Cursory, yet dreamed commensurable

   
   "Cursory, yet dreamed commensurable"
  
   Mercurial stream of consciousness or automatic; regardless, tears in the other room, false testimony, and sloths I pray for; plus, penetration of pineal pea by demonic wizardry.  
   Hence, take an hour or two before inhaling the breath of my Blog, for at first--there might be an explosion of Swamp Thing smog, and how touching with Adrienne Barbeau; specifically, so much better than crazy like me.  We are all things together, and so much better, yet protect your portion by sending it outwards.  

Weredog Tart (21)

   
   "Weredog Tart (21)"
   
   Siria, motherly Mandy, Lance, and a blushing father of the the weredog girl were all huddled around the tube, watching The Lone Ranger, the original show starring Clayton Moore as the masked man, and Jay Silverheels as the Mohawk, Tonto.  They had finished their yummy egg sandwiches.
   Moreover, all was gelling gregariously, until the jive-turkey journalism and the falsehoods of political news did arise, spilling the fake beans of American Mainstream Media.
   Siria knew the smart television was watching them.  She displayed her fangs, but was wise enough not to make the fur grow; plus, would they really dig her hairy beard?
   As time went on and communication continued--it was obvious that Siria's Dad and Mandy McGee were crushing on one another, as if kismet's kiss had scored a touchdown, or more properly, as it was the summer, knocked one out of the park, with the once All American crack of the baseball bat.   

Weredog Tart (20)

   
   "Weredog Tart (20)"
    
Siria interjected herself personally, professing:
"I hope all is well with egg sandwiches, them having kosher relish dressing."
Indeed, neither mother Mandy nor Lance did feel bumfuzzle,
Nor was it a dystopian daymare that did puzzle,
For Lance's Dad was like unto taradiddle,
Though a Yankee, not playing the fiddle.
So the threesome hugged; next, Siria's Dad awoke;
Then, like the Tarot Fool being the wisest joke;
Furthermore, the foursome, as if intrinsically knowing, spoke:  "Amen!!!"
Grace being given; thus:  La Sainte Vierge--Merci Bien.  

Weredog Tart (19)

   
   "Weredog Tart (19)"
    
   Mandy McGee, a mystic of sorts, knew Siria was what she was, so non-Irish, yet canine-like, having a brave heart.  It didn't bother her, the difference.  For there was no fear.  Not even after the macabre death of her husband--are not most deaths macabre?
   And Siria, with that canine telepathy, backed away, Lance suddenly appearing next to her, and the weredog girl retreated with magnanimous couth, verbally offering to Lance:  "It is for you."
   When Lance opened the door, greeted by the ghost of a mother, so alive with the same shamrock-green eyes, the twosome were pulled by mystic gravity into a loving embrace; next, the silent communication of azure blue, so metaphysical and psychological, in that it is in tune with vocal verse well read, besides this asymmetrical craft of humble words.
   And he melted with sadness, yet a fire of pink encompassed his beating heart, knowing the differences of life do indeed lead to FEAR and LIES and HATE and ENVY.
   We are all constructed by God.  Yet fear and envy separate us--you fools, we all have power as humans, yet none transcends the other.  He is handsome, he is funny, he is good in bed, he is good with oral lovemake, he is stunted yet charming.  Do not be proud!  Pride is a demon's gift.  Thinking you're actually better--that is contemptuous hubris which architects fear and envy and hate and false testimony.  
   No man is better save him who trusts in God.  Him having a wise fear of the Creator--this being the beginning of wisdom, and don't let it be the end, but morph it into courage, united with the Godhead and all that wholesome gravy of superb sublimity.
   Lance burst into tears of sadness and joy--a counterpoise crafted as a matter of relative fact.  His mother held him.  And while her kind, drunken father snoozed on the sofa, Siria understood the gifts of Adamkind.  

