Existence Womb (71)

   
   "Existence Womb (71)"
   
   Miriam remembered herself turning over a library, doing the self-taught, sloppy magic of intellectual pondering; as a result, she thought:  Coyote Medicine.
   She remembered the canine was with her, in the past.  In a sense of the gut.  The fool.  Still, a true survivor.  Keep all your life's crap in that hanging downward tail.  Keep chasing the Road Runner like Wile E. Coyote--you will achieve by crazy, foolish, and a trickster's means.
   Surely, she was prettier than Caitlyn Jenner, but not to all people.  Some say that Dennis Rodman wanted to date her--that was the word going around the nuthouse.  She could telepathically hear the other inmates and their Pop-Culture humor, kinda.  Or was laughing to survive, another coyote thing.
   So, she reached out to Buck.  Painted his face in white marble within the theater of her own isolated mind.  Calling:  "Buck!  Buck, hear me!"  Over and over.
   Like the magic of the crow and raven, somewhat associated with coyote wisdom and intellect, she heard him call back:  "It's about time little girl.  I'm locked up in the Florida swamps, and so are you--I can feel your girly presence."
   Miriam back with:  "I'll seduce somebody when they bring me in my medicine; I'll find you.  We'll make it."
   Buck, getting a sense of wolfish strength responded:  "Of course we'll make it.  We're official weirdos."   

Existence Womb (70)

   
   "Existence Womb (70)"
   
   Miriam didn't bother herself further.  Yup, pure anguish.  The gruel.  The shit.  The stink of toxic captivity.  
   She could hear Buck calling.  Howling, gently, in her mind's eye.  That singular eye of the burning candle.  That third eye specter upon the forehead.  Christ's eye.  And she wished she had a piece of tumbled Bloodstone.
   Nevertheless, Miriam didn't bother with the smudge of lost fudge--the fun stuff.  She was incarcerated.  Fed high doses of bullshit; plus, no contact, not even with other bat shit crazy people.
   She pondered:  "Did I give birth?  A fast gestation, hmm?  Do I even get my period anymore?"
   It was all macabre, yet tasted like a sense of humor.  The werewolf saving her from aliens.  The ancient-astronaut axiom of it all.  And she was glad.  Even in a straight-jacket, drinking chicken broth through a lime-green striped straw.   
    

Existence Womb (69)

   
   "Existence Womb (69)"
   
   Buck could smell the lizard skin in the air.  Deported deep down in the Florida swamps, at some strange government-organized prison for weirdos and werewolves.  Kept trying to give him Haldol so that he couldn't change.  He knew their info on him was no good.  He wasn't a garden-variety werewolf, and they didn't know.  He played along, and knew that Doctor Luke sold out--not on everything.  He was still giving Buck a chance to be a hero and save Miriam from manipulated melodrama.
   And he wondered about her--though rarely used his telepathy, in case the gray/human government hybrids might be able to monitor his cerebral projections.  Regardless, he would find freedom.  And he would locate little, lost Miriam.  Let himself fall in love and still adore the Black Madonna with chaste integrity, at least.
   Buck had the power and potency of a wolf.  He was meant to be a lone one for over a millennium, but now a new force of nature was calling, and it was called life.  He had hid at the junkyard too long; plus, trusted Doctor Luke, once a physician spook himself.  Not again.  Not this year.   

Existence Womb (68)

    
   "Existence Womb (68)"
    
   Miriam was a monster--infused by reptilians and angels.  A Celestial Hierarchy gone bizarrely crazy; regardless, she hung in there--was a cliche, a trooper.  Did the Proust thing.
   When Proust's mother died--he could not leave the house.  Had a job at a library, showed up once in 365 days.  Was fired, kinda.  A physician, an attorney, or a priest--nothing else was acceptable--follow me. 
   Proust adored his mother.  Wore a fur coat.  William Carlos Williams, a physician poet, took notes upon James Joyce and Proust meeting--about truffles.
   Miriam wondered aloud.  Could she be heard above the cage?  The isolation of no rape?  The terror of "Sleep Paralysis" gone unsung?  Alone?  So alone.  Adorned in a straight jacket?  
   Where the fuck was Buck?  A good, theological question.  And she meant not to curse upon the already profane Earth, yet:  "He shall have no foul in his mouth."   
    

6 Man Football

   
   "6 Man Football"   
   
My gremlin days--what a mind-smacking fudge--what a braniac's lie!!!
All County Crazy--in the glimpse of a neurotic eye;
Regardless, go through the Slow Motion Zombie--
Your Grandma smokes Luckies and drinks a plethora of ground-up coffee;
Still, you didn't even attend high school;
Specifically, Dylan and Brenda make you feel uncool;
Thus, disregard the math and accept the "Bright Light" hit of a helmet that does ignite,
A good hockey fight;
Next, never say never to Canadian Football,
For even Moon, Theismann, and Flutie had to hear the Great White North's CALL.  

Trump & Bernie's Truth

   
   "Trump & Bernie's Truth"
   
   Under 50,000 dollars, Trump disavows yearly tax on you as a couple; moreover, a health care plan that fuels the masses.  Look, Trump in sub-culture--he has paid off poor people's mortgages; indeed, many underground fables about Trump helping the poor man.
   Regardless, yes, Bernie, in a political duel with Joseph, second under Pharaoh, making a flat tax; still, Bernie will squeeze the rich man, making corporate crap evaporate--if you wanna pay more; next, free college and health care.
  Nothing is free they told you?  What about Spiritus Sancti--all that heavenly glee?
  It exists.  The truth.  Salvation comes from the Jews, Christ told the Samaritan woman, and Bernie has the benevolence of a Messiah gone peaceways.  
   In my opinion, Hillary is psychotic, not totally bad, but has those crazy eyes re-imagined on SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, and her handlers manipulate smoothness.
   I just know:  I want someone who is honest, even in sin, as long as they preserve that axiomatic truth of their personal bravery throughout this hellhole known as Earth.    

Ol Red - Blake Shelton(Lyrics)