Becka--email me; plus, Sorrowful Mysteries

   
   "Becka--email me; plus, Sorrowful Mysteries"
   
   Ginger.  Ruby.  Scarlet.  Cherry.  Wine-colored, and your lips are wine; moreover, I want to get drunk with moderation upon your kisses.  Not screw.  Don't work @ HOME DEPOT.  LOVEMAKE, and all the sins taken away by tears upon a foot not kicked by a Virgin--a heel never wounded, but victory, as is the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics, never ceasing to change.
   You're not cottage cheese in the rump.  Not sinned into by activity spied by big brother, yet seen by God, Him truly Big Brother.  Hell, I've photographed myself naked, for cameras enlarge things.
   First earliest pics of Jews in Egypt were of blondes and red-heads.  Jesus a Nazarene--from the North of it ALL.  The Son of David LIVES forever.
   Yes, I understand weirdness.  Met a coyote once--the only time I ever called the cops.  Its eyes, into me, a few inches away.  Second unto the Great Spirit.  Bizarre, and teaching through weirdly arcane humor.  Misunderstood, yet loyal.  The Fool Card, as is the Book of Tobit.  A white dog and man dancing, knowing he has all the tools, but no common sense, and I can prove my lack of clarity, yet angelic symmetry wending against the monster of misinformation--enuff.
   Email me Becka--you have my business card with my last wife on back--she's Italian and so hairy I used to call her Chewbacca.  I've seen yeast infections up close and personal.  I've braved a doomed cavity of intercourse, where discharge was delinquent.  Just weird and friendly.  A dog.  A tame dog, but they swarm me like bees with their untruths, as Saint Francis says:  "Don't let me be understood, but let me understand."  A FOOL for Christ.  And what is better than love and matter taking up space and having the mass of kissing a truthful ass?  A true friend--to the end.  A barber, a monk, a grocery store clerk, and a confessor willing to drink the piss of love for a truthful tradition's sake.  Email me. 
   And as it is Friday, we mourn, but are comforted during the Holy Rosary, knowing the Cross is not the Omega, but just the beginning of a fourth dimensional self.  

Barney Miller Werewolf

Kooky Lucy Frost

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost"
   
   Way up yonder in Buffalo, where all they had was the resonating pigskin memories of Doug Flutie running the best bootleg in NFL history, plenty of snow, too much really, and some considered it the armpit of the world, but most know that the armpit is actually Cleveland, and kooky Lucy Frost had a Shetland Sheepdog; specifically, a Sheltie named Cleveland, for she liked the Browns over the Bills, having a weird fascination with a wild-hued orange and all its digestive deliciousness concerning abdominal chakras.  
   Lucy Frost was a thirty-something dirty blonde with forest green eyes, so pathetically single, living in a modest apartment complex colored Big Bird yellow, and she was a bag girl at the grocery store, where hand sanitizing was the order of the day, after funky folk that made their own nasal cavity gravy checked out, making her handle the contaminated merchandise; thus, like a metaphorical, phobic cowboy, she always had two bottles of aloe-kissed Purell in each pocket, compulsively cleansing after all the toxic gravy that came in contact with her Levite-lathered hands, and she was't even Jewish, but was well aware that a sneeze can travel thirty feet.  
   She pondered dating, but kissing a guy after a romantic dinner always meant tasting the remnants of his shrimp linguine.  Yeah, Lucy Frost figured life was hopeless, and she was so old school that she carried a pocket watch and never used the Internet, entertaining herself with 1970's Marvel Comics and the occasional jog through her urban geography--her Sheltie dubbed Cleveland loyally at her heels.  He was her best pal.  

Don't You (Forget About Me) - Simple Minds (Lyrics/Español)

Grizzly Hybrid (9)

   
   "Grizzly Hynrid (9)"
  
Johnny Starvation
Put away his crossbow without Elvis' thrusting, hip-like gyration,
Like a Pomsky named Quicksand, so soft and sweet;
Next, he inhaled the breath of God, giving the Pomsky a non-GMO treat;
Moreover, listened to Trixie, exiting his house,
Where the Grizzly Hybrid stood monstrously with a mystical ferocity--so unlike a meek mouse--
It growled, stomped, and showed sheer power,
Yet Johnny Starvation knew the Bible; hence, sought and stood like a high-tower,
Making eye contact and a pineal friend,
Though keeping his distance, as the disturbance of entropy has the 2nd Law, which is end;
Specifically, no change;
Thus, the two neighbors would honor but not penetrate that of each others' range--
As it will be in the Omega,
When Thermodynamics cages contagion and lets the light amaze ya.   

Civil War: A Modern Myth

   
   "Civil War:  A Modern Myth"
   
   The only myth about the word myth--is that it is called myth.  Look at the BIBLE, EPIC OF GILGAMESH, the NORDIC SAGAS--where we would be without them concerning Ancient Astronaut Theory and all?  Just me blabbering.
   Anyway, during the American Civil War, there were approximately 620,000 casualties, and we're erasing these men's souls, whether good or bad.  I'm from the North, and we don't talk about it much up yonder, until we get anchored deep down in the hot passion of the blistering South, where it is like a Roman religion.  And though I'm a General Grant fan; plus, like Colonel Tecumseh Sherman's holy fire approach in war, in the sense that he was baptized by a Dominican Priest, the word Dominican meaning:  Domini Canes in Latin, which translates to Hound of the Lord, and much metaphysical talk has been brought up in pulp fiction that he was a werewolf of sorts, his nickname being Cump.
   Nevertheless, Lincoln pardoned General Lee, the Silver Fox, and men like these died in our most horrific and gore-smeared war, when our country was almost torn apart.  Hence, why erase history?
   The Irish fought for themselves.  The Scottish did.  Saint Joan of Arc led France as a mystic adolescent.  The Patriots against King George's madness using thuggish guerrilla warfare, and yet myriads of Yankee men died to free the slaves, and nobody cares, while they didn't even fight for themselves.  
   You turn on television and everybody is African-American or homosexual--it's like:  Kill the straight white man!  Who constructed this country?  And at approximately only 12.9 percent African-American today, it wasn't them, but again--erasing history.
   Hell, I voted for Obama and drank the Kool-Aid, thinking all the impoverished would get health care, instead America was transformed into a Hollywood Party.
   And now there is nothing but division.  Over what?  A white man in office.  So what.  Are we supposed to hate the white man?  I used to like STAR WARS, and still revisit the original trilogy, but soon they'll resurrect Han Solo as a lesbian or something, and make Greedo transgender.  What the hell is going on?  And Lando is my second favorite character--Billy Dee RULES!!!
   We can't forget our history, or we'll be doomed to repeat it.  As Pope Francis recently said of the End Times, kinda/sorta:  "There is no more irony or fiction about it."  

The Rebels Retreat Echo Base [1080p]