Existence Womb (56)

   
   "Existence Womb (56)"
    
   A frozen prairie.  A cosmopolitan city.  Calgary, housing a bit over a million cold folks, drinking beer, imbibing a legal remedy, and polite as ice cold shit--a paradox, but greatness.
   Miriam battled the snowy roads with the Boss 302, using the low-end torque to rotate and manipulate her way into a grocery store parking lot.  She fell on her butt, once, for a sec, upon the icy parking lot; next, she giggled, kept her Templar/Bowie knife concealed in case spooks would offer an assault, and marched gallantly, once cautiously picking herself up off of the glacial conditions.
   She was soon to fall in love with hockey.  Remembering Putin play on television, somewhere over near Russia, and him never getting roughed up a bit; plus, with the CFL, sports Northwards were the crazy rage, all gladiatorial in a hard-hitting nature, to architect a solid man, a Nordic Warrior braving the beasts of the field, perishing without pity, yet accepting the hands of blonde, glimmering angels.
   Miriam kept her raven-haired head under a colorful toboggan that boasted of the CFL's Calgary Stampeders; indeed, she was gelling with smooth mercury.    

Existence Womb (55)

   
   "Existence Womb (55)"
   
   Miriam eyed the glacial city of Calgary from approach through the windshield of the Boss 302, it fishtailing through the slow Canadian traffic.  She was alone.  Buck and Luke giving her a chance at independent girl liberty.
   They also gave her a Jim Bowie type of knife with a red Templar Cross stamped on it.  She'd prefer a shotgun, being like Ali McGraw with Steve McQueen, pumping explosive ammo at the bad guys, whatever.  Buck only needed fangs, fur, and fright; moreover, the Templar Knights (Order of Solomon's Temple) knew how to engage in combative anthropology, even with primitive weaponry.  
   Those wise-fighting Templar Knights, disbanded by Pope Clement during 1312, the Year of Our Lord--they still existed, getting up everyday in fantasy land, living more in the clouds than on Earth, always looking for the allegory of the factual Holy Grail.  
   Anyway, Miriam was going to buy some groceries and cigarettes.  Heard the coffin nails were more expensive, up here, in the Great White North.  At least the prisons and health care were superior.  

Toxic Bliss (9)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (9)"
    
Thus wends the weird of corporeal culmination;
Hence, does exit the Ghosts from every Magnanimous Nation;
Regardless, to live in the Hereafter is an event for most mortal souls,
Having to face the Divine Justice System, yet the verbal confession of Christ pays tolls;
Therefore, have no freakish phobia concerning crossing over,
For goes the 1980's Rock Star for never being sober;
Alas, sick is sick, and medicine should be mercifully allowed,
For all conditions will ultimately lead to a death-faced shroud.
   
* * * * * * * *
   
   Just a kinda/sorta axiomatic quote from Wernher von Braun as memorized from the first aspects of Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, like this:

   "Nature knows not extinction--all it knows is transformation.  Everything science has taught me, and continues to teach me, is that there is a spiritual existence after death."   
  

Toxic Bliss (8)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (8)"
    
   Simon contacted his neighbor dubbed Buzz.  Dude delivered pizzas for a local Mom and Pop pie establishment--yes, they were true, hairy Italians, mixed a little with French; hence, the delicious and exotic pies were to be elegantly delivered, and Buzz was the man.
   Buzz had just ran some anchovy miles in his Dodge Dart.  He had improved intake; plus, outtake, redesigning the exhaust in his parents' garage, like Iron Man, and like a Middle-Aged Jack Kerouac--he lived with his Mom, Dad too though.   Anyway, Buzz had just dropped off a steaming anchovy with Gummi Bear pizza, and, extra cheese, "please" said the pregnant housewife, so single, and Buzz was in love, getting an Alexander Hamilton tip, ironed, or so it seemed, and very very crispy, totally so.  Yup, it was love, and the single housewife blew him a kiss before hungrily opening the box like a devouring wolverine and burning her esophagus on the hot cheese, but still going:  "Yummy."
   So, Buzz was Simon's babysitter for his frail father.  And having trust in the quirky neighbor, Simon took a lime-green taxi to the gastroenterologist for his yearly colonoscopy.  As always--it was a nightmare.  The day before always consisted of torturous cleansing, crapping poop juice until running clear, and with it, a bit of slimy gore included in the runny pseudo-stool.  If only he lived in the American West, they'd try cannabis oil to reduce inflammation and pain; then, do a fecal matter transplant, but the South was years behind; indeed, they are changing the world out West. 
   At least Simon got the Michael Jackson medicine to put him night night.  He started to tell the anesthesiologist about Bubbles, Mr. Smiley, or whatever the hell Michael Jackson's chimp was named; next, he went out as easy as cheesecake with a dash of cherries on top, as if a Mafia Hitman had turned him off like a delicious light.

