Virgin Ninja (19)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (19)"
   
   Covertly skulking, though for sublime purpose, Joanna Blanc secretly, though also in Socratic fashion had been observing an elderly woman being neglected and abused by her husband and caretaker, the son on his deathbed so many times--it was impossible to count anymore, always, slowly bleeding to death, transfusions, medicine listed as chemo, waking to find his mother on the floor, bloody and with contusions on her head, his father not alarming anybody, but going back to sleep after 3 or 4 drinks of Jack Daniels.  The boy weeping, wanting to tell, but phobic, though his physician did want to call Social Services, for the entire situation drove him to put his father's angry gun inside his mouth, his father instructing:  "Get me this, do this, do that, or I'll knock your 110 pound body out, especially your teeth, you retard--you're nobody, always wanted to be somebody else, you don't like yourself."
   The boy watched as his mother wasn't spoken to, put in the dark, like where a baby calf goes to die, a dark room, void of sound, light, vibration--there is no frequency of life in such a macabre and desolate place.  And always the pseudo-caretaker's lazy physicality yet spirited arrogance, her either dropping his mother in the shower, throwing wet rags at his face and calling him a scrawny fool, yet the boy endured, unable to say a word about God or hope to his mother, as his father further fabricated false mantras:  "Don't talk to your mother; you can't get through to her."
   The slick sale's pitch of slow poison, undetected on the radar, unless someone has eyes to see and ears to hear, or digs deep enough, taking a journey into mystery.
   Joanna Blanc would correct the situation, calming the boy's tics by bringing him into her circle, which consisted of Sister Nelson, Bobby McQuade, and herself.  He needed to stand up for himself, for nobody deserves to be a scapegoat save the cunning serpent that has no innocence.
   She rescued the boy.  He wailed for his mother.  Joanna said:  "They want her old and sick soul dead, and because you have excellent empathy--you're in their way; as a result, your death or exile would have been next.  My name is Joanna Blanc.  And I will be your pedagogue against a wicked hand's sinister shuffle before death is totally dealt."  
   The boy, like always, even as he had faced death, hoped against hopelessness, yet would perpetually continue his fervent prayers for Mom.  Joanna's uncanny empathy recognized his internal life's passion, and she knew that she had picked another benevolent student.  

Paying off: see it your way

   
   "Paying off:  see it your way"
   
   By nobody's grace does he reside within, yet due to singularity, armed with faith--that keeps her content and within the feel of HOME.  
   He is the boy.  The slave.  So what if he mouths off here and there--what is his completeness?  And he cannot charm with tens of thousands of dollars given, and illegal orders, not his fault, but yours for pointing the elderly in the direction of fraud.  He is a nice man, but old people can be mean and unstable.  A disabled weirdo who shits his own pants and sanitizes his packs of cigarettes, barely able to function in public, doesn't need shit either, especially fed to someone else by your own AGENDA.
   You have an agenda.  A history of bullying one halfway decent bro.  He doesn't want to get laid.  He wants to be a monk, at least metaphorically, adoring literature, prayer, baseball, birds, dogs, and the elderly.  It is not a bother to him.  The bother is threats and sale's pitches about putting her away in a CHEAP facility, where the death rate is higher than a Platoon Lieutenant in NAM.
   You sell the elderly instruction with money and promises.  You allegorically charm the snake, making it a snake, like yourself.  And for what?  To keep him from being himself?  To put an old woman out of her misery, when you've never extended a protracted visit in our direction, for nearly six years, not having empirical evidence of misery, and as he is disabled too, cannot he experience neglect too--years of solitude, locked away as a caregiver 24 hours a day, while you sleep in monstrous millions and the slimy silk of corrupt connections?  Who truly, and in twisted sister fashion, manipulates the old and sick?  Your family.   

