Grizzly Hybrid (2)

   
   "Grizzle Hybrid (2)"
   
   Friday; thus, Sorrowful Mysteries on the Holy Beads--it always hurt Trixie.  She wasn't a master of Euclidean Geometry; however, could enter the Fourth Dimension through the mystical meditations of the ivory-like, white rose.  Too, lived in Bozeman, Montana--same place as Johnny Starvation, but she didn't know the wiry scrapper and mixed mutation with Rh negative, just yet; at the same time, her candle was lit before the architecture of time, and engineers only need to lay railroad tracks for Lincoln's firm, symmetrical log.  
   Trixie was a survivalist.  Like her Great Cousin Joey in the population control of NAM--poor black kids and white hillbillies; regardless, Great Cousin Joey was a Black Beret, when it, not in French, meant:  RANGER--only using a knife and barbwire behind enemy lines.  Now, it is shit, but God Bless all the kids, and we all should feel special, at times--but be of not two minds, and slap yourself.
   Indeed, Trixie was baptized with John's water, the best man born through a womb; plus, the fire of Christ, more like ice, if King David and Scorpios are concerned.  But nobody pays attention.  Trust man.  Trust the 3rd leading killer of man--physicians and nurses.  But never enter the Fourth Dimension, in the minimum.  
   Trixie too did Algebra in her sleep.  She dropped out of school, but could do Algebra in her sleep, and like Joyce the Irishman, prove by Algebra that Hamlet's Ghost was kinda/sorta his actual father--more or less.  Who the hell knows?  All we need are the fundamentals.  
   Trixie ate her canned food, slept in a tent, and dreamed of Johnny Starvation's buzz cut being hunted by a Kodiak gelled with a Grizzly.  She was older.  Remembered when Kodiak snuff was out before Grizzly.  Remembered Reagan's soft disclosure, but everyone was playing PAC-MAN.  She wasn't a cougar.  Had no trans-vaginal mesh.  But Johnny Starvation needed a big sister.  And the Author of Life would write her part, transcending prose--into a state of pure poetry. 
   That's everyone's, even the fallen's, greatest fear--nobody knows the Father's next move.