercy.  He couldn't allow it, nor did he want to play games.  Divorce is never dangerous or difficult the second time around, rarely.  
   Rob loved Mason more than anything save God.  And as he pushed his son in the wheelchair through the summer night and its breezy bursts of cool air here and there, he gave humble nod to the Celestial Hierarchy and all the merciful teachings They provided.  Do not let a thug into your house; moreover, do not let a scandalous woman into your house.  And if you do and they stab you in the back with false testimony; next, forgive and let go.  Vengeance belongs to God alone.  He monitors every thought and intention of man.  For the wise man--death is not the conundrum, but life is.  

Platinum Scapegoat (1)

   
   "Platinum Scapegoat (1)"
   
   Mason was a myriad of messes.  Fallen, or dropped--better yet, by a step-family member, yet so sublime, like having the Old Testament falling hard onto his absorbing head; next, paralyzed and wheelchair bound, seeing it all, though unable to speak.
   He never told his Dad what his new wife's daughter had done.  Tanya, her older, an angry, angst ridden adolescent, while Mason was only nine years of age; moreover, he never told Dad about how Tanya's Mom treated him, for he couldn't.  Lost unto a world within himself, deep in trances and silent prayer, begging Saint Uriel to bring solid justice.
   The worst that Mason reflected upon was that his step-mom was attempting to frame his father for neglect, when in fact, it was the polar opposite; indeed, all for the money--smell the money Johnny Football, and you get lost in the fiction of it all.
   Mason's Dad's name was Rob, and he was being robbed.  Mason figured they'd have him (Mason) killed and his Dad blamed in a few months.  So, as the shortest verse in the King James Bible goes:  "Jesus wept."  Too, Mason wept, his tears still able to run down his scrawny face within the fiction of a happy suburbia.  

Weredog Tart (35)

   
   "Weredog Tart (35)"
   
   The Old Moon was waxing, so much so with effulgent neon-cheese glow, and Steel City underneath, within the heavenly glare downwards and easy reach of the One, True Almighty; indeed, Siria felt mighty; regardless, she pondered and attempted to fathom the cerebral insight of loyal Lance, wanting to give him the weredog chance, but would this be true Catholicism, with Saints and dogs, or Wives' Tales gone sour and old--she wondered?
   Lance approached her suburban habitat lopsided as was his ego absent--just a dude, a dude with no attitude, absent of pride and fasting on the bread of life, yet man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God, as did the Christ mention to forces monstrously maleficent.
   And as he approached, she gulped a beer stolen from Dad, not melancholy and sad, but to imbibe the brew from John Barleycorn, making her resurrected in a decision-making storm, reaching out to his pineal gland, so that he might completely comprehend and understand--he did.
   She fanged herself not for the kill, and Lance was so chill, the Iceman in him did live inside, his confidence only viewed by Mark Twain's Seeing Eye, and he took the incisors deep into his flesh, having a wolf and golden retriever mesh; moreover, all was cool now with faith and plenty, for Lance was crowned a weredog, and many would be their pups and all that jazz, no longer would their fairy tale be blue (in a sad sense) but communicative and true--so damn golden and glad, armed forever with no prose gone mad.      

Jack Kerouac on The Steve Allen Plymouth Show 1959

Weredog Tart (34)

   
   "Weredog Tart (34)"
   
Siria was not enchanted, yet truly elated--soooo in love with loyal Lance,
Giving her best buddy matrimony's lifetime chance;
Moreover, unearthed him a bone she had instinctively buried--
The Earth up North as a refrigerator, keeping us to the dead, like unto married
To a state of futurity's risen flesh,
Which is why love always needs the sublimity of a synergy-like mesh--
To nicely nurture and creatively care like Rose Quartz brings,
Making the mirror image of the heavens bring us lovely things.  

Weredog Tart (33)

   
   "Weredog Tart (33)"
   
   Serendipity suddenly calling; specifically, Lance's ex-football Coach wanting him to toss the baseball, having the empathy and intuition of Saint-like females to know the boy could spin the laced heat of a baseball, possibly.  And after the wiry Irish kid cranked it out, though not well targeted, the speed was in the mid to upper 80's.  The Coach with:  "I knew your arm had something."
    Further testing aimed Lance at the Minor Leagues or Junior College teams around Pennsylvania--Scranton had plenty, but if he was going to travel, he wanted to have cowboy romance with the road, and horseback it Westwards.
   Plus, knew that Siria had guarded her virginity, and him as well; thus, wasn't marriage perfect, he figured.  But before breaking the news that he had an unseen potential, the boy prayed by way of invoking Saint Patrick, having a funny feeling about the Saint morphing a once royal soul into a wolf, or so Catholicism and canines go, very bizarre, but truly dogmatic and traditional.
   And it was like he knew Siria would say "yes" and that Mom, in charge of his ghostly father's greenbacks, would assist him with a humble ring, to show the seed starts small, and if not scattered in thorns; next, it grows on fields that trump those Elysian fantasies, Christ being so true, as He actually walked upon Terra's terrain.