Weredog Tart (18)

   
   "Weredog Tart (18)"
   
   Siria attempted, or made a brave and courageous attempt to revive Lance and her Dad from drunken and melancholy slumber, with the smell of scrambled eggs, bleeding yellow, but mixed with the green goop of kosher relish, and a little ketchup from the state of Pennsylvania, rhyming with Transylvania, and she didn't even want to think about Bram Stoker's Irish guilt after penning such macabre bloods-sucking, before an American Bowie Knife offered heroic culmination, or so it seemed in her wacky world of cognizant reality.
   Shit--how was she supposed to explain to Lance that she bit his Dad's face off?  Loyalty from a Golden Retriever mixed with the Canis lupus Totem?  Bullshit.
   Regardless, Siria knew she was a meta-human now.  A hybrid already, yes--gentlemen prefer blondes, of course, but her arctic-blue eyes and mousy brown hair made her appear almost girl-next-doorish, but she was better than that--didn't lie, or better yet, give false testimony to cops about a pseudo-harassing neighbor, when she would be the one harassing, if it was solid gold, allegorically.
   So, toasting sourdough bread to architect further the egg sandwiches, she contemplated the mix of America.  The South importing minorities; next, pissed after Ulysses and Lincoln kicked ass; moreover, the divide of history, and what made America.  Not people.  Not drunken Paine and the astrological signs being a metaphor for the Twelve Disciples of Christ, but the actual Holy Spirit of 1776, when the first flag was forged from General George's illicit crop, and the history books leave that out too.  Summer school--more shit.
   Then, a hard, Irish knock at the door.  Her pineal gland knew.  That Third Eye highlighted by canine keen.  Oh, further shit.  And it wasn't even Steeler season in Pittsburgh.  Gotta be a Pirate 2day.    

Weredog Tart (17)

   
   "Weredog Tart (17)"
   
   Mandy McGee knew of mystical things, like the four-leaf clover; specifically, that fourth leaf representing the Virgin Mary, in her mind's eye, united to the Trinity, and bringing forth good luck--though nothing is good save God, even Christ would admit as much.
   Regardless, Mandy knew she too had to toughen up her son for what was to come.  Lance was innocent, skinny, though did have gristle; still, children born and put in incubation have lifelong problems; plus, her late husband would never allow a visit to a shrink to get a proper diagnosis; hence, Lance could be suffering from something truly monstrous, and still coping, actually being a bit strong, in a stealth-like manner; however, he still needed to be a mirror image of what Steel City once was.
   She went to one of the last bookstores in America--they are dwindling, yet futurity will open the pages once again, as vinyl too made a comeback.  Anyway, she bought a copy of G. Gordon Liddy's WILL, an autobiographical tale on not being afraid of your fears, but making your fears be afraid of you.  The boy was gonna weep at the loss of his father, even though it was a terrible relationship the twosome had, for Lance was all heart, and while that counted--he needed a macho mentor.  

Experience is useless, unless met with identical experience

    
   "Experience is useless, unless met with identical experience"
   
   Of course, certain philosophers knew this before, for there is nothing new under the Sun, as did mystics know this before, as has every man known everything before--in a matter of speaking.
   But truly, experience is useless unless met with identical experience.  Look at feudal Japan and the imperialistic, honorary samurai always fighting face to face.  His experience in battle was not ready for the shinobi (ninja).  A farmer, a slave, a man practicing the coyote's art of deception.  More than mere guerrilla warfare, but dressed as a clown or a cripple; next, stabbing the honorary samurai in the back or blowing pepper in his face--the samurai were not ready for this type of war, even though they had more experience in combat.
   Oh it's true--it's freaking axiomatic.  I won't get into Trump versus Hillary.  Republicans talk freedom, but won't allow the benign use of anti-oxidant, natural narcotic-like substances for the ill, and Democrats talk unity, but our America can't absorb the entire world without chaos ensuing.  
   Moreover, look at James Tiberius Kirk.  Yes, he had great experience in the bedroom with green-hued chicks.  But was he any good in carnally-handling the three headed, hot alien woman with four breasts--two on the back for dancing?  
   Furthermore, Bones wisely proclaiming:  "Damn't Jim, don't do it; she has got three heads for God's sake."