"Zany, Mercurial Ode To Saint Raphael"
Bishop Sheen asks: "Have you ever seen an angel with a beard?"
Thus, you only get into Heaven with a clean shave; hence, on cheekbones--shaving cream smeared;
Next, know that lovely and laughing Saint Raphael has a frequency around 600 THz,
Laughing at first if it hurts when you have a kidney stone and have to make a pee;
Alas, be not mad at the flux of ill,
For sickness makes Saints out of those that repent and follow His Will;
Indeed, the wavelength of love is a green light away,
If you continue to fast, mortify them senses, and without ceasing pray,
For greater love hath no man
Than to lay down his life--that is a Heavenly plan,
And my hand is a yarborough, being a perfect 8--
What you sow is what you reap--this is the meaning of futurity's fate--
If you give, you receive; moreover, death is not the mystery fella,
Life's the mystery, so let go with the purple of a perennial herb known as gentianella
And use the Source of ALL Consolation,
Don't make a sick soul's heart go quacking--
Feel with the conscience as did Tobias assisted by compulsive washing and an angel dog--
A Fool Card with Saint Raphael blurting: "Catch the fish, for you are not a filthy hog."
So clean your feet and bury the dead,
Or burn them to ash and let the Phoenix rise instead;
Regardless, keep on trucking like Old School days,
When family was loved and not thrown into the oblivious haze
Of not having a hand to hold or a Priest for a visit,
And a dog to pet; plus, to sit outside in the summer and hear a frog go: "Ribbit."
Nature is splendor beyond your smart phone
That you xertz information with, as you are the one truly alone.
Be like God, and know when every sparrow does fall,
And not even in your riches will you be ornamented as beautiful as a goldfinch, or be as tall
As the HIGHTOWER you need to find
In order to redesign,
Unlearning what you've learned,
For death is knocking babe, and how will you want to be treated during your turn?
So love hope and all its wackadoodle craze,
Then marvel at Eucharistic Adoration, and escape your self-seeking maze--
We all will need the laughter of Saint Raphael one day,
For Christ has a family, and being part of His family is the only way . . .
"Kooky Lucy Frost (20)"
Pap and Lucy were making an apple pie, using Granny Smiths, the neuroprotection of cinnamon (one of King Solomon's favorite spices) and tobacco; plus, a hand beat and rolled crust--Cleveland diligently observing in Socratic fashion, asking himself WHY, and wondering if he would get to lick his doggy chops after eating a piece.
Lucy loved Pap so much, him having never changed to her, as some people say older folk do, not knowing they get better with time, as a baby girl changes into a woman, or a horny teenager without religion, going to orgy-esque frat parties and privately disturbing her own hymen with phallic objects like candles or by other grotesque means when puberty pugnaciously pounces upon her corporeal cravings since religion has not armed her with the strength of the spirit; indeed, the baby girl is no longer the same person, but skanky, like a mother that does not follow the Christ, not knowing that women are not the same as men, but nowadays--big mouths seem to be catching on for females as their intuition gets sucked into the vortex of the past by time travelers thieving away their innocence, but hey, they're empowered to become non-domesticated dogs, eating dead bodies off the crosses, but the Orthodox Jews would rescue and wrap their deceased criminals in spice due to the tradition of holy burial, saving them from a canine's hungry and hellish set of carnivorous chompers, after gravity came to be realized upon the cessation of crucifixion; thus, as a witness to this, Saint John the Eagle wrote of hellish hounds not inheriting Heaven in the Book of Revelation, the only Disciple not martyred, as he took care of the Holy Mother, or so it seems so obviously axiomatic, him only being exiled upon the island of Patmos, as some stories go.
Lucy would always adore Pap, never letting anybody touch him, laying down her life out of love, as commanded, jumping on the grenade, but in a protracted war, for she was not small fry, but enduring the dilemma of deliverance from the demons of a disorder so uncanny and unexplained that no normal mind could fathom such a furious phantom of frustration and freakishness.
Pap asked: "You wanna put candles in it when we're done?"
Lucy with: "Is it anybody's birthday?"
"No." Pap said bluntly. "I just feel like a birthday boy today, for what's more old school than a sporting dog and a forty-something little girl, who will always be my baby."
Lucy blushed, wrapping Pap in a warm embrace, but avoiding his dancing cherry that dangled from a smiling grip of lips.
"Kooky Lucy Frost (19)"
Kooky Lucy, back seeing the alternative psychiatrist, as always, face to face, her bottle of Purell neatly tucked into the pocket of her white bluejeans.
