Kinda/Sorta Ode 2 Ronald Raygun

   "Kinda/Sorta Ode 2 Ronald Raygun"
   
   So, I'm coyoting aspects of this title due to the movie, Iron Eagle, for we were soul-washed into joining the Air Force or Navy, and being a jock fighter pilot who got laid plenty, but firemen get the most vagina.
   Anyway, we were so pleased with our President in the 1980's that we ALL watched Bedtime for Bonzo, winning one for the Gipper.
   Even Republican Clint Eastwood had an orangutan; thus:  "Right Turn Clyde."
   We forget he asked and received, "Tear down this wall."  And it was torn down.  If you ask your Father for a fish, will he give you a serpent?
   It translates down; plus, Iceland, Nancy, conspiracy, aliens, astrology, a space program, but nobody is perfect save the end.  You never can tell.
   Faith, Hope, and Charity--yes.  The greatest of these Charity.  But what about Trust?  You trust who you have to with humans.  Religion was not invented to control, but give power to the family of God.  

Donna Summer - She Works hard (For The Money) Lyrics

Virgin Ninja (6)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (6)"
   
   Bobby McQuade waited outside of the SUBWAY eatery on his Honda Rebel, low with the cc; however, a mercurial time around town, if the pace is gregariously gelled with wisdom--wisdom being a kinda/sorta verb, a thing in perpetual action, knowing what is right and doing it; specifically, listening to your conscience, but most people don't have one, self-absorbed and plugged into their Smart Phones, this eclipsing the beauty of the natural world not molested.
   Today it might be called stalking.  Today, cherry bombs down the school toilet is totally domestic terrorism.  Happy Days are not here.  But Bobby McQuade waited for the glimmering blonde, having parked next to an enduro Kawasaki, not knowing it was Joanna's.
   Ultimately, she made her exit, and armed with a sense of all that always encompassed her, Joanna felt the presence of Bobby before she approached her own motorcycle; at the same time, with a sort of third eye, she felt a hue of blue intuition communicating rays of pink energy, something to be appreciated, not lust-worthy; plus, a beacon of beauty.  She approached, looked Bobby right in his hazel eyes and simply said:  "Nice bike, guy."  

Virgin Ninja (5)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (5)"
   
   Bobby McQuade was the dude, the man, he practically shit ice cream; alas, he was a wiry guy with a broken-heart; moreover, a slump of an extra alley cat on them old HEATHCLIFF reruns, animated.
   Still, as did Jango Fett, Bobby McQuade harnessed his ethnicity, knowing the Irish had the spirit of imagination, fight, and adoration of Christ.  Thus, Bobby was A Okay, in a sense, that he let his Jungian onion peel take him into the potato days, remembering his lineage definitely survived a famine with exodus--James Joyce says a bard has three weapons:  Cunning, exile, and I forgot the other one; regardless, the best bard of the 20th Century knew:  Publish a book; next, you've pissed people off and have to run, unless you're a mad hermit, playing Tarot with yourself.
   Anyway, shaved head with a more than microscopic splotch of goatee, Bobby appeared semi- mystical, but was only fortified in his feeble strength by Christ.  He had a good jab though, and a broken front tooth to prove he had used it.  A scrapper, but melancholy always tempting; still, he was a cabbage, too stupid to be depressed, and easily underestimated.  
   When he first saw Joanna Blance laboring at SUBWAY, her forging a meatball with cucumbers and spinach for an omnivore lady, he was smitten by her Joan of Arc bob and explosion of flaxen girly curls; plus, her athletic frame, and weird vibration, as if the Beach Boys were playing 409 in the theater of his imagination.  

Helping the disabled.

Virgin Ninja (4)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (4)"
  
   It was merely a dream.  A night of escape into something unexplained, really.  We aren't at the STAR TREK stage just yet, still cutting on people, damaging tissue and sending the vibration of SHOCK into the entire corporeal being save we enter through the sacred spots with surgical sublimity.
   Joanna Blanc was hardcore steel.  She was hurt in life, very badly, and sought the boom of justice thirsted for by Batman himself; as a result, she was the wacky ninja lady.
   But this summer-soothing night, the jasmine painting hues of covers, gently and lightly, over her box shorts' aspects, a Wonder Woman T oddly decorating her middle-aged body, and she fell into the laser of burgundy, knowing every honorable war is a just war; however, control your power, and don't go all soup nazi, yet sometimes the adversary is nasty and barbaric, giving you no way out save to go all Joan of Arc on their ass, but she got no Sacrament of Reconciliation at the end of blood on the battlefield--no insult, she is an axiomatic Saint, her candle lit before time itself; still, even a Saint is second unto Christ, for He is the vine, and we are the branches; nevertheless, we are gods too, as Scripture proclaims.  

Virgin Ninja (3)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (3)"
   
   Joanna had spoken to Sister Nelson about a great many things; specifically, was told not to mention her lineage or ichor merged with the Jungian onion peel of her ancestral Basque, yet focus on the positive, like Tom Brady, yet she had no true mentor--no fatherly patriarch to whip and forge her into a State of Grace; indeed, as it is written:  God tests the just man.  Like a reality show.  Oh, how the progressives with their fancy fixations will melt when God is ultimately acknowledged, and the prophets are honored in their own time.
   Yet Joanna knew she was no prophet.  A confessor.  A simple serf.  A mere character in a play rooted in melancholy, due to their lack of appreciating Freedom of Speech, Religion, and especially comedy.  Nobody likes Trump's jocularity, resisting it, though Christ instructed to resist not.  We are all headed to Civil War, and the allegorical Southern Man, still too lazy to pick his own cotton, an easy industry, when the Yankees have been lifting steel for centuries, more or less.
   Joanna Blanc invoked Joan of Arc, the most distracting figure ever to be on the battlefield.  An inviolate, blood-thirsty breeder of the Phoenix, wending her way from ash to life by way of Mark Twain, friends with Tesla, and subscribing to dandyism like Joyce, having a sophisticated mustache, even before his candle was lit as a river boat Captain, dismissing education, as autodidacticism made him a genuine erudite, soaring beyond the surge of the swamp, and while his books are burned, the Koran uses the same ethnic slur, though from, possibly, Saint Gabriel; thus, it is welcome.
   All Joanna knew was that her existence determined her fate.  Predestination, of course, for there is an Author of Life, yet Free Will manipulated against those unable to conform.  Never conform--this was the mantra of Joanna.  She would be an island unto herself, neglecting the Pop-Culture of Beavers building dams, and dancing with dexterity towards God's true rainbow determination.
   Nunchucks and all.