Thursday, April 28, 2016

14 years of sublimity

   
   "14 years of sublimity"
   
   James Joyce, the 20th Century's most brilliant bard, fancied himself as a type of Count of Monte Cristo; specifically, an Irish slave to the imagination, hitting the English Queen's Language hard in the sanctimonious gut with his epic brilliance and admittance of his own corporeal truth through the wandering Jew, Leopold Bloom.
   Anyway, he would not kneel down and pray for his sick mother; nevertheless, Catholicism was always on the tip of his stream of consciousness quill, dipped truly, in the Blood of Christ.
   And was not the Virgin Herself mystically enchanted before Her Inviolate Ovaries were touched by the supernatural around Her 14th year?  Forged beforehand in the Book of Genesis, whether the mystical scribe was Moses or Ezra--who cares.  She steps on the adder's venomous bite; next, put in a holy sanctuary by Her parents due to revealing angelity and those scratches on the Godsmack that melts the cold hearts of men into marching Christian Soldiers, armed with benevolence and tamed by the Holy Spirit Herself.     
   What the French should call It:  La Saint-Esprit; indeed, Saint Jerome and his Latin tongue to camouflage dancing woman might have been a bit hasty.  But hell, he campaigned for the celibacy of the Priest, ascetically probing:  "Are these men afraid of sleeping in their beds alone at night?"
   And there is no hatred of femininity in Catholicism; moreover, the reverse.  They honor the Virgin with dignity.  They know She formed the fabric of Christ's Genetic Material in Her Sacred Womb; indeed, She is the egg-giver.  That was Her Blood and Tissue upon the cross at Calvary as well.  Yet possibly, only a celibate man, one who mimics Christ can obtain for the masses the divine art of the Transubstantiation.  
   Again, I will quote Jack Burton himself, the truck driver wisely knowing:  "Never can tell."  Save for the knocking mystic, that is.  

Guns N' Roses - 14 Years - Indiana '91

A Star-Spangled Heist

   
   "A Star-Spangled Heist"
   
   When you foolishly, or by extreme circumstance, get invovled and fall in with rednecks--you never know.   These folks I hung with during adolescence weren't complete hoods, mostly; regardless, there was this one Nordic kid.  Glimmering blue eyes with a prankster personality.
   Look, I was just the driver--if this happened.  And possibly, or possibly not.  Anyway, an XR 200 was involved.  A small level of cc's you think; on the contrary, that thing ran like a scalded dog.  Had plenty of low-end torque, a force that manipulates and causes rotation; plus, with dirt tires, you could lose any cop going off road or through someone's suburban backyard.
   So, this Nordic kid comes to me--we're about 16.  He says there's an American flag up the street, about a mile away upon the asphalt ballet that ran through the suburban-like vibe of it all with a country golf course and that kinda cosmopolitan shit.  Says he wants me to drive the motorcycle; next, he'll hop off and grab the flag, jump on back, and we'll speed away with rolling thunder, Old Glory blowing in the midnight air, underneath the effulgent Moon circling around Terra's toughness.  
   And we hung out with Vietnam dudes--our friends had Green Beret fathers.  So, Nordic kid scolded my first look of conscience and that of lacking adventure.  Told me:  "Boy, I'm gonna make a Veteran proud with what I do with that flag."
   It went down as planned.  I had the bike all the way open, throttling with an escape artist's determination, dodging danger with dexterity by way of the Honda-crafted dirt bike's wiry muscle.
   Nordic kid hung the flag on his wall.  Decades later he has further encased it within divine ornamentation, and it is in his living room, hanging on the wall, proudly on display for all the local ladies to glimpse before a patriotic shot at his privates.  Sex is big and sleazy in America.    
   Hell, it's America.  It's not about being depressed and being a robot.  Brave men honor the katana they took off the adversary during battle in WW 2.  Yup, it's different, yet all things are relative.  
   And as Christ axiomatically stated about your incoming karma:  "Blessed are the merciful, for they too shall obtain mercy."  Are you picking up what I'm putting down?  Get me?  

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Slinging nocturnal newspapers in Nashville

   
   "Slinging nocturnal newspapers in Nashville"
   
   When they were passing out stupid--I thrived with excitement for some "no common sense" reason that has always been a piece of me.  And when the Nashville Banner offered me the position of District Manager for the Circulation Department in Williamson County, eagerly so--I turned it down to be the Assistant District Manager, out of humility and stupidity.
   As I walked out of my warehouse office on my first day, I met the "in charge" District Manager, an elderly, hard-drinking Tennessee guy named Jack.  In a gravely, chain-smoking voice he swiftly told me:  "Mark, I've been working for the paper for 30 years and ain't never had a vacation--I'll see you in 3 weeks."
    So, I was the quasi-District Manager anyway, but reaping less of a green harvest.
    As the Internet exploded due to Al Gore's technological architecture, he invented it, so I was informed by my Democrat brother, the paper folded, and as today goes--print media is dying with a withering whimper.
   So, I started working nights.  I'd listen to Coast to Coast AM, enjoying Art Bell and his spiritual science, like Einstein shaking hands with Aquinas, and the Good Doctor's synergy with modern erudition births a peace into the true fabric of space, time, and beyond--God, residing over yonder, within the Sublime Perimeter, keeping Heaven clean in meticulous and OCD fashion, washing with the fiery blade of Saint Michael all the iniquity from the House of the Lord.
   Nice times.  Poverty and her lovers, the Catholic Saints, know this suffering fact brings you closer to nature.  Not Hemingway shooting bulls, or the whole man against nature thing, but a reverence to gregariously gel and mystically merge with your moonlit surroundings.  
   I saw plenty of counterpoised skunks in their coloration, protective bucks, rabbits galore; however, my favorite sightings were of foxes and coyotes.  The coyotes always scrambling in a seemingly skittish manner, shy or skulking secretly, while the foxes liked to sweetly display their meals, the Vulpes vulpes (red fox) I witnessed for weeks in a row, giving me the most comical look with a big chicken in its mouth as I tossed the Tuesday news over his head, hitting the driveway perfectly.
   I used to love the comedy of my route list.  My favorite bizarre instruction for a newspaper toss was:  "Throw up in driveway."  And technically, my stomach contents never obeyed, yet as I take most things literally, I was tempted to puke upon the suburban sprawl of it all.  