The Anti-Freudian

   
   "The Anti-Freudian"
   
   King Solomon:  "Hearken unto the father that begat you, and despise not your mother when she grows old."  Jesus Christ, always running away from the Mother, as meditated upon in the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary, saying to Her:  "Woman, My time has not yet come."  Disobeying Her and revealing Himself; on the contrary, while hanging on Our Life @ Calvary, He yells to His Mother:  "Woman, behold Your Son!"  Then, to Saint John the Eagle, and ALL of us, He screams:  "Behold your mother!"  Acknowledging Her.  However, back to His Father:  "Papa, into Your Hands, I command My Spirit!"
   It doesn't get any better . . .

If anything happens to me--know why!!!

   
   "If anything happens to me--know why!!!"
   
   My audience, of beyond myriads, especially France, Russia, the United States--my country, I adore you all.  This is elder abuse:  To have a mother watch her meek son be put in cuffs in front of her, my brother and step-father bringing in the ignorant deputies and cruel contagion of swayed and pointed medical men--their guns near inches from my mother's face, though holstered, confronting me in front of her.  How dare you confront me in front of my mother!!!  Don't lecture me!!!  And all because I protected her from the neglect and abuse of two 300 pound African-Americans with gold and missing teeth; plus, protected my therapy dog, which they tried to kill with a peach pit, and myself--I love that which is within me.
   Bless the Lord O my soul, and all that is within me; moreover, praise ye the Lord, all the lands.
   At Mass this morning, the Priest asked:  "What was the word about Christ on the street?"  And of course it was false testimony.  I am not Christ, but He said:  "I am the vine, and ye are the branches--if you eat of My Body and drink of My Blood."  I always do.  My mother did too.  Her last ingestion of the Eucharist was on Saint Joan of Arc's Feast Day.  
   If I am silenced--read my history, and know the truth.  I would even undergo Sodium Pentothal injections to offer verbal axioms.  All the neglect and abuse of two disabled people--and for what?
   Everybody has a right to be here.  Unborn children retreating from pencil-like objects attempting to lacerate their lives, the elderly, the weird.  Get over Darwin.  We are Stardust Eternal.  And while Spinoza may have mentioned in his pantheism that God may not care too much, he did probe the question concerning a Divine Justice System; indeed, nothing is concealed from God.  

Rand Corporation--Remember your daughter

   
   "Rand Corporation--Remember your daughter"
   
   When she fell ill--first:  A false diagnosis; next, everybody departed.  Nobody did anything.  She has never been taken outside of this house save once, by any other soul.  Jacked up on Haldol, which I tossed; moreover, jacked up on Xanax, and my brother brings her his, because if I have to run to the grocery store, my step-father throws them down her throat like shut-up candy.  Taken to a Notary, of unsound mind and body, polluted on Haldol and Xanax, made to sign documents as directed by two attorneys and her husband.  Motive.  Intent.   
   Years of neglect and abuse from a caretaker.  More neglect and abuse of the disabled, me.  She's endured for near seven years, no thanks to them.  My brother said not to give her vitamins, spices, herbs, vegetables, or green tea.  My step-dad says not to read the Bible to her, and they continue their torture.  Who has wiped a tear?  Who has blown her nose?  Who has brushed her?  Who feeds her all day?  Who massages her and anoints her with lavender?  Who pulls fecal matter out of her, gently, for six years?  Who has taken her to the park?  Who has taken her to the library, bookstores, coffee shops and all the rest?  I have video.  Who showers her?  Who cuts her hair, clips her nails, and tells her constantly that she is strong and special, and that God loves her?  None of them.  Not one.  
   Rand Corporation--this is your allegorical daughter, Patricia Ann King, 3/15/1942.  NSA, CIA, FBI, know the abuse and neglect of two disabled people.  You know that when people fall ill; next, others want them to perish or be put away, so these selfish people can live their lives.  I don't want to live my life.  I only want to carry my mother, everyday, as I have been, while they all are against my genuine admiration of this woman.  For their elation.  They can't stand to even look at her, and blame me for loving.  They forge false testimony in legal and medical documents with their millions.   
   Motive.  Intent.  Who wants the disabled to be pampered and adored?  Not them.  
   Can anybody blame me for fighting back?  Just look at my brother's abuse and forked-tongue behavior concerning me. 

