Rattle your own cage; you belong in it

   
   "Rattle your own cage; you belong in it"
   
   Never tell me the odds--a smuggler instructs artificial intelligence gone golden.  And they worship that gleaming calf, till a Prophet like Ezekiel comes along.  Always takes a prophet, never appreciated in their own time, but I know no prophets, for who can spot the light when the darkness comprehends it not?  2nd LAW, and things will not change.  Entropy.  Possibly.  Gleaming and total purification of awesomeness.  Purgative step being the first step in:  P + I = U.  Ask Saint John of the Cross, Mr. Science.  Gotta mortify the senses, as did King George's physician; otherwise, feed the monkey.
   They swing on the Cross @ Calvary.  Scratch their hairy beards.  Stupefied in glaring at the Cross, as if no comprehension, or not a bit of hope in that beyond the banana peel, which fools foolishly slip on.  Why not be a child?
   Shut your face woman.  Nothing worse than a big-mouthed woman.  Mother Angelica had no big mouth.  Back @ the REAL Catholic school, the Sisters would enter, and the Priests would meekly sit in the lowest places with humility, fearing the Gom Jabbar of it all, knowing spice during burial preserves.  A woman in inviolate white, always appearing on the 13th, and they say Catholics hate women, and that Nuns get Priests their coffee.  I was there dudes.  Even my Monsignor was terrified of their intuition and empathy--high class and solidly chaste.  But not big-mouthed.  Do as My Son says.  Women don't have a hairy scrotum; thus, they should not envy.  Wear white like Emily Dickinson, but black, to absorb the negativity.
   Don't make the neurologically-challenged sign fraudulent documents lawfully illegal.  Don't walk with a straight spine forged from personal pride and put your feet on the General's desk.  Don't flash your grill, those gold teeth credentials.  A wild dog could rip your throat out, or just piss on your reptilian toenails.
   And to think, the POLICE lost Sting, that allegorical Wasp and his infecting Totem.
   I leave you with Saint Francis--no wussy, neither was the bullwhip-carrying Christ, for Saint Francis, having spent a year in the Crusades, and next to Vietnam, the cruelest of Wars; regardless, as he asks of the SOURCE:  "Where there is darkness, let me put light.  Where there is sadness, let me put joy.  Doubt, faith.  Despair, hope.  And may I not be understood, but may I understand."  Only in Christ's Name can you ask, or it is an eternity in the vacuous dirt-nap.