Existence Womb (28)

   
   "Existence Womb (28)"
    
   Dr. Luke, Miriam's biological father, let us call him Luke for now--he was on mercurial scatterfeet; indeed, being on the long-running lam was no easy job, but he had an innate compulsion to not be captured; next, incarcerated in the sub-culture-like underground, and tortured to a controlled acquiesce by the so-called Men in Black.  So, he had shot his mouth off--big deal; Trump does it all the time, and look how he is killing in the political polls.
   Too, in his hidden cerebral capacity, Luke knew Buck Pewter, the Catholic Werewolf, forged from the time of antiquity, protected by the Catholic Church for his violent labor in hunting down morphine-dreaming vampires, like a narcotic blood lust they had, saving the Vatican from a pre-fabricated Reformation of Biblical misinterpretation and retardation, or better yet, lack of adjusting to even a minor asceticism; anyway, he knew--the dude would protect her.
   Hence, thankfully, Luke knew Miriam would be shielded from any iniquitous reptiles by Buck, his telepathy potent enough to repel any type of mental probing; plus, dude could shift into fangs, fur, and fright, damaging the corporeal aspects of almost any creature--even fallen angels, them perpetually stuck in the shape-shifting form of a reptilian/human gel.
   So, Luke needing to contact his asshole attorney, which would cost a fortune; plus, put him on the front page of some bullshit rag and in front of the firing line known as mainstream media, held his breath, wishing he didn't scrap his cell phone, but knew--since the Bush Administration--everybody, mostly, is tracked, unless of course they're just downloading the garden-variety slop and sludge of Internet porn--all he knew was that he had to find a phone booth. 
   Sauntering cautiously through the streets of a big city in the Mid-West, he ultimately saw a payphone booth, but it was occupied by a menthol-smoking African-American making an imperative crack deal.  Good Lord--he knew crack was a necessity for some, but his daughter's quasi-Messianic Life was in danger, and he had to interrupt; thus, he knocked on the bacteria-laced door with his bare knuckles, politely asking:  "Excuse me madame, but I really need to get on the horn."
   The angry and responsive answer was:  "Who the fuck you be?  Clark Kent?  Black women hold a grudge--now get the fuck on outta here."
   Luke kept moving.    

Existence Womb (27)

   
   "Existence Womb (27)"
   
Miriam pondered her so-called, pathetic life;
Moreover, scrapyard scrapping for the labor of strife;
Nevertheless, it was all for morning glory relaxation,
Thieving the anguish by bravely entering the dreamland nation,
Facing her fears as if Emerson unchained.
Trumping the competitors with a superior, angelic fame,
By denying the regularity of school, popping out kids, suburban living--the delusion
That normality resides in an obvious conclusion,
Facing the futurity of old age and disease;
On the contrary, her mercurial potion of existence gave her a more wizardly ease;
Plus, a were-man-thingamajig as a handsome protector,
Eating reptiles, save the horned toad, like a coyote-digesting corrector--
Them having the most symmetrical scat on Terra's fine globe
Save the dung beetle, which craves a toxic-steaming load.   

Existence Womb (26)

   
   "Existence Womb (26)"
    
   Miriam wended through the illuminated day, the Sun gleaming divine, and palled around with Buck, assisting him in putting some spark plugs within a 1969 Boss 302 that he was meticulously attempting to restore to a sophisticated level of classicism, saying:  "Now some like the Big Block--they even have a quasi-astral realm known as Big Block Highway, where only a SS Chevelle 454 or Boss 429 can roll upon that asphalt ballet of thunder and rumble; however, I prefer to be mercurial outta the pocket with swift clutch and shift--this Boss 302 may not be made for ultra high speed cruising, but it will sink the fillings into your teeth running 0-60."
   Miriam smiled:  "I hear ya Buck."  And she snorted with a giggle, looking to see if he really had fangs and all, not thinking there was sublimity in such monsters of the night world; indeed, she now knew that Buck was a magnanimous soul fused into Otherworldly things, and her coyote instincts told her it was all good.
   Buck was indeed a protector.  A friend forged by her father to assist her in getting the best of reptilian slime that controlled corporations, governments, and simple people leaning towards altruistic thoughts--this picked up on by the telepathy of iniquitous creatures wanting to destroy them by twisting their family against them, or friends, crafting, as always, things asymmetrical and cruel for a hellish purpose to further make misery through lies and murder.   
   Then, through her autodidactic studies, she remembered loudly:  "Werewolves have telepathy; hence, they can't get the best of Buck.  Hell ya!" 
   Moreover, she blushed again, noticing how svelte Buck was:  "Golly."
   Buck with:  "What did you just mutter?"
   She kept on blushing . . . 

