Crystalline Cool (38)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (38)"
   
   Duncan wasn't happy--at first.  Saint Nicholas had come to him with some gingerbread men--healthy for bowel function, and said that the young man's Christmas gift was:  to be exiled in Florida; specifically, Saint Vincent Island, but it was named by the Franciscans, and they had some red wolves (Canis rufus), which are an endangered species in the United States of America, being a mix of coyote and wolf.    
   Duncan simply asked:  "Why?"
   Saint Nicholas responded:  "To get in touch with your RED.  The South equals passion and heat; moreover, you never know--you might pick up serpents, for there are plenty of gators down there, and don't worry, Tebow played for the Gators and he's a cool Christian.  So, just chill.  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!"
   Duncan said his farewell to Saint Nicholas, not understanding; next, Rudolph approached Duncan on the launching pad, saying with a sparkly nose:  "I'll be your La Santa Maria to the New World--you can just hop on my back, and we'll have a mystical synergy that will mesh our union of safety during fast flight."
   What could Duncan do?  Get a little shanty maybe, and somehow purchase a re-designed, lime-green KX 200 that was street legal.  And are there any ditches to be dug on an island?  Oh well, sometimes you gotta listen to Santa, even though he's not God, being capable of mistakes, but possibly, driving one to make it snow in the most scalding of atmospheres.  

Crystalline Cool (37)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (37)"
   
   Dad blew a smoke ring as he remotely viewed a rerun of Gunsmoke on the tube, and for a mini-second, pondered why people think Matt Dillon hangs out with Emilio Estevez and doesn't fancy a high-powered Colt sidearm in a quick-draw holster, much like Han Solo's.  
   But Dad also had counterpoise in thought, reflecting upon his son, Duncan.  It wasn't total telepathy that he knew the boy would be safe as he attempted crazy crusade, but by way of the words of surfer and super-athlete Laird Hamilton, him having said:  "God builds a good car."  Yeah, Dad watched a special on the surfer.  He was bullied by the locals for a while, but learned that with a simple Godsmack--the bullies would enter into a state of stupefaction. 
   The Apache elder journeyed back to his youth as well:  a slithery member of the tribe questioned and attempted to trick the others into not allowing him to be a Chief, armed with the loyal and creative name:  Little Wolf.  Yet Dad told the trickster:  "You don't look corporeally-pleasing enough to be a fox.  So quit trying to be what you are not, snake.  And any serpent can be charmed, or crushed by a Virgin's heel."
   There are foxes though.  General Lee, the Silver Fox, getting himself pardoned by Lincoln.  Yet even the fox could not outdo the coyote, General Grant, as we know today, as time tells through its state of being relative, for approximately two years ago, the infamous coyote of New York City was spotted standing over Grant's Tomb, as if remembering a spirit gifted, and freely.
   So, Dad went back to watching the tube, blew his symmetrical smoke rings to the heavens, and raised his vibrations by chanting an Apache frequency.   

Dances with Wolves (1990) - Two Socks Scene

Crystalline Cool (36)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (36)"
   
   Dad knew he was awesomely ambiguous.  Put everything in code like Faulkner & Pynchon--the greats, yet shooting straight with his parables of stoic humor.  And he invoked Saint Nicholas of Myra, knowing internally that Duncan was alongside the charitable Santa, praying that the boy got a muscle car, but re-designed with arctic traction.  Ice is beautiful and gorgeous, but presents a heavy danger, unless appreciating the thaw; next, accepting the fertility of what is to come.
   Roadkill was watching Taxi reruns with Tony Danza, and the old man got a kick out of the Golden Retriever's high level of cerebral capacity; plus, the noble beast had a spirit that could innocently enchant, like all domesticated dogs can do, if loved.  He fed his friend a bone.  Watched as the altruistic canine gobbled it up; next, a savory lick of a furry face smiling.
   Sure, Dad missed Duncan.  But he would see his son again.  Then, thought about getting more social.  Merging with the old tribe.  But the Apache man was a loner at heart.  Liked living in the past and facing his sins, saying:  "You can't bring me down, for look what you did."
   He cranked on the fire by way of a sulfur-inspired match; next, the cigar's cherry became aglow, like a shooting star so cosmically imbibed; then, the dusty smoke blown to the spirit world.    

