Existence Womb (76)

   
   "Existence Womb (76)"
   
   June had arrived.  And the big neon glitter was overhead out in East End--the boondocks of Little Rock, Arkansas.  Miriam and Buck were underneath the shimmering night sky.  The four winds were sincerely silent.  And there was no denying the existence of God.
   Buck didn't change under the glistening Full Moon.  The Strawberry Moon, as known by many, including the Algonquin Tribes.  Buck could manipulate and manufacture his wolf on command by glimpsing into the Holy Spirit's sparkly eyes--It living within, yet showcasing him glamour on the outside--if he needed it.
   Miriam was getting kinda fanged.  Could feel her incisors sharpening.  The inner coyote.  The little wolf.  Or, as some American Indian Tribes had more reverence for the many aspects of the coyote, the wolf was known as the big coyote.  And of course--there was the bizarre red wolf, a protected synergy of wolf and coyote residing in North Carolina.  But this was Arkansas, and Miriam could feel her poverty changing into something better than money--unearthly sublimity, and the miracle or possibility of all things related to the canine's mystical mesh with man.      

Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and Easter

   
   "Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and Easter"
   
   I've mentioned I'm a Catholic; nevertheless, one thing I learned from the Southern Baptists is the pure poetry of the King James Bible; thus, I will use it, mostly.  
   Sure, some say Peter "The Rock" was a bit jealous of the purified, healed woman named Mary Magdalene.  Woman:  A word used as a term of endearment at the time.  During the Passion, Christ looking down upon his inviolate Mother, saying:  "Woman, behold your Son."
   Anyway, plenty of weird and wild stuff forged from knocking Chief off the Tower, like Christ was married to Mary Magdalene, or that John, the Disciple he loved, the only one at the Crucifixion, had a homo-erotic relationship with Jesus.  Hogwash--like Christ casting devils into suicidal swine.  I still don't believe he ate a pork chop, even though breaking the food laws, as the Torah in the Flesh.
   But he let a doubting Thomas touch him after the Resurrection, yet not Mary Magdalene, as offered in Chapter 20 of the Gospel of John--like this:  "Jesus said unto her, Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father:  but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God."     

Wuthering Heights--no zombies!

   
   "Wuthering Heights--no zombies!"  
   
Emily Bronte, using the pseudonym Ellis Bell
Wrote a singular piece, northwards away from the gates of hell;
Indeed, no zombies; still, critics called it a "fiend of a book"
Without a deeper, Thomas Hardy suffering-kinda look.
Emily was homesick--in a loving manner,
Being birthed from a patriarchal shamrock's mystical scanner,
Not "Darkly" though, nor quirky and mystically bizarre as Philip K. Dick,
And as did Jane Austen--
All self-taught writers are as popular as Boston.
New England zombies are sincerely nice--
Though they move mercurially in winter snow and ice;
As a result, turn over a library,
And have the free gift of being metaphorically merry,
For mirth and might come in tales,
Which are rooted in truth, where freedom sails.  

Catholics hated by the Ku Klux Klan

   
   "Catholics hated by the Ku Klux Klan" 
   
   We've heard the conspiracy theories concerning Jessie James' prolonged career as a robber due to his supposed attachment to a "Secret Society" that preserved its members; therefore, James and his gang were like Long Duk Dong (proper spelling BTW), in that they had Everlast due to an underground force of enslaving power--it possibly known as:  Knights of the Golden Circle.  
   Are these hate groups?  Like the KKK?  Regardless, people will always say shit about somebody else if not haunted by the Holy Spirit, and even then it can be theoretically negative--if the truth is truly nasty.   
   Everybody suffers.  Even the evil-doers.  The greedy.  The proud.  The pretentious pricks of American Society.  Who cares.  Make your hearts like gold.  And believe what you believe in; moreover, know what you believe in.
   Having attended Southern Baptist School for 3 years, as a Baptized Catholic, I saw the look of macabre horror on the faces of the teachers and preachers when mentioning the Virgin Mary--as if she was and is a witch.  Or that ALL of Her apparitions are demonic.  Even Saint Francis saw the Adversary in Christ's form.  Jack Burton would say:  "Never can tell."  Indeed, test most spirits.
   Anyway, to those Southern Baptists, and yes, you love the King James Bible and the glory of Zion--I fully understand and respect that.  But be reminded of LUKE'S GOSPEL, the Virgin Mother knowing:  "For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden:  for, behold, from henceforth, all generations shall call me blessed."  2 thousand years later--and She's still correct, sir!!! 
   Some Indiana Jones-like theologians even intellectually surmised that Mary Herself penned the Gospel, or that the physician Luke needed Her personal story of meeting the Arch-Angel Gabriel.  
   Just know:  People hate everybody!!!  Ask the Russians from WW2 and the many millions of innocent souls they lost, or the Jews and their tortured state.  You are not the only one in a state of suffering.  And possibly, others suffer even more.   