Tennessee Heroin Addiction Is A Local Political Problem

   
   "Tennessee Heroin Addiction Is A Local Political Problem"  
   
   Alkaloid compounds, opiates, the dragon, whatever--only leads to heroin addiction for the spiritually blind.
   My alter ego, Bobby Rook, had gore-smeared bowel movements for years with unearthly pain, taking opiates; next, off of them--never robbed a pharmacy, never went on the street looking for heroin, never went batshit crazy, cause he already was, and never did anything but find solace in the Otherworld.  The poppy represents both life and death.  Chase the dragon for the high = death; however, understand it is in there, deny the lack of euphoria, knowing it is working = life.
   If you don't appreciate the Otherworld; next, it will not appreciate you.  Great comfort and joy can be unearthed in these Astral Realms, yet even as with Balder the Beautiful, a trickster is prone to cross your path; hence, keep your soul low, don't touch anything unless invited, be pious yet not sanctimonious, and above all:  Humble yourself to a life without chasing tail, jello shots, ripping people off, and any iniquitous activity.
   Too, opiate deaths are waaaay down in Colorado, where marijuana, a non-physically addictive substance has been formed into so many strains, including pain-killing strains, and people can cope without the after-effects of physical dependency.  But again--we are in the American South, and ignorance and pride thrive here.  Like Faulkner kinda/sorta said:  "Are they brave--well kinda.  Are they courageous--well kinda.  But they have no pity or mercy."
   Keep a benign herb illegal, and you will get meth and all sorts of shit.  Get addicted to that--your only chance is dropping out of life and entering the Otherworld--have a mystical imagination, at the least if you reside in the south, which of course, represents the element of FIRE.   

Existence Womb (25)

   
   "Existence Womb (25)"

Miriam wended beyond the intellect of Pascal,
Absorbing American Indian truth, thinking a cannibalistic Wendigo would make a great pal
To kick reptilian ass and free America from lying/murderous billionaire corporations--
Them run by the Satanic Nations--
Just like us; 
Specifically, many infused with fallen Nordic-like angels, now snake-like mutts,
But she couldn't save the entire world--
That is up to the Arch-Angel Saint Michael and his lightsaber-gleaming sword,
And what a swinging hue of victory
To encage the ones who have corrupted human history.
So, that night she took her Davidian pills,
Drifting into dreamland with no creepy reptilian chills,
Seeing Buck standing guard, dog-like, outside,
As if he was a Catholic Werewolf, and soon, that secret from her he wouldn't hide;
Moreover, after waking in mercy after a protracted sleep,
She cracked her rested knuckles and wiggled her joyous feet.      

Advice for Trump; plus, Bernie

   
   "Advice for Trump; plus, Bernie"
   
   A womanizer?  Trump?  What?  Look at the Clinton clan? 
   
   What does Lucille Ball have in common with Monica Lewinsky?
   --They both enjoyed a Cuban!
   