Toxic Bliss (7)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (7)"
    
Simon was watching Richard Burton in THE ROBE,
A Roman-styled film with emphasis on Christ's Kingdom ringing in the earlobe;
Moreover, his father informed him that Mr. Burton could throw back the adult juice,
Marrying the most lovely ladies with pomp and spruce;
Indeed, it was a Messianic movie with the Supernatural told
So that the sinners we all are will with angel's wings unfold,
If we grasp for the Heavens in mystical manner,
Transcending the cliche of doing darling and dandy only on our Sunday planner;
Specifically, the mystic bed must always be made--
So grease the goose and feed the beast,
Resist not evil with mercurial scatterfeet,
But only steal God's Heart with benevolence and sublimity,
Defying even with levitation to trump gravity;
Next, the Holy Spirit does enter
Into your body, animating every word; moreover, every letter.      

Toxic Bliss (6)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (6)"
    
   Simon was sincerely exhausted.  Same old same old; specifically, changing, feeding, brushing his Dad--you know the rest; plus, all the metaphysical/spiritual compulsions to better-off his father and his own OCD with Tics.  Yeah, of course the garden-variety bullshit passed around at local taverns, where big-boobed hussies and dart throwing is the order of the night, followed by a smooth lager and some soul searching with the blitzed patron lap-dancing upon your intoxicated consciousness.  What a freaking blast--Simon missed David's Psalm:  "Wine to make man's heart happy."
   But it was beyond.  Verily, it did outshine with perplexing weirdness, the religious cleansing, the imbibing of Christ's blood, and the burning of incense and gemstones to radiate into your personal healing factor, boosting immunity and all the rest; alas, the VIVID IMAGERY, and sometimes animated--speaking, moving with dexterity, beyond you, yet so tangibly surreal.  
   Thus, the anti-psychotics, in case the Otherworldy visitations were negative, having a squeeze of demonic twist, shaken, not stirred, and so are you, never being a good-looking womanizer, never so lucky, but charmed into the bizarre madness of things unearthly.  And the Holy Spirit, so vivid with images of hues and colors, shocking the more than five senses into a state of beaming bliss.  

Toxic Bliss (5)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (5)"
    
   And a heart-shaped box from the visitors, glowing with a gleam unearthly, resonating from True Divinity, and the more-than-nuclear hands of angels making a delivery in 30 minutes or less.  Simon noticed nothing save the weight of his father in his arms, uplifting the downtrodden to a toilet bowl sanctuary, the patriarch's tears flowing with an almost irritation to both father and son, as they always did, testing true patience, and then, a bowel evacuation--a true release of internal pressure, and a child's smile on his demented, yet so beautiful face of gold.
   Simon returned him to his safety chair, fed him yogurt with strawberries, a glass of green tea, and a handful of pills to be choked down; next, he took his own, juggling two diseases; plus, his psychiatric interference, dismissing the political soundbites of Sunday morning news, where bullshit is always the topic of the day--they always say "Middle Class" and not FREAKING POOR PEOPLE, especially knowing that stress outshines genetics where so many cancerous things are concerned.
   No order of the day for angels, locked in eternal combat with the fallen, and it all denied, yet the sub-culture pushes and drops hints of tangible truth, yet dubbed pseudo-science and the rest, that American Green in the bank making it easier to golf, party, count your bland achievements, while denouncing with your pornographic glee, the impotence of others, working harder to please the benevolent hearts of those crowned by weakness.
   Next, Simon did find a smile upon glancing his thin, lean body; he was animated by something Otherworldly--had to be to complete all the labor he was engaged in, knowing his small frame transcended muscle--dude was all gristle, growing more grizzly steel by time uncounted.