The Maxims of Truth

  
   "The Maxims of Truth"

  Maybe I was a weird kid.  Was indoctrinated too.  4th grad instructed me that in a perfectly Protestant fashion--God answers prayers, and there's a Power source of Absolute Truth; next, if you gel with it, you have the sophisticated synergy of the Holy Spirit Itself; regardless, a conscience or caution slow you down, and sometimes they roll over you when they're fighting for the kill.
   If everybody was a genius, this divided house might not exist; however, is it an axiom, when people always fight for control?
   I have no problem with Bo and Luke Duke driving a muscle car and snagging hot chicks in little blue-jean shorts before meeting Uncle Jesse for the product of copper line and yeast.
   But I'm an American, and however wild this ride may roll, we've been given a Bill of Right; plus, an extraordinary sense of Patriotism in our singular autonomy while not being too bothered by Canada.  It all seems so different when a child, lost unto not knowing better than how your handlers raised you, or if they sold out the job to others, at least partially.
   Grandparents are the best--that's my opinionated fact.  Without Grandma, it feels like no sanctuary exists.  But I still write letters to her, scripting them with thought, and praying them off into the Otherworld.
   If life is just nothing more than a mere flux of accidental atoms, why can't that even craft a more symmetrical union with that which outshines contentment?
   Go figure.  Power lines everywhere.  Still got Taco Bell and pubs though.  Not a bad America, if you roll reckless only for sacred elders and yourself even, sometimes.  

The Handlers

   
   "The Handlers"
   
   Most people have them, save the 1950's era tradesman, not mocked during his labor in time for missing out on a phony college education, where frat boys drink themselves delinquent, do designer drugs, and fornicate with the proud masses of salad bar girls, where it's self-service, and she adores the Bleu Cheese, getting the flu shot; next, spreading it ALL around as you are infected with it, breathing it into the air, and the pharmacies get wealthier, while the United Nations convicts and condemns population, though they can't keep it in their pants like a Saint, or at least--a confessor.
   Indoctrinated, never self-taught (autodidactic), and not listening to the innate light of intrinsic instinct, yet forged into phonies, losing themselves, though some made a grand exodus, raising their superconductors smeared in copper and crystals--all which have frosty frequency, as does a simple piece of paper painted green or yellow.
   Secret Societies, used sapiens dead on train tracks, all for the locomotion of commotion, and they want you to get pissed; next, they dub you guilty, but they couldn't pin that shit on General Sherman.
   Don't run from those that accuse, don't let a sacred heart give you guilt, but put the chaff into the eternal fire with a mild justice, facing every snake-face with the Eagle's Vision from a soaring sublimity above.
   Phony documents, favors for kickbacks, and have none of it, all as a dove, and remember--they said Christ's Power and Joan of Arc's Power came from the devil, just so they could get on with counting their profits.
   Go Shinobi.  Find them in an alley.  And if they corner you; then, go for the biggest and ugliest one; moreover, show no mercy, as Jesus wasn't talking to the Elect, but those that are not of Him.  They say God is everybody's Father; however, Jesus called their father the father of lies and murder.  Good for Him.  Christ is no mild salsa, nor hot.  Ice cold.  There have been enough martyrs.  So let the doctors tell you to drink the tap water, but when they get home--they don't.  Sucks to be them when the Omega of modern times do arriveth.   

The Fast and the Furious Ferrari vs Toyota Supra drag race. R.I.P Paul W...

Blue Blood Moon

   
   "Blue Blood Moon"
   
   Right here/Right Now.  Blue Moon--two full moons in a month.  This one may turn red, as mentioned in certain texts, which have been mocked by myriads.  Some say the cycle is feminine, 13 being the number; regardless, as Queen Mary basically said:  "Those who fear God will rise, yet those proud in their imaginations will fall."  Like phony people playing God--bad actors.  
   And of course, the Queen of Heaven, when on Earth, gave the greatest commandment:  "Do as My Son says."
   Yet people proud in their imaginations don't even have enough imagination to believe that Jesus' Father is ALL the Power; thus, they attempt to blow out the candle of Christos, and you should never really blow out a candle, like spitting on birthday cake before the eating begins, yet give reverence to the flickering flame.  
   Did I mention that I like pickles.  Kosher.  Fond of broiling my hamburgers in pickle juice.  Pretty good.  