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The Anchorite

   
   "The Anchorite"
   
   Bobby didn't need the world; nonetheless, the world was nothing without him.  To imbibe the flesh of a demigod merged with True Authority, Papa; plus, that of the energy-flowing laser of love--the Good Ghost, that spirited aspect of the determined dove, seeking, behind the observing raven, so keen in its hope of foretold futurity.  Verily, God chose not swiftly, but wisely.  
   Bobby resided in the Pacific Northwest; specifically, North Portland, also known as the 5th Quadrant, where freedom determined by the King lived highly, that mighty David, slaying giants for mere blasphemy against his God, a true love, an ignited love for all things under that gifted and awesome authority--this is freedom's axiomatic right to rule.  
   But Bobby was no King David.  Who was?  The most read bard; plus, the best fighter without learning the hard way, like incarceration, but infused with meek neck break of an adder influencing the thoughts of men.
   And the Virgin, stepping on the head, adorned and ornamented in electric blue, so divine with aspiration to be included on the shamrock design, when it glowed azure before the healing peace of brilliant green.  Verily, Ireland deserves their freedom and respect.  Do not they have the most brilliant bard of the 20th Century in Joyce, admitting, admitting, admitting, that love is greater than the simplistic illusion of a mind haunted by gregarious girth-laced pea soup?  
   So, Bobby blessed himself, making the sign of the cross over his forehead; next, stumbled out into the streets, emaciated and keen, forged brilliant by the hardcore purity of himself, now.  

WARNING: Hanging out with the guys

   
   "WARNING:  Hanging out with the guys"
  
   Being a bit anti-social, yet in a state of ultra-sublimity mind you, I still have the personal history of engaging in locker room talk with guy friends at the pub before I hit my 40's.  It was totally toxic and severely sick.  Just plain, damn wrong.  But what the hell--we ARE guys!  Who gives a stinking rat's ass!?!  No politically correct blasphemy concerning our Bill of Rights.  
   Anyway, I was 33; moreover, still eyeing the ladies in tight jeans and short shorts in the rural aspects of Arkansas.  So one moonlit night, cruising in my creepy mini-van, I wended my weird way to the local tavern, pub, whatever, and ran into a crazy dude whose Dad owned a car dealership--they were filthy rich for Arkansas standards.  Unless of course you're Hillary Clinton and feed off of the reptilian money from atop the venomous volcano.
   So, we had a few domestic lagers; next, I ignited the evil and insidious flare of tobacco, and the symposium began on human sexuality--an anthropological kinda class for us Arkansas boys.
   Dude probed me with non-gay inquiry, asking:  "Hey Mark, you know what a Dirty Sanchez is?"
   Indeed, I did not, simply replying:  "Nope."
   He further ignited my intoxication by spilling the scatological beans about fecal matter and a girl's upper lip.  Hell, I was divinely disgusted.  Punished myself; specifically, mortified my senses by going home and engaging in ascetic prayer--yeah, an ascetic who smokes cigarettes, really?  Yup, anything is possible.
   So, that's hanging out with the guys.  Girls, don't let them do that shit to you.  Be a lady, unless of course you're steam-rolling over the minds of meek-minded men, royally emasculating bigger bums than me.   

Jesse James and the Green Berets

   
   "Jesse James and the Green Berets"
   
   Out in the bucolic boondocks, so pastoral and wickedly divine, the poverty pouring forth, yet the spirit of life and nature strong; plus, that of muscle car motors in the front yards; anyway, I knew a dude in that southern setting, a country boy named Jesse James--dude had a pet alligator.  I asked him if he could walk it on a leash.  He said:  "No, they're as dumb as shit."
   I held the alligator too.  It was in a water tank.  Weird crap.  Weirder than me.  His Dad with the Saint Andrew's Cross bumper sticker on the back of his beat up Cadillac; regardless, his Dad was tough--a Green Beret in Vietnam.  During training with a Drill Sergeant, they had a rubber knife with its blade marked black to prove if you could cut the muscular teacher.  Everybody failed save a Latino guy who was in a street gang from New York.
   Guy went at Sarge with the knife and Sarge went to block the dude's armed thrust; next, Latino dude flips the knife into his other hand and puts a black mark across the Sarge's throat.  Sarge was humbly like:  "Next."
   Indeed, you never know who you're messing with.  Whether an emaciated confederate soldier giving good fight or Doc Holliday only having 20% of his lung tissue functioning and yet still being able to gun down the cruelest of opprobrious thugs.  That's how it goes baby.  
   
   I'm a Green Beret; I drive a Chevrolet,
   Being Special Forces is one hell of a heyday . . .