Voltaic Junkyard--Ampere-Hour

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Ampere Hour"
   
   Sheila knew they were fraudulent, chicken-fried fibs, crispy and clogging arteries, and only because those arteries were inflamed, slain by ferocious fear, birthing psychosomatic conditions dubbed clinical, as the phobia increases inflammation; thus, Sheila put on her G. Gordon Liddy thinking hat:  "Make your fears afraid of you."  She actually tried out for his Stacked-And-Packed Magazine--a non-scandalous showcase of lovely ladies in their under-garments and loaded heavy with their favorite firearms.  She didn't get accepted.  Only photographed herself with a blade.  A Bowie Knife, not able to wield a KA-BAR since she was never in the War Corp; hence, go with Bowie, for the dude knew Crockett, and not Sonny Crockett, though that dude knew Tubbs.  
   Sheila was munching on the yummy of the pineapple pizza, heavy on the black pepper--Earth's most used spice.  Her dog, Wagon-Tail was wagging and chomping on some oil-infused crust--never emasculated, allowing him doggy freedom and the innocent hump of a pillow case--some people like men that are men and dogs that are dogs.  And today--most women want to be men, as if suffering from phallic frenzy, lost without a pernicious portion to cruelly stick in somebody, forgetting that they are women.  But hey, Sheila was a party type of girl.  It's all cool--as long as you're nice.
   She would amp up the junkyard, now fueled by copper and carbs.  Her Ampere-Hour was sorta/kinda unlimited, in that she knew her power source, and it resided within.  So, she turned on the lights, got the washer running, all while cracking open a cheap beer full of aluminum's sometimes hostility and heaviness.  How could she not always thank God?  She owed Him everything.  All the pain, the laughter, the fight, and knowing that her father never hated her as her uncle said, him only wanting the old man to be enslaved to a system that doesn't work, because people covet their treasure, and not spread the tune of charity as did a mere tradesman, so Divine.  And to think, when she was in her teens--she thought it was ALL paranormal activity--though it is, in a way.    
  Sheila burped the Bud Heavy.  Got on with it.  Her house would not fall out underneath her, even though built on solid ground, for Solomon knew:  "Gotta keep your residence royal."  More or less. 

Voltaic Junkyard--Pulse

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Pulse"
   
   Sheila was off on her own, not recklessly rambling through the junkyard, yet strutting with a bit of erratic mercury, which can be erratic, and we all need to control and maximize our PULSE, crafting a better ON and OFF signal by simple DC--and what happened to SUPERMAN peanut butter Sheila pondered, and in practical fashion, going to Peter Pan creamy, as it smoothly spread hearty health save to those with certain allergies, or not--if that's what they are.
   Sheila's relay, in a way, that small electrical switch to contain her high-voltage passion, was a cool canine, sloppy in the jowls, yet the extra-heat made the dog's saliva clean and meticulous, in a sense that you can let a dog kiss you, unless he or she has just sniffed some suburban-yard stool.  The park stool is much more toxic--you don't know where those dogs have been.
   Sheila thought about ordering a pizza with pineapple and plenty of copper-infused pepper.  They have always put salt and pepper on the table for a nice and pleasant reason.  America can be very nice.  Very nice.
   Sheila ordered the pizza, and the Italian dude dubbed Dominic, armed with enough store-bought grease in his hair to keep the lice away, as even the urban-dwellers gather contagion, like the vermin rats in NY, and the City should be glad coyotes can clean up that shit.  Maybe it's a sign.  Let wildlife roam freely too, and hire somebody in rubber gloves to clean up their poop--preferably a college graduate drunk on Kool-Aid.  
   Sheila found a futon in a small trailer-type of shelter.  There was a black and white with rabbit ears.  She cranked on the local grunge.  Should've ordered tacos--she thought, reluctantly, tasting the atomic crunch of what could have been, and yet--is.  

Voltaic Junkyard

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard"
   
   Sheila didn't give a damn about them heavy metals, not even aluminum.  She lived in the junkyard; moreover, the junkyard, that scrap metal--lived in her, residing in her impenetrable forge of freaky.
   Sheila was jet black till a decent cascade, not quite hitting her angelic shoulders, where gristle left her female, though a man's heart did beat for justice underneath, her infertility causing this radiating she-male magic.
   Her brother Adam was the first--the genesis of a crazy family, transcending dysfunctional by being born off the grid--for the grid was in them.  Bio-hacking old school, using shamanistic trust in nature, never tempting the Four Winds, knowing even that arctic life never reflexes in relax, for there is always cold energy, which crafts a more fantastic matter.
   Adam and Sheila never got many customers.  And when they did--it meant trouble.  Or a granny with a non-