Jazzmin Flush (9)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (9)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush had uncanny, fruit-loopish empathy--to her own sorrow; nevertheless, it was the glorious intent of a sublime everlast.  As a result, the magnetic magic of the poor man's train pulled her closer to the diesel-puffing taco truck and into Thomas' past misery due to myriads of crusty crab curses.  Like an unscrupulous attorney, son of a pseudo-physician inspired by greed, back in the day, poisoning his entrails and hoping infertility cause his vociferous sister spilled sour grapes and was ridden with monkey-hungry envy. 
   Thomas endured as did Sir Gawain, and Jazzmin Flush knew--he would die again, happily paying with his little life as insisted Christ:  "Resist not evil."  Yup, desire, freakishly, to lose it.  Simple Franciscan humility, hungering only to be a pregnant lady craving a deep dish with garlic crust covered in anchovies and gummi bears.
   Life is over in the blink of an eye--for everybody.  Those that curse, waking tomorrow with a tumor on their macabre dreams, unless of course the mercy of a car crash veers their way; regardless, the optimism here:  God knows everything.  Your full mind like a computer He is plugged into, keeping a Divine Diary of every singular and complex thought and action crossing your soul.  God knows EVERYTHING.  There is no sweeping your mustard stain under magic carpet.  The Divine Justice System awaits every soul--Jazzmin Flush just hoped Thomas would be forgiven for his uncouth appreciation of watermelon in naked, pulsating fashion.  Well, it was only once, and he imagined an android lady without prospect of consciousness.  He crazily crafted her liquid-like legs in his mind.   Still, he was a nice boy, having resisted the urge to deliciously dream of his 7th grade Math teacher--she and her seductive pantyhose would not haunt him.
   Jazzmin Flush let out a hopeful exhale, and the train halted, floating on the Earthy air that was, indeed, God's Good Breath.