Grackle Nation (5)

   
   "Grackle Nation (5)"
   
   Jack Soo from Barney Miller couldn't comprehend the moonlit werewolf, as he had no facial hair, being more highly evolved, resonating with a fabulous frequency as do the American Indians, being blood brothers with the Great Spirit--in a matter of speaking.  Harris, the cool, black dude--never ever bought off-the-rack, into the finer sophistication of James Joyce's dandyism, and was penning a novel while trying to solve crimes, like possibly, a cop distracted by the camouflage of the badge, not respecting its loyalty and fidelity towards the true justice of a Red Saint Uriel--in a matter of speaking.
   The true Law, outshines what is to be rendered to Caesar.  
   Regardless, Slim Jim Grackle would not resist the big mouths, the racket of dastardly devils needing Prozac the size of an enormous golf ball to be silent--them women with big and violent verbiage, though the Goddess is white and virginal, yet bitches dismiss Her stepping on the forked tongue, which tempts man like an Eve conquered by self-image, and nobody loves women more than Mark Twain and the Catholic Church--giving them the best HONOR, and yes, they made Joan of Arc a Phoenix, forever.  
   Slim Jim washed Echo, purifying his Northwest journey with the platinum pooch, as it would be, having Saint Raphael as a guide for that Fool Card, knowing a white dog and a wise/fool has all the traits of possessing true power, if they deny the racket and boast of a bodacious blessing that burns some fish.  I like catfish cooking on the slimy creek-water--sung by the bard of cool country circumstance.
   Don't listen to your cell phone.  Don't watch network news.  Put your feet on the grass--so beyond finding Pokemon and his freakish fibs, which unearths only radical robots with nefarious nanotechnology placed within during a debutante's dream-state.  
   Damn boy, Slim Jim Grackle put him in some mint chaw, got a beautiful buzz, and knew the path of light's excess leads to the palace of ultimate illumination.  Thus, get a dog, take the bus, color with crayons, and never wear your baseball hat backwards, unless you have the macho mustache and magnificent might of Mike Piazza. 

Grackle Nation (4)

   
   "Grackle Nation (4)"
    
   Slim Jim Grackle and Echo were hanging out, way cool, in the double wide, listening to the Green Hornet radio show on his transistor radio, as he had no television, knowing Bruce Lee used the power of water, and if you drink of Jesus' water; next, you will never be thirsty again.  It cleans, as Tobias knew, and his angel dog, and what is more pure than water, if made holy.
   Slim Jim didn't blame his ex-wife for leaving his lack of not living ON the grid, and allowing himself to get tapped into by the hood-sliding pineal love of Bo Duke, heck--even Boss Hog made him laugh, but don't throw pearls before swine, and so much of the swine have the pearls, as that is the way of confusion.
   Mr. Grackle had nothing but love for his ex-wife, lifting her up in his mind to know Jesus, gotta luv ya sum Jesus boy, and know Easter is always here in the hearts and minds of coyotes who prefer mice over a bunny's happy hop.  Slim Jim just wanted to love the nature of clean things, putting light into darkness, giving those in despair hope, and preach them not to be controlled by war, unless you're being bullied, which gives you permission to love yourself; then, smack the bully in the mouth with a teachable episode of Barney Miller.
   All should be loved, but thieved away, for the darkness is void; however, the light cometh, and the darkness comprehend it not.  Slim Jim Grackle loved on him some Echo; next, a handful of washed green grapes, followed by a little pinch of peach chaw.  

Grackle Nation (3)

   
   "Grackle Nation (3)"
   
   Slim Jim Grackle was in time with his relative time; specifically, the grackles had landed, and he pondered a pickle, weirdly reflecting upon Woodstock, not the depraved yet somewhat correct institution of peace, but the friend of a bird dog--Snoopy.
    Slim Jim's double-wide was getting a bit lonely, minus all the luminous light he had dancing around, but he needed a corporeal form of friendship, and what is more loyal and loving than a perky pooch; moreover, the shedding sublimity of a gregariously goofy Golden Retriever mixed with the curly cute of a paramount poodle, which would birth the super-synergy of a Goldendoodle; thus, with serendipity at his side, being service from his fabulous faith, Mr. Grackle smoothly stumbled upon just that breed at the pound, finding a female Goldendoodle dubbed Echo.
   So, after paying a small fee with with his grass-mowing money, Slim Jim Grackle strutted out of the pound with the elegant Echo at his united side, her walking joyously on a lime-green leash, almost dancing as she instinctively knew her new master to be a good old boy, much like Jimmy Carter, but not having that man's peanut-farming experience; still, Echo was in the highest of cotton candy, putting her head out of Slim's truck window, enjoying the rolled-down spring breeze, a tongue flapping as it was kissed by nature's cruise down the back roads--Slim being a bit like Andy Capp, always blindly taking the back roads, seeing not the technology of the day, but an eternal spirit in the nature within and without, all around, encompassing him, as he had invited many angels to drive beside his disco dance through a wonderful life of rebellion against the rebellion, adoring the way, truth, and LIGHT of loving the effulgent lantern known as luminosity.   