   Regardless, Hillary is making an attempt to gel with the youth, gaining couth--probably taking a high dose of anti-psychotics to get her wild eyes morphed docile to proudly gain her wicked ambition.  
   Do we really want a do-nothing Clinton in the White House, suffering from a form of uncanny Nixonism?  Which is a phobia concerning being adored.  But the Democratic Party wants her coronation.  And doesn't the Book of Revelation say the Anti-Christ will have suffered a mortal head wound?  Yup, and Hillary suffered one, but I'm not saying she is the Anti-Christ, but maybe; anyway, the DNC doesn't want the trouble Bernie will bring to billionaire corporations and the secret elite who manipulate this once Free And True Country.  What did Christ proclaim to the unlikely Samaritan Woman:  "Salvation totally comes from the Jews."  And he was a penniless, excommunicated Rabbi, waging a peaceful war for the impoverished and ill--kinda like Bernie. 
   Regardless, we need the Freedoms of our First American Flag back, sewn on cannabis fibers from George Washington's finest crop.  Cancer patients, bowel disorder people, the mentally anguished--all need the freedoms of ending the Drug War--at least on an indigenous herb vegetating by Godly ignition from our loving soil.  But will war vets abuse that too?  And how can you abuse it?  Isn't there only a certain level of quasi-euphoria gained?  And the varying strains studied by UCLA, Berkeley, and Stanford prove most medical conditions can be consoled with the multiplicity of THC levels, not as Carly Fiorina dumbly doesn't know, thinking cannabis is purely cannabis, which it is not anymore--thanks to American Western Science.  But the American South still popping benzos, wending closer to amnesia-like spawned dementia, along with their two to three glasses of wine every night, not knowing what it is like to have a painful disease.
   And about Gastroenterology--for 7 years I just wanted to be normally treated by a physician--not knowing at the time, one of the leading causes of death in this once great America is physician and nurse error.  Anyway, like the fool I am, I let this pseudo-doctor examine me weirdly.  I know that most Gastroenterology docs are butt pirates at the core, or addicted to dandyism at the least.  And I've been to plenty of these Gremlins, mostly disgusted--though there are a few cool ones.  Anyway, this one guy in Williamson County, Tennessee would make me unbutton my pants, put his hands down my junk, ask if I was ticklish; next, try to tickle my stomach, said I needed some buddies, to hang out with him at his non-denominational church, wink at me, refuse me REMICADE I.V. Treatment during bloody flares, refuse to treat my anemia, and not give me the anti-inflammatory pills that I asked for, which reduce the risk of colon cancer.  Even my ex-wife, who is heavily prone to lie to my face and can sway anybody with her cunning wanted to kick this man's ass.  Oh well.  I say:  Vote for somebody that cares for the sick--because, you will be too, having a tumor growing out of your face or something, unless you die in a car crash; then, you'll be begging for prohibition to end, as the benzos will only make you sleep, drooling stupidly, not knowing the anti-oxidant and healing properties of General George's favorite crop.  

Existence Womb (24)

   
   "Existence Womb (24)"
    
   Miriam was sweetly settled into the Mr. T van--no gold chains though, gold--a mighty conductor, possibly fueling the Ark of the Covenant and its radioactive properties, destroying iniquitous armies, yet kindly making anti-cancerous almonds out of two brothers' Staffs of God, being not a mere statistic, maybe two of them if you're a Talmudic Scholar knowing such, and mere statistics are where TRUTH falls through the linear cracks in a varying existence.
   Miriam had a futon mattress with a Yoda sleeping bag as a cover, her Chiastolite, and quite a weird collection of literature from greedily going to the bookstore, liking to possess her own books and sniff the yummy print, when not using the free, public library where many nose-picking fingers had paged through the vented texts.  She was currently reading about Blaise Pascal, knowing it was wiser to adore the Otherworld than deny it and end up forever stupefied by an eternal realm not appreciating you, as you did not appreciate It--after exiting this life, which is just a womb, like us in the vaginal cavity at one time, eating baby crackers, thinking this is all there is; next, the real and genuine BIG BANG!!!  You're greeted by a roomful of old people wearing masks and cutting your cord.
   Mr. Pewter, uh, Buck, came over and checked on Miriam during her non-working hours, bringing her canned pineapple and bananas; plus, candy bars with dark chocolate--them always containing almonds.  He always mentioned she should read CALL OF THE WILD and get in touch with her Canis lupus arctos, and while she knew much about the American Indians and their Animal Totems--not that one; moreover, Buck would tell her how the author, Mr. London, him saying anyone can make it, even after being arrested for vagrancy, and at one time believing education the answer before exploration and the mighty quill; plus, a love of dogs made him ever so frosty and cool; also, he was beyond the corporations of today that possess everything and trickle down bullshit peanuts.  
   Too, Buck provided her with a stash of the herb-derived pills her father had given her, saying he adored the strain and took them himself, wanting one day to move Westwards, reminding her of the beautiful bard Jim Morrison singing:  "The West is the Best!  Get out here and we'll do the rest!"
   Buck also said he had adopted her in a spiritual sense as a little sister, needing family, but not a snot-squirting baby always getting sick from putting everything in their mouths, just like most sorority girls do.  And then there was his confession about the reptilians.  She gasped that he was so plugged into everything, yet pushed him for no further knowledge that day, him boldly stating:  "We will talk about it later Miriam--in great detail too."
   Again, even with the loss of her biological family and household inheritance, she remained in a state of minor glee, just knowing, knowing that someone cared, and was also a freak, armed with a wisdom superior to the mainstream masses.