Theories & Relevance

   
   "Theories & Relevance"
   
   As the radio show host SAVAGE said:  "The meek cannot lead to God, but the wild.  I've always been a wild man."  Can you lock up someone for tone?  Probably.  Won't take blood from an unconscious patient--lock her up, right?  
   There's more literature on certain theories that transcend Darwin; moreover, prove the Germans were onto something--it's always Nazi week, and I hate it; anyway, Russia and America thieving away ALL the spoils of future war.  
   More on Tesla.  Free Energy!!!  Capitalism can't let that guy stay around.  We use AC, not DC, save the middle-aged farts like me.
   Proust and Tesla looked similar.  Proust's mustache more dandy and demanding though.

Morning, while everyone else sleeps

Indigo Samson (2)

   
   "Indigo Samson (2)"
   
   Samson Landon didn't mind being called fag due to his long hair and androgynous looks.  Pondered it for a while, but got over it, telling them:  "Hey, I'm a party type of guy."  He was 18, an adult, like all those slaughtered in NAM.  Young men and women don't know how good they have it today.
   Kept safe from horror, while poor kids are being molested, given narcotics, and nobody gives a rat's ass.
   Samson Landon knew he was fortunate--that's why he prayed.  Not due to his father's wealth, but thanking God for the sublimity of suburbia.  Strip malls, coffee shops, drug stores, and an Asian massage parlor here and there--he wondered if they gave happy endings, well, not really--there was this one girl he really liked.  Pixie cut.  Green eyes, like a moving forest in MACBETH.  And her lovely legs carried her down the row from his high school locker, with a cat's pomp and strut.  The Senior Prom approaching.  Should he ask her?  Was she interested?  
   The nervous frog in his creaking throat.  The anticipation.  A silent chase.  A view of adoration from afar.  
   He went home and talked to his Dad about it.  Not much there.  Next Mom.  She just told him:  "Be yourself Samson.  Just be yourself and ask her.  What girl wouldn't love my son, sweet boy."  

Priests and Doctors

   
   "Priests and Doctors"
   
  I begged for years to get that pseudo-caretaker out of here.  Coming over with horrible coughs at times, spitting in the sink; next, attempting to make Mom a greasy meal lathered in contagion when phenomena is a predator.  Going across the street to a near 90 year old woman and weeping, telling her nobody is doing anything, and they're going to get Mom sick, and they put on the ID channel in front of a woman with hallucinations, her having the blanket over her head, crying:  "I think I murdered somebody."  And I voted for Obama--just once.  Throwing towels at my face, calling me a fool, scrawny, asking if they could trip me, telling me not to back up or a knife will go into my back, my step-dad laughing; furthermore, the peach pit with the dog, and her always saying:  "I watch ID, cause I'll know how to commit a crime and get away with it."  Nobody would listen.  Quit complaining.  But nobody was here anyway--even then.  After the phony diagnosis, they all ran from the storm.
   Next one comes in, playing sick and unfriendly songs with vociferously loud lyrics, like:  "Motherfucker!  Motherfucker!"  Talking thug-like on their cell while turning Mom's television down, me watching like a hawk with tears.  And they all blew me off, the only words I heard from them were:  "Xanax--get me another Xanax!"  5 Haldol a day, when the bottle said only 4--I tossed them a while back, right in the garbage can.    
   I told him what I was going to do.  Still, he didn't listen or care; then, I have his cold steel under my skull; next, run away to Arkansas, but I couldn't leave Mom in death's macabre and twisted grip--coming home the next day, confessing to my Priest, and telling the Doctor--he wanted to call Social Services, and the Nurse backed him up.  We talked, I got over it.  Took the threats, and Mom out as much as I could to keep her away.  All documented.  Going through 2 surgeries, blood loss, chronic pain, sleep deprivation, with no help.  Every morning for more than half a decade getting her up, still do, dressing her, changing her, feeding her, showering, brushing, and actually talking to her, because nobody else did, them giving her the silent treatment, as if she is a corpse when the woman breathes.
   Mother of God, help us.  Wore out a set of blessed Rosary Beads.  Always praying with Mom; them telling me not to talk to Mom; I can't get through to her.  Telling me not to talk with a woman who gets no TOUCH.  They cut off physical therapy two years ago.  Now I do that, stretching her every morning.  And they load up on me, a million against one, because I know what it's like to be sick and dying.  I've been there, more than once.  Yet you soldier up.  You do everything to stay alive.  But like one family member told me after my hypoglycemia was dragging me down, and aimed these cruel comments at myself and my medical conditions:  "Mark, everybody has got to die sometime."     
   Gimping around, Mom in one hand, and Rosary Beads in the next.  I never failed her.  Never have given up, and won't for a lady who was there for me.  And there's more, but why bother.  They've had us both buried for years, play-acting to save their hides.  Two sick people, and they're play-acting, like bad-acting torture.  

Mom and dog at park

Everybody has virtue

   
   "Everybody has virtue"
  
   This is kinda/sorta an ode to a former President, Bill Clinton.  I don't know the story well.  Was probably having a few beers when I heard it on the radio.  Yes, I still listen to radio, and @ home no less.
   Anyway, somebody got sick and put in a medical facility that was involved in Clinton's life.  He (President Clinton) never missed a visitation with that man; specifically, President Clinton showed up every week to sit and talk with his sick friend, never missing a beat.  He liked Kennedy too.  Who doesn't like Kennedy?  Hard-drinking Irishman, liked the ladies, and kicked ass, asking his own people upon a visit to the Emerald Isle:  "Why didn't you catch the boat?"  Indeed, if your boat doesn't come in; next, swim out to it--Jonathan Winters.
   We fall.  Sometimes backwards; however, sometimes forward, into the muscular arms of Jesus Christ, Son of the craftsman.  A mere worker, armed with fascination for the Old Testament, which He constantly repeated, adding his own healing yet savage flavor:  "And sin no more, or worse things will happen."  He knew our psychology, somehow--He knew it.  And I believe He knows it always.    

Recent Antiquity: Expecting Marry Poppins

   
   "Recent Antiquity:  Expecting Mary Poppins"

   For the disabled and elderly.  Not mouth-flapping uncouth, grilled and gold, with purple hair; plus, nails longer than a wolverine's, possibly housing numerous amounts of bacteria and multi-cultural fungi, blowing someone's nose prone to phenomena.  Umbrellas and songs; moreover, grit and a symmetrical angel.  Guess I'm just not of the day.  A "Place For Mom" sounds like a death sentence.
   On record.  What they did to us.  Years ago, confessing Ninjutsu and Catholicism to stay alive.  
   Nobody forced me.  I sought council with a physician.  But the constant mantras and threats about locking up people, both of us--is devilish on your part, as Christ unmasked, rebuking with savage cool:  "Your father is the devil.  The father of lies and murder!  He was a liar and murderer from the beginning."  Jesus Christ is not cotton candy Mr. Crispy Cream.  
   I can't help reminding people of history.  See you later Confederate Generals.  Now you don't know if that's a good or bad thing.  A jumble of paradoxes.  Some take care, of all.  And shower multiple times daily.