Amos Hart--Cutlass Blue

   
   "Amos Hart--Cutlass Blue"
   
   Ginger's scarlet mop; moreover, an explosion of girly curls that crowned a pair of emerald-green orbs pointed at Amos in the face, and with her bird finger no less, exclaiming:  "Dude--those eyes are hazel, you blind fool.  What's that, like 7 percent of the world's population?"
   Amos puffed on his cherry cigar:  "Shit, like the metaphysics is talking again.  Gonna get locked up Ginger.  Besides, I like chocolate brown--it paints my blonde nimbus with mystery and savory copper flavor."
   Ginger struck back:  "If you want your cage rattled, deny yourself.  And don't think the lady with purple eyes doesn't care--she was there to encounter you, so delicately, and you piss it all away on worrying."
   Amos blew a smoke ring, not like Gandalf:  "Tricks are for kids and shamans.  They taste good."
   Ginger's face flushed to match her passionate mane:  "And the blood is the life.  Too, spirit counts--gotta have that gel."
   Amos fed up:  "Look, are you gonna help me save the bunnies or what?  Coyotes freak people out, and these spoiled suburban types living on golf courses while the homeless rot--well, they are very keen on shielding their rabbits from a canine's carnivorous grip, even though coyotes are omnivores, like Bucko, he even drinks Coke; next, after licking it up, offers a big burp."
   Ginger kissed him fiercely, on the mouth, just to remind him, there was no carnal cravings involved--it was just an anti-gravity anchor, so that he wouldn't be pinned down with pessimism; then, she smiled, saying:  "Okay, save the coyotes, and the suburban bunnies.  And by the way--George Washington wouldn't have survived with the press as it is today."  

Amos Hart--Multivocal

   
   "Amos Hart--Multivocal"
  
   Ya, I dig spitting on the sidewalk; plus, why can my dumb by delightful dog urinate in public and I can't restfully relieve my urethra's need to dynamically dilate and happily whiz behind a dumpster in an alley after the diarrhea on the commode in the shady eatery made me change my mind about urinating in public?
   My name is Amos Hart.  I'm blonde, have chocolate brown eyes; also, I'm a modern journalist, penning the squeeze upon criminals, and nobody seems to care, but I spit on the sidewalk, so I figure I'm in league with prostitutes.  I carry a snickersnee for protection.  Tennessee knife laws are pure freedom, and a blade is good for close-quarter combat, or as my educated dame declares the act of sharp fisticuffs:  "Combative anthropology."
   She's a firecracker.  Chaste, metaphorically; specifically, she only falls in love with love, falling forward, and never dresses pretty for herself--she just is herself, and pilots a cycle, an Enduro that's lime-green and mean, running like a scalded dog.
  But back to me.  She, uh Ginger--is just my partner.  My story is where it starts before I crafted her with my rib; moreover, the portion of my rib's frequency, so to speak.
   I like the smell of antiquated print media.  A magazine, a paperback book, and a newspaper.  I can't smell the EMF stuffamajug from the computer screen, and I always get shocked, not always, but when I touch my dog after surfing for a new Ka-Bar to possess, only in order to make me feel more like James Bowie.  But don't want a blade as long as his; I'm no showman.  I like puppies and seeing the ponies run.  Wanted to be like Bogart or Magnum; however, I don't own a fancy coat, and journalists are all considered riff raff nowadays.  Go figure.  Like Joyce knew--when you put words on paper, somebody is going to get pissed off.  Hell, it's even true with just talking.  So, I go to the park and take pictures of birds, mammals, and the sleeping beauty of the Moon losing a bit of reflection.
   Liked Huckleberry Finn better than Tom Sawyer.  Sawyer seemed a bit of a snob--in my opinion.
   Oh well, gotta get on the beat.  There's an angry coydog picking off suburban bunnies.  Not a hunter, just gonna write about it.  My dog's name?  Simply:  Bucko.  When I take him to the vet--it's Bucko Hart.  

70 Virgins b

   
   "70 Virgins b"
   
