Crystalline Cool (31)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (31)"
   
   3 + 1 = 4.  The Co-Redemptrix.  Dad knew Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd was shot around the 13th, and lived, further placing a bullet casing in the Crown of Mary's twelve, as she displays Herself on the 13th day.  Revelation Chapter 12; furthermore, the Acts of the Apocalypse, crowned in 12.  
   Dad had his Apache heritage, yet was wise enough to gregariously gel with his half-breed son's revelation from an ill matriarch.  That Catholicism.  That medieval and archaic axiom from a Holy Virgin's mouth, proclaiming, even in the King James:  "My soul doth magnify the Lord."
   Dad lit up a hot cherry on a strawberry cigar, wishing he could afford Castro's dictating soil of finely ground bliss; however, it was cheap here in this part of Oklahoma, and all he could do was go to the gas station, unless order from the Internet and be observed by the overly-spying American government.  Let's make America honest again.  The old USA!!!
   He knew Duncan was okay, as long as the boy had reverence for the little elves, and wasn't a bad Boy Scout; next, the old leather man joked to himself, thinking:  "Why did the Boy Scout get excommunicated?  Because he ate a Brownie."  It was all laughter, cool, blue, antiseptic, Saint Michael's cure, burning away, even with laughter on higher frequencies, as do colors vibrate.
   The Franciscans came to visit Dad.  They asked of Duncan's whereabouts.  He told them:  "The white dog can spot the North Star.  Saint Nicholas of Myra and isolation to stay pure, or as King David might say--Lord, make me as white as snow."
   The Franciscans liked dogs.  As do the Dominicans and Saint Roch----if they're tame and domesticated.  It was all cool.  And Saint Joan of Arc's fiery blue, the most intense part of the flame, rising, rising, rising.  They blessed the old man with the sign of the cross, and he humbly thanked them for their meek benevolence, knowing Saint Francis might say:  "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace, where there is doubt, let me plant faith, where there is sorrow, let me plant joy, and where there is darkness, let me plant light."  It was all so everlasting and brightly brilliant.
   Dad puffed away, sending his prayers to Grandfather; indeed, the Little Wolf would never eat the baby buffalo, but obey, and be so tremendously tame.     

Neuroprotective Herbs

   
   "Neuroprotective Herbs"
   
   Michael J. Fox likes green tea--so the Internet proclaims.  Other things such as cinnamon, turmeric, and ginseng have neuroprotective properties, so I hear.  Lavender aromatherapy calms and offers relaxation. 
   But what doesn't work for Lewy Body Disease (Dementia) is Haloperidol, which increases neuroleptic sensitivity and can cause irreversible parkinsonism; unfortunately, I know a holy soul being fed and prescribed 5 Haldol pills daily, which basically paralyzed her in weeks.  Now is that malpractice or ignorance from the Bush Leagues?
   Documenting, recording, video evidence--all these things are imperative for dealing with people suffering from such chronic health issues.  So is a second opinion.  So is a third opinion.
   Too, the placebo effect of prayer and belief can be highly important, as mentioned in the newly released edition of National Geographic magazine.  If you believe--it can, and will happen.  Even if you believe for others; however, much negativity is thrown at the ill, wanting their euthanasia, which is illegal and unethical.  
   Just pray, follow your autodidact-like instincts, becoming a true erudite on all matters.  Turn over a library, and even talk to your dentist; plus, every medical and holy man. 
   And watch pseudo-caretakers like a hawk.  Many are thugs, that will neglect, abuse, poison, and play cruel music with profane vulgarities, further increasing the negative hallucinations of people suffering from terrible neurological disorders.   

Reagan Era Ninja 250

   
   "Reagan Era Ninja 250"

   Rarely changed since its conception of lean and keen muscle, this feisty and fiery little machine has deep determination to the asphalt ballet of it all; however, in recent years, it has been totally upgraded.  But during the Top Gun days of thunder, affording the smaller cc's was always wise and wily, for this bike could do it all.  Liquid cooled, dual exhaust, a six-speed shift, and an amazing 14,000 RPM that could push the bike to an uncanny top speed for its supposedly small size.  Here are some approximate performance stats--like this:

0-60:  5 Seconds.

Top Speed:  105 to 115 Miles-Per-Hour. 

How's that for a little girl's bike!?!   

   And unlike the Harley-Davidson forged with numerous cc's, them growling so loud after 80 MPH, you're shaking so hard that you can't even read the street signs, whereas the Ninja offers a smooth grip of the highway.  

Crystalline Cool (30)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (30)"
   
   Duncan was mirthfully escorted by the transfigured physicality of Saint Nicholas of Myra into the Holy Man's incandescent glow of an effulgent habitat beaming with the glistening glimmer of altruistic elves, snowmen that never melt, being always jovial and obedient; moreover, a giant toy factory for all those on the nice list; plus, there was an echo of black absorbing negativity, which the color metaphysically does, where the coal was manufactured for the nefarious and naughty.  Duncan got the icy chills, but Santa informed him that counterpoise is sometimes necessary for people to grow; plus, the proud and arrogant armed with forked tongues deserve what they sow, further quoting the Christ:  "What you sow is what you reap.  And truly, they have sown the wind, and will reap the whirlwind." 
   "Why can't all people be nice?"  Duncan asked meekly.
   Santa Claus responded:  "They've done many naughty things, like make the Virgin's Holy Soul a thing of dirty demons, not knowing She is the Queen of angels and all saints.  The Templar Knights adored the Black Madonna, burning incense before Her amiable likenesses, yet people continue to neglect Her; thus, will their prayers be answered?  Even if the baby Jesus were here, He would with much cognizance tell you that saying bad things about Him is okay, for He can take the burden, but never speak unkindly of His Mother, Her being the Gate of Heaven, holding the Living Word in Her blessed belly.  Now, quit being so frightful, and be of good cheer, for you adore the simplicity of charity and its synonymous action of love."   