Bananarama - Cruel Summer (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)

Grackle Nation (2)

   
   "Grackle Nation (2)"
   
   Easter was on the RISE, and Slim Jim Grackle was praising Jesus, the wind beneath his multi-hued nimbus of super-reality.  Heck boy, he knew he wasn't psychotic, just vibrating on such a high level that Bigfoot was prone to pounce on him at any minute, but like them mountain men up in the Dakotas say:  "Hairy Man--hell boy--we gonna shoot that sum bitch."  And Lee Majors knows all too well about the inter-dimensional travels of Sasquatch. 
   So, as Balder's New, Good Green Earth approached with the RISE of Christ--fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice, hell boy--I'm gonna eye for eye your ass.
   Moses was not bad.  Slim Jim loved him some Moses, and he never axed anyone a question, for his interrogative queries were much more distinguished--even though his last wife, Eve, said he didn't know the English Language, but he knew couth and all of its components, such as bright fairy love minus the murder.  Why do you think they ring a holy bell before the act of the Transubstantiation?
   Anyway, Slim Jim Grackle saw a female Cardinal with a touch of red, knowing Good Friday was approaching with the weight of the Four Winds.  Therefore, he blew out the metaphorical candles on his birthday cake, but showed respect to the wish, saving one, and extinguishing it with his palm.  

Grackle Nation (1)

   
   "Grackle Nation (1)"
   
   Slim Jim Grackle lived out yonder, in them Tennessee backwoods, haunted by Dollywood, and knowing specifically why it was dubbed such, having a bit of a brain, and a pecker head too.  He loved the Volunteers, and had a Peyton Manning pseudo-shrine at his double-wide trailer, though he knew Tom Brady was better, but he wouldn't admit it to himself.
   Slim Jim Grackle was a wiry Norwegian mix, his other Native relatives coming from Minnesota, before the Vikings conquered it back in the days of Eric the Red--something they don't teach you in public school, or so the ENQUIRER pointed out to him, way on back during his adolescent reverie.
   So, his hair was dark, his eyes a green/blue/gold/brown hue, was a wiry scrapper, not as tough as a sailor eating spinach, had negative blood, and voted for the residing Chief in the shimmering platinum palace.  He wasn't fond of his State's leadership, them having bounced a shifty frog, but still manhandled by a troll under the bridge of freedom, and if casino man would only kick out the pollution, the sincere pollution from the platinum palace; next, know his bloodline, well, in Slim Jim's mind, it would be a soft disclosure, and the chimps and lizards would go back in the cage--a few crickets too.
   Slim Jim was mowing lawns and dipping peach chaw; plus, liked a cold beer with sea salt, and any hot little number that wasn't brunette or artificially blonde.  Worse than encountering the unwanted surprise of a camouflaged tranny, is an artificial blonde--hell, in his mind, an artificial blonde is the biggest cheater, for she's not really dumb at all. 
   Too, Slim Jim Grackle liked to let it out and have his harmony, as every flying Grackle knows to do, being chirpy and chatting with the locals at the water tavern, where beer is for horses, and the ladies like to ride mustangs.  But don't get Mr. Grackle wrong.  He wouldn't play the flute for any floozy--she had to be well-groomed and love Jesus.  Hell, it's America!  Gotta love Jesus, watch football, drive a truck, and never, ever, ever, ever, wear a baseball hat backwards.  
   Pretty soon boy, we're gonna untangle Slim Jim Grackle's mystical yarn.  
   
    

Singing to a form of Phoenix

   "Singing to a form of Phoenix"

La Sainte Vierge, La Sainte Vierge--Je vous remercie . . .

La Sainte Vierge, La Sainte Vierge--Je vous remercie--

Je vous remercie--

Fly your Phoenix to my family--

Pere, Fils, et Saint-Esprit . . .