Possibly, Feudal Japan

   
   "Possibly, Feudal Japan"
   
   The farmer didn't want to fight.  Happy and more than content doing his duty, pulling weeds, and providing for the mere simplicity of things.  Imperialism wasn't nice to them, in a way.  The samurai and privilege, but whose to say, really.
   The shinobi (ninja) got simplistic.  Plotinus:  "The simpler something is, the closer it is to God."
   The nunchaku, merely used to beat down rice in the fields, more or less, was turned into a weapon, as was blowing hot spice into the eyes of the adversary.  Their tactics were not cowardly, dressing as clowns, monks; next, their foes never saw them coming; thus, the metaphor for the black outfits.
   And as Jesus Himself mentioned:  "Be as cunning as serpents, yet as innocent as doves."
   The ninja treated their bodies like a temple, it housing a Godly Spirit, animating them with pure energy, and energy can forge matter.  They had to fight.  They were smeared, spit on, ridiculed--these simple farmers; however, even an underdog has a right to play on Sunday, before rich men started spitting on the American Flag.  
   So, the ninja lives--in all of us that crave simplicity, in a world where confusion frazzles, yet as it is written:  "God is not the author of confusion."  

The Cardinal

  
   "The Cardinal"
  
   It's always allegorical or crafted in Totem fashion, nothing fancy, and the continuation after the genesis; nevertheless, when some know roadkill has been smeared; next, the county clerk tells you to double-bag a skunk and throw it in your trash can, and I reminded the college graduate--that it was a freaking skunk, and not some silky-smelling fox that would deserve a burial in my backyard.  
   Yet with all the noise and pollution of power lines and cell towers moving towards National Parks, I find myself asking Teddy Roosevelt, sorta sanely, to help the planet, and I don't hug trees; however, the rule is:  If you cut down one tree; then, you must plant two.  It seems fair to all the rangers of old.
   I miss Chuck Norris on television, though Bruce Lee used water, an element, as his power source.  I follow a more religious style, and should just accept flaws, for every armored arch-angel has a crack or two in their Armor of God, not a metaphor here, but seemingly a tangible possibility, in theory, as everything is theoretically possible.
   Therefore, hustle on like Pete Rose, and he got shafted worse than most, yes sin; however, the games played were all heart and hustle, unmatched by any athlete on the field--some might say.
   We've all partied too hard, all of us, save the Franciscans and the disciplined Shinobi, so when an arrow flies straight, don't thwart its straight shot, for aren't we all pulling for Rocky?
   I still like Schwarzenegger the best as an action hero.  His mother sent shrinks to him when he was an adolescent, accusing him of being gay for liking greasy muscle men, yet he didn't want that, only to architect a living chisel.  No goober outshines me, or you, but the Ding-Dongs are verily delinquent, and as weird as it gets, that's the web weaved by the many lifestyles of differing wildlife.  Oh well, Captain Kangaroo was entertaining.  

Lascivious Lush @ Lockheed/Martin

   
   "Lascivious Lush @ Lockheed/Martin"
  
   My Nordic, ass-kicking father was a rich man.  Told my brother, though phony attorneys never hold the truth, that I would be taken care of due to basically corporeally perishing numerous times; however, even though his asymmetrical wife and himself held those truths, I got nothing from a man who wrote code for missiles.  And what father doesn't love his son, or better yet--his first wife's son?  His true love.  I screwed up myself.  Paid.  Repent, and you too shall be saved.
   My German Grandma Bertha looked my brainwashed Dad right in the eye with her mystical witch hazel, and he confessed:  "But if I don't leave Patricia, Donna says she'll kill herself."
   Grandma retorted responsibly:  "Then let her kill herself!  Those two boys are your concern."
   As King Solomon pointed out, beware of the harlot who whispers charms into your ears; indeed, it is good to be King.
   Wonder where all that money went?  Oh well, Dave King's son and grandson can always live in a box, taking lethal injections prescribed by the FDA and their phony purpose, perishing slowly.
   A bit of hope.  God has a strange sense of humor.  How the hell else did the way cool Trump get elected?  Good for him.  If he ever visits, hell--I'll buy him his next Big Mac, even rolling the pennies to do so.