Browbeaters and Bullies--no more!!!

   
   "Browbeaters and Bullies--no more!!!"
   
   Facing colon cancer.  Sleep paralysis.  Ulcerative Colitis.  Hypoglycemia.  Social Phobia.  Oral Thrush.  Trouble walking, like I'm walking on glass.  Insomnia.  Night terrors.  Migraines.  Chronic pain.  Inability to defecate or urinate publicly.  OCD with Tics.  Yet none of this compares to a browbeat.  A thuggish bully.
   Thanks to the strength of faith, invocation to Saint Uriel, and the incarnate aspects of a magnanimous physician; plus, numerous videos, tape recordings, and documented words, and being disabled, Social Services has been offered to be called at anytime, due to these cruel, not-so-nice people pushing me to contemplate suicide, and come very close.  People involved in pseudo-care-taking; moreover, officers of the court--it will no longer be tolerated.
   I decided today to stand up for myself.  And my faith to dial the number will pay off.  Have I ever sinned?  Yes.  But publicly and to physicians and priests--I have confessed, setting myself on fire, lacerating my face, locking myself in the closet and praying the Holy Rosary; specifically, mortification of the senses, my religious privilege.  Have you?  I wear no mask; I have no nasty secrets.  Emanate no bravado.  A broken soul.  But you haven't killed me yet.  And it might be your incarceration if you continue to try.  Too, you can't be mean to animals, like dogs; moreover, you cannot want to hurt the elderly.  Attempt to poison or neglect them.  All I want is the peace of the loving Christ.  Too bad people only want to worship the golden calf. 
   So, draw the letter "I" on a piece of paper; next, mark it out with an "X" as it is not about you, a Franciscan priest wisely said.  It is about others.  

Crystalline Cool (29)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (29)"
   
   Duncan had made it to Santa Claus.  Standing on top of the glacial, icy snow, decorated in passionate red and with a beard to match the Northern terrain, the old man belly giggled quite lovingly:  "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
   Duncan was amazed and full of Christmas Joy, knowing the solitary Saint Nicholas was IN THE FLESH.  And as if with telepathy, Saint Nicholas transmitted into Duncan's inner ear:  "If a young man asks his father for a fish, will he get a serpent?  Not from a true Son of Man.  And you've been bullied Duncan.  They've walked all over you.  You contemplate suicide because you are lit up with the glow of green peace.  Well let me teach you son; moreover, come into my home, and I will show you all the wondrous willpower of the Saints suffering next to a bullied Christ, whom they murdered, but in return--we snatched SALVATION.  Truly, Christ's greatest suffering on the Cross was not His own corporeal pain, but watching His Immaculate Mother suffer."
   Duncan knew, all would be of good cheer for him as well as the mourning and merciful; plus, those poor in spirit.  

Crystalline Cool (28)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (28)"

   The old leather man, pleased with his comical humility, loathing the forked tongue with its proud devotion to devilry, knowing every fancy car is food out of a pauper's mouth, raped, taken, abducted, infected by parasites from yeasty women, and all sorts of things; nonetheless, Dad knew Duncan had pursued the vision quest, without sex, as he was frigid, yet to return in an awesome green of fertility, as goes them myths so deeply rooted in truth, and Dad remembered when his other son, an estranged choad whose wife always visited privately, hoping to vacuum Duncan's countenance into her viper-like mouth full of false testimony, and soon, her carnal empowerment would equal a trans-vaginal mesh, which might not make her so popular with the basketball team anymore.
   The old man chuckled, alive with electric energy, knowing his innocence could not be mercurially thieved away by time travelers, for he would fight hard like an angry cock, or simply put on the private parts of Peter Pan, always being a boy of dreams, and no:  Captain Hook didn't die of jock itch, but hubris blown into him by despising his outer appearance, like dark gravity pulling him into the gator's swamp, yet some embrace their weird ways, like a sublime Swamp Thing smart enough to stray far from buxom breasts glistening in lascivious lake water.
   And as an Apache and true to the axiom that spirit animates all things, he spoke to Saint Joan of Arc, praying for his son to have some of that blue fire, the most intense part of the flame, and rise from the ashes, for even dust can be a martyr, like a Phoenix, in the sense that God can make anything happen, even the lineage of Kings to succumb to poverty, reflecting on the freedom of laughter, hugging a kitten, petting a tame dog, and training that beloved canine to only hunt the virtue of true love, with a bit of humor--even if they don't like it.
   So, Dad took out his cigar, cranked on the fire, and puffed away--what will you die of?  Yet Dad knew, nothing could kill a man beyond technology, if his spirit was with the wisdom of God.