Existence Womb (75)

   
   "Existence Womb (75)"   
   
   It was a protracted process; nonetheless, they weren't caught.  Buck got street papers for identification, very strong work in illegal fabrication; next, got a job as a mechanic in Little Rock at a crappy, greasy garage out near East End--the freaking Boondocks.  
   Anyway, it was cool.  Owner let Miriam and him sleep above the garage--it was a little studio apartment thing, had that vibe, and Buck's wolf and Miriam's coyote instincts, growing stronger everyday, took care of the vermin that was prone to crawl around during nocturnal hours.   
   Buck did get the buzz-cut.  Miriam adored it, for his facial features now appeared larger, and more elegant--his celestial nose and serious dark eyes with flecks of forest green; plus, the high cheekbones made it all worthwhile to watch, constantly.  And she did.  Him.  Her lover.  Almost.  But the time was coming.
   She didn't go for the Irish, punk buzz-cut; still, took it pretty darn short.  A raven-haired Joan of Arc.  Both the Raven and Joan of Arc associated with sublime magic and mysterious mysticism. 
   It is not an evil thing to change.  Miriam had been realizing this since living the past two months out in rural Arkansas.  You can become better with God.  And even the coyote teaches, though prone to be cunning and secretive.  Moses was not David, and vice versa.  God, truly, loves us all.  Even the fallen, perhaps.  Yup, Miriam was blossoming betterways.  

That Guy Is A Toots

   
   "That Guy Is A Toots"
   
   Toots:  something like honey or babe; on the contrary, can have even more slang, meaning the person is a miscreant of sorts, whatever.
   Back in the day, when restaurants had packs of matches near the entrance/exit, and Bennigan's was all the jazzy rage, it being an Irish-themed, tavern-like eatery, where brawling was only on rare occasion, my Old Man (Dad) took me there for some Bud Heavy.
   My Dad was a lady's man.  Nordic in appearance, with blue eyes even more aglow with effulgence than that of Paul Newman--God rest his soul; furthermore, my Dad would always quote Newman from the flick BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID, comically saying:  "Who the hell are these guys?"  
    Anyway, as my lady's man bio-Dad and myself threw back John Barleycorn resurrected in the brew, a hot-looking blonde sat across from us at the bar.  My Dad was all confident smiles and cool as Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli "Fonzie" until a man addicted to dandyism sat down next to the hot lass.
   The lady pulled out a menthol, and my Dad searched his cigarette pocket for some sulfur-burning matches; however, the well-dressed man unsheathed a cigarette lighter covered in fancy bling; next, ignited the tart's coffin nail.  My Dad did not look happy.  He turned to me, and in a serious but jocular tone offered:  "Mark, that guy is a Toots."   Yup--in another realm, my Dad was punching that dandy dude out.  

Existence Womb (74)

   
   "Existence Womb (74)"
   
   Miriam and Buck had hot-wired a 2006 MINI Cooper, turbo.  They drove hundreds of miles, her still ornamented in wet granny panties, and Buck's human face still having the glow of an angry and suspicious wolf.  It was silence.  No mercy.  Like a potently painful evacuation of the bowels from a disturbed colon; regardless, the made it to Tuscaloosa, having the serendipity of stumbling upon a rural habitat with a clothes line having a summer dress that fit Miriam, and a pair of overalls in confederate gray denim for Buck.  Plus, there was a new model Mustang, lighting Buck's eyes up brilliantly, his effulgent face happy to thieve the car, and they were off--for Arkansas.
   
BUCK
When we get to Razorback Nation---
  
MIRIAM
Razorback what?  I thought we were going to Arkansas?
  
BUCK
That's the nickname.  They love the Hogs like ascetics adore God Almighty.  Anyway, it's their football mascot, and we need to get some Razorback shirts, blend in--I'll give myself a buzz cut, and we'll do our best to lay low.
  
MIRIAM
Hey, I want a buzz cut too.  Not going back to that psycho pokey.  I'll look like one of them Irish/Lesbian Rockers from the 1990's.   I'm ready for a change.  A coyote change.
  
BUCK
And what adapts best to change?
  
MIRIAM
The coyote, of course.  As long as it's not a trick.
  
BUCK
Talk to God.  Know your inner coyote.  You may have an ace up your sleeve after all.