Android Creation--Why?

   
   "Android Creation--Why?'
   
   There are many theories, especially those that outshine Darwin's supposed complete axioms.  Is he axiomatically right?  Partially; however, does he have the DNA testing, strange theological theories that match astro-biology, theological and archaeological culminations of factual maxims?  On the contrary, if nano-technology is a thing of the future, or 60 MINUTES showcasing 20 decade old technology, when Kurt, Philip, Thomas, and waaaay back like Faulkner's Secretary, a Carmelite, celibate-schooled Nun, getting none, admitted the truth:  "Jesus, kinda said it WAS ALL about MONEY?"
   Follow the dollar, or where it doesn't go.  Tebow hit in the face with a 90 MPH fastball, and think the bullshit of coincidence.  As if.  Be a dumb blonde.  People hate, envy, and all the rest towards blondes.  Kill the blondes--they say.  Why?  Do you hate the golden of flaxen champagne made flaxen?  Indeed; plus, the blue, green, hazel eyes of angels, allegorically, yet truthfully in the sense that all men love blondes, that are Sunshine Gold.
   DANGER:  we created androids to have sex with them.  Selfish folks.  Women will only love the theorem of thrusts; moreover, men will have a helicopter of harm within the false and ferocious vaginal cavity.  DON'T DO ANDROIDS?  You'll get chopped; also, women will love the dildo machine's perfection, and assimilation of her Facebook.  Beware.  And I'm just the Fool Card.  A pathetic and little man.  Sport for the leviathan, yet pricks pinch, even if a plethora of plenty--yet, he who is first shall be last--Christ said it, not me.  Be pissed at His Pilate's described chestnut hair.   

Dutchboy Splendiferous (1)

   
   "Dutchboy Splendiferous (1)"
   
   FOREWARD:

   Not to make peace, but She is the Queen of Peace, and some people need reflection and introspection, getting the beam out of their own eyes, before attempting to take it out of their brother's or sister's, as Christ kinda/sorta mentioned.  Hey Mouth from the South, they did my blood work and took a urine sample by diving deep into my urethra; as a result--no illegal narcotics (told you); plus, the alcohol levels were nothing.  Wake up and smell the Folgers of False Testimony.  Too bad I have the freedom and liberty to get my medical records.  Anyway, I'm not pissed, and can say the OUR FATHER honestly, for I forgive all of your trespasses, because I know you drink the Kool-Aid--it is not completely your fault.

Here we go now--the story ignites concerning a rebellious and autistic-like youth affected by drama and comedy, especially concerning the Nordic Prankster, the only friend I ever had; specifically, I called him, Dutch.
  
   Dutch's mother said to him:  "Dutch, you're always walking around with that jocular grin, and Mark is close behind, in a state of amused trauma, wondering what you'll drag him into next, but be thankful that you have a loyal sidekick."
   I had my first beer with Dutch.  Smoked my first green tobacco with Dutch, back when I was a punk kid.  My brother always called me a punk, but he was just afraid that Mom loved the special baby more than him--it's not his fault to have such trepidation, not completely.
   Dutch was a rogue.  A prank-playing swashbuckler.  Han Solo with firecrackers, toilet paper, eggs, an XR 200, which ran like a scalded dog; plus, a bit of an arrogant bigot.  But can you completely blame him?  He had a big package, blonde hair like wheat, and the bluest eyes of anyone I've ever seen.  Too, his sister was definitely magnanimous and altruistic, and would drink a cold Bud with us on a hot Arkansas day, down there in the sticks of the Dirty South.  This backwards Yankee learned plenty form the Nordic Cooter.
   Thus, it will go.  Now and forever.  As did Kerouac write a story in a matter of metaphorical minutes concerning a friend better than him--so shall I.