   What an exoplanet.  Spica's white/blue hue does shine upon it.  Virgo--a nice constellation.  Many more.  Do they not protect their own people--or whatever they are?  Things can be concealed, or uncovered, determining the reasons.
   Portals.  There are plenty.  Everywhere.  Mostly, people tend to be a little hostile concerning immigration.  Be careful where you go, unless you simply love danger, wanting to be shipped to Thule, Greenland as a petty officer and fight river pirates all day.  You gotta have a grappling hook and be a gunner's mate.
   The doctor lives in his world.  The priest lives in his.  There are many worlds.  The truck driver rolls on through them all.  Truck drivers know.  It's all real.  People limit themselves because they are told to do so, indoctrinated into doubt, or want control--their flavor.
   Allegory, maybe.  Maybe not.  What's wrong with a benign brainstorm?  Are we not allowed to think anymore?  Someone always gets hurt.  It should be the selfish, and I'm sure the Creator's Laws favor the non-selfish, especially if the selfish try to poison your dog.
   All you wanted to do was go out and get a chili dog here and there.  They were told by envy that since you don't drink from their controlling cup--you must be terminated.  But even the Terminator made friends with some of his prey, lowering his gun and breaking bread in sublime fashion.
   Are there not portals?  You want evidence?  No you don't.  You have no intention of belief.  You just like to argue and be selfish with the brain God gave you.  But who are you?  Don't look so damn great, like a cowboy.  You want it all your way; next, steal faith from people instead of giving them such.  Where your heart is, so is your treasure.  So why steal anybody else's?  
   I don't miss the Muppets.  Is the McRib still available?  

Saint Nicholas--Christmas

   
   "Saint Nicholas--Christmas"
   
   Is bleu a Christmas color?  Is art, only what it means to you?  Sometimes.  Power goes both way. 
   Luke Cage, in the 80's comics, with simply called by the big dude:  "Fist."  Anyway, he would also say:  "Christmas."  Have we lost that Luke Cage and Fist?  Now we have androids.  Goblins and brownies; plus, angels and mutants made Earth crowded enough (allegorically), now my phone records everything, thinking I'm a normal man, and tantalizes with tempts concerning the reward of normal treats, watching me give it my own damn confusion, yet unfolded, in a symmetrical laundry basket, before even the wash.  The cactus was--CRANKY.
   Yeah, but water lives in there; plus, aloe is near.  
   Saint Nicholas.  Christmas.  Bing Crosby as a singing priest.  PEANUTS with Snoopy and Charlie Brown; also, Linus and Lucy.  A doghouse that magically morphs into a World War One dog-fighting vehicle, or a vessel built for war.
   They say Saint Nicholas got in a fist fight at a fancy council.  Maybe he did.  Sometimes, we believe what they tell us.  And sometimes, it's true.  There's something remembered about the Spirit of Christmas--in my opinion, and in the hearts of millions, not just me.  Build a family snowman.  Make an angel, even in the dirt.  Be a dog.  A holy hound for the Lord.  And, Saint Nicholas.  Remember . . .

Kennedy & Trump

   
   "Kennedy & Trump"
  
   Jack Kennedy and "the Donald" Trump do not need to join your club; indeed, Kennedy lavishly lives on, with an awesome and eternal flame, and Trump is our modern reality President.
   Kennedy couldn't be indoctrinated, for he was born rich, Catholic, and good looking; thus, he didn't need favors, already secure by Camelot's Round Table--a family with class and ultra-suave smoothness.  And what normal man would turn down Marilyn Monroe?  Well, since her tits were better than Tony Curtis', I'd turn her down, but I'm a wacky and weird wimp.  Specifically, Kennedy would not join schmuck clubs, and that's why he pissed people off.
   It's the same with our modern Commander in Chief.  Trump is richer than the rest, and he won't be indoctrinated, nor bought off.  It's not that he thinks he's better than social clubs like the FBI (Federal Bureau of Intimidation)--it's just that he actually is.  And that's why they hate him.  He likes the Blue Collar man, hot women in appropriate fashion, and rock and roll; plus, the Christian preacher--good for him. 
   People that join corrupt groups only become more corrupted.  Nobody can save the world--that already happened, its architect, a Jewish carpenter.  

Elect Jesus, then

   
   "Elect Jesus, then"

   Commander in Chief--they throw everything @ him; specifically, plenty of manufactured  malcontents; however, only be thirsty for regal righteousness; next, you are queen-like quenched; otherwise, thirsting for yourself, unless attempted murder in your non-start-up direction, it doesn't wend well; therefore, align yourself with stubborn sublimity--why not?
   Everybody's poop smells snarly, unless you were lost and weirdly minding your own business in the fabulous fields, seen and spied as a specter of smooching stories that are strongholds of bodacious benevolence.
   Some like country.  Some like rap.  Some like smooth jazz; however, others fancy folk--never can tell.  Do your best, and remember:  the innocence of a child, a true child, that which imperatively  ignites innocence, not some meth-forged delinquent getting toxins into the dastardly discharge, or a mollifying matriarch that mistreats with aloofness, yet a damned daredevil voting for freedom, in the true sense of the word on the American ballot.  
   Make the field awesomely optic.  See and know instead of blinding.  Allow them their gifts, and you yours--just never abuse or think you are commando-sworn telepathic, unless you know you are--never can tell.
   Life would be plenty easier if we were all truck drivers with friends in the mystical restaurant business, in a sophisticated sense of the Blue Collar, though never replacing the Roman Collar.   

Back to the Future - The Power of Love