DOCTOR
So, you initially felt chemistry and positive sparks upon meeting Conor; however, after getting a whiff of his breath up your nostrils--you felt invaded?
LUCY
It wasn't like a garbage stink or anything. It was just . . .
DOCTOR
Alien to you?
LUCY
More or less.
DOCTOR
Some people like to gel. Others form tribes and separate, this being borders, language, and culture, as might Michael Savage say. Maybe you need to find people like yourself.
LUCY
But he is like me. He's kinda coyote weird, but not naughty. Like a tame dog. Domesticated.
DOCTOR
Anything you remember, verbally, that set you off in your past?
LUCY
Blew her dirty-blonde out of her face. When I was 11 years old and at the Great Lakes with my teenage cousin Stevie, she said something very disturbing to me. I was just a kid that liked STAR WARS and Spider-Man, and out of nowhere she asked me if I knew how a girl gets pregnant; next, goes onto tell me--a guy puts his pee-pee in her bum, and gravy comes out of his pee-pee, and a baby is made--I was totally freaked. I haven't eaten gravy since. Anything and everything about gravy disgusts me.
DOCTOR
Thanksgiving must be a real bummer.
LUCY
I avoid it, like obese people with sweaty pits. It's all freaking gravy to me. Little kids with gravy coming out of their nose. It's all gravy.
DOCTOR
G. Gordon Liddy conquered his fear of rats by killing one; then, he ate its left hindquarter, raw.
LUCY
You're saying that I should kiss Conor's gravy-making mouth?
DOCTOR
You want to, right?
LUCY
Not if he's got gravy in there.
The Doctor actually laughed.
"5 Bad Asses In America"
I've thieved this, like a coyote, stealing fire from the gods, from the pussy of Pop-Culture; nevertheless, this is a solid approximation, though not axiomatic.
1.) Harry S. Truman--no college degree, the buck stops here, and nuclear power to save more lives than lose them.
2.) Hunter S. Thompson--more chemical imbalances than Johnny Depp in a hotel room, said he wanted to kill Bill Murray, road with the Hell's Angels, and loved to blow things up with shotguns and propane tanks.
3.) Bruce Lee--little, but the element of water was his power, submitting the best Chinese fighter to teach us Americans martial arts. The Little Dragon, kicking your ass . . .
4.) G. Gordon Liddy--a five year felon, didn't bleed Kool-Aid, master of Tiger Tai-Chi, could get a woman preggers by simply sitting next to her, and once a State Trooper pulled over his FBI Car, and as the Trooper got next to his car, G. Gordon turned on his federal siren; next, the Trooper jumped out of his skin; furthermore, G. Gordon showed him his FBI Badge, stating boldly: "I got the big badge buddy."
5.) The American Coyote--one killed every sixty seconds, yet ten take its place. Second unto the Great Spirit. Longest hunt in recorded history, being over twenty hours; plus, when fox hunting was weak in America, the people decided to hunt the Little Wolf, and they chased a coyote for ten hours; next, upon returning home, they found the pestered coyote on their front porch, him humbly smiling at their lack of bull's eye and bullshit.
Every dog has its day, and a good dog just might have two--Thomas Pynchon!!!
"Kooky Lucy Frost (18)"
Lucy prayed the Rosary with Pap; next, with Cleveland loyally @ her heels, she exited the house in sweat gear and hit the Buffalo asphalt within the suburban sprawl of it all, the holy hound never missing a beat of her thunderous Reeboks.
As she pushed herself around the corner, all was dandy and the Sun tasted delicious upon her skin; then, a handsome, wiry guy with a buzzcut was approaching, walking slowly, with a weird gait, and Lucy felt no threat--just electric energy; at the same time, so did Cleveland--sprinting beyond Lucy's elegant gallop, in direction of the man, up to him and kissing with licks his lowered hands.
Lucy took it as a sign. Sheltie's are intuitive, and she trusted Cleveland's sense of frequency; thus, she faced the man, eye to eye, having no phobias about it. She noticed he had green eyes, with hints of gold, blue, and a smack of brown in the middle--a window into an intense soul. She also noticed his chiseled jawline, his dark brow, his thick, full lips, and had a sense of romance. How freaking weird for her, as if he was not unclean.
"Hey." The man said. "My name is Conor."
Lucy, without flinching, responded: "I'm Lucy Frost--nice to meet you, guy."
