Coydog Chalcedony--More or less

   
   "Coydog Chalcedony--More or less"
   
   Cody wandered from his master Hamish, fending for a fight, not against a squirrel tail hanging from a Chevy Monza's rear-view thingamajig, the automobile armed with a furious 4, yet designed with the non-mesh of a V-8 transmission, and while only a four speed, the pugnacious pistol of shifting infrequently allows a man to do his job--get in, unload, and exit; plus, with high RPM levels, rubber is never burned enough, and NO dumb asses--this has nothing to do with carnal cravings, yet gravity praised, and a muffler that doesn't randomly ruin the Earth, for Christ spits His tobacco on Terra's Terrain, that One True God knowing:  Man resides within, and his is the foundation of which he treats and trusts, in a way.
   Cody wanted to mark his resonance, or make his situation know, his ALIVE--his praise of pondering the fields.  And as the F-18 fighter pilot from Sand Diego knows, as do all of us:  The King is in the Field, watching.  Where is man's science, when he has no axioms to identify; specifically, Cody ran and flew, four-paws, on interior instinct.  

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Coydog Chalcedony--Volcanic Ensemble

   
   "Coydog Chalcedony--Volcanic Ensemble"
   
   Not that he was boring, yet harnessing humility in the grip of blue steel, clothed in its electricity and neurons firing for the Divine Purpose, but he wouldn't let anybody know.  Cody valiantly ventured with him that day, the coydog's tongue flopping drizzle and saliva splattering the windshield of a used and bruised Mustang from the 1960's, when an eight-cylinder meant something, before all the ups and props of high intake and outtake combined with headers, super-chargers, and all the rest produced exclamation on the quick strip of asphalt--a ballet danced upon by thunderous steel; specifically, machines known as hot rods.
   What you sow; next, you reap.  Beyond.  And Hamish didn't give a damn save his own example of silence.  He wasn't harnessing Saint Joseph, though that wasn't a bad idea; nevertheless, David differed from Samson, from Moses, from Aaron, from Paul, yet ALL so similar, in an axiomatic passion towards truth, as if they had been robbed themselves, all for the purpose of God--to please Him; moreover, to make Him laugh, wane, wax, or better yet--give a true love about US.
   Hamish remained in suspicious silence.  Scary as there are among men.  Though the coydog made him vociferously laugh, getting all Strawberry Shortcake, at times.  

Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man (3/12) Movie CLIP - No Excuses (199...

Coydog Chalcedony--Chaste Marriage

   
   "Coydog Chalcedony--Chaste Marriage"
   
   Celestine entered her double-wide with everything gleeful, yet--no pride.  Cody was not far behind her angelic strut, it humbly moving, like a Number 9 Queen on the Chess Board.  Her hubby, Hamish was drinking a cold beer, the heater low, and he was thriving in the somewhat frosty temperatures, frigid by many standards himself, yet highly potent, if triggered.  Celestine hadn't triggered him at this time, enjoying only hot showers and gentle touch, but no entrance, until their finances blossomed baby-ways.  
   Celestine loved Hamish and his perpetual wardrobe, which always seemed to consist of electric-blue shirts or jackets, him pulling them out of the rabbit's hat everyday, not needing a magician to afford the Walmart discounts, their clothing not usually implanted with micro-computers that record washing times, and so on, as many clothing brands are stamped secretly, as is most everything else.
   Hamish didn't greet her "hard day at work" with a warm embrace or find her lips, getting drunk on them like wine, only simply saying:  "Hey sugar.  Cool to see ya."
   Sure, she could've listened to her bogus girlfriends and gotten the quintessential ass-grabber, but no mystery resides in such obvious souls save their phony camouflage easily spotted by Moon Knight and other super-mundane detectives armed with high-levels of intuition.  It was cool.  She loved her boring hubby.  He basically, never said a word.  Just was always there, having a purely light synergy with her, and never drug her duties down.  
   Cody jumped in the lap of Hamish and licked his face.  Hamish actually managed a smile.  Celestine thought:  "That's my husband.  And he scares the hell out of me, which isn't necessarily a bad thing."  

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Coydog Chalcedony--Puppies

   
   "Coydog Chalcedony--Puppies"
   
   Celestine cruised home, her coydog pal dreaming of having puppies, or so Celestine thought, noticing there seems to be no more garden-variety coyotes, like folks, we're all so mixed, some shaken and some stirred.
   But it was the simplicity of the dog; moreover, the loyalty that defied ideas of consciousness, and while dogs possessed such in her mind, so did they have a conscience, for a dog sometimes feels guilty after he pees on your STAR WARS sleeping bag.  Celestine knew androids have consciousness, from a certain point of view, and even if they develop a conscience; still, there's always a way to manipulate empathetic forces, until the snowman from Hoth touches their heart.
   Celestine pulled up in her gravel driveway, glimpsing the glare of a setting Sun and the Moon hiding, but showing a real rise.  It was rural.  It was country--bucolic beauty did she appreciate, away from the high-speed stupidity of lazy, so unlike coyote spirit, which is fast too, yet has the purpose of making us all laugh, even at ourselves.  
   Thus, before she exited the car, she popped a zit, and its semi-toxic fluid splattered the rear-view mirror.  She cleaned it up, and was glad to not wear the mask of make-up, like back-in-the-day, when high school morphed her self-absorbed, forgetting nature without cell phone towers. 
   Cody the coydog followed her into a pastoral habitat, tail wagging.