Crystalline Cool (35)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (35)"
   
   The old, leather Apache was feeling better; indeed, the myrrh offered a sweet and sublime solution of smooth solace.  Turn your lights on!!!  King Solomon knowing the beginning of wisdom is fear of God, and what is fear of God but light--the blue fame, the most intense part of fire, burning against pride, arrogance, and the forked tongue.
    Dad thought about Saint Andrew.  Tied, not nailed to an "X" forged cross.  The Northern Europeans understand this, as does Scotland, and more.  Furthermore, Odin on a tree.  The Abrahamic God allowing the lesser gods to mimic, and some to trick.  The 13 stars.  Virgin on the 13th day.  The blue of Saint Michael's vibrancy.  The white of Saint Gabriel singing for ALL, and soon announcing.  The red, no sense of humor--Saint Uriel and his sword of justice against manipulation and exploitation.  
   Saint Andrew saying he was not worthy to be on the regularity of a cross.  And the old Apache pondered the potency of Duncan, doing the slam dunk with them little elves, gift-wrapping glee and the birth of freedom for ALL.  
   When the brothers of Abraham unite, the shit will be wiped clean from the planet with mystical 2 ply--an inviolate white with 12 stars crafted on the purity of a Lady's Womankind--a merge of all hued frequencies, together, gelling for the Master and Maker of Intelligent Design, with a Son murdered in order to be understood, but saying:  "Your father is the father of lies and murder."
   Dad hit the peace pipe.  Took the tobacco deep into his lungs, purifying the fungus, holding it in until he exhaled and passed out--his prayers to Grandfather--and ALL people intrinsically know, if they sacrifice.  

Cowboy -Angel Mary

Crystalline Cool (34)

   
   "Crystalline Cool (34)"
  
   3 + 4 = 7.  Weird Chief Mojo Rising.  Brother against brother.  Civil War.  Suspicious and being aloof--these quasi-axioms considered within all the metaphysical aspects of numerology concerning the number 7.   
   Anyway, Dad, the pensioner or old leather man as he dubbed himself was experiencing a SINCERE ANAL ITCH; plus, he couldn't sit for a week due to pain; furthermore, when he did itch the pain, having an unearthly desire to scratch at it, or rub his buttocks on the carpeted floor like a dog--blood would flow from between his butt cheeks, not much, but enough of an amount to make him worry; therefore, he went to a modern physician, knowing all doctors are not true doctors; moreover, most are Bush League capitalists being only pseudo-physicians with a hostile contempt for ObamaCare; regardless, the old man wasn't gonna find a Princeton Graduate in this part of Oklahoma, one having boldly attended ARMY ROTC--that Ivy League School still proud of the military.
   After waiting a full hour and a half with contagious patients sneezing their twenty feet of germs across the waiting room, the former Apache Chief was called into the examining room, and after a curvaceous nurse with a nice ass took his vitals, a bulky man with a dandy mustache entered, asking him to remove his trousers and get onto the examining table; specifically, in the position of a dog, and that his anal cavity would undergo empirical investigation by way of human eyes and a potent flashlight.      
   The old man did so, and the physician entered, shockingly stating:  "Holy Fire!  Looked like you had mushrooms growing out of there at first, but that's psoriasis buddy--skin cells having accumulated into toxic scales that itch like shit.  And, do you wipe?"
   Old leather man said:  "Use 2 ply toilet paper."
   Anyway, after being prescribed ApexiCon cream and using it for a few days--the pain and itch persisted; thus, the Little Wolf loaded up Roadkill into his truck and went to see his old friend, an Apache medicine man--should've listened to his heart and went there first. 
   As it was Christmas Season, the medicine man said burning white sage into his anal cavity wouldn't be appropriate; hence, he gave him some myrrh, as did the Magi give to the Christ Child; plus, it might have intoxicating and calming effects, which is healthy when what is between your butt cheeks is on holy fire.
   Back home, not even thinking about his crusading son Duncan at the moment, the Little Wolf ignited the myrrh; next, stripped naked and squatted over the burning incense, letting the holy smoke kill the dermal demon, which was up and within, Roadkill watching in canine wonder.
   "Shut up stupid dog; I can read your laughing face like a clown selling hamburgers."  And the Chief went back to feeling the smooth cool of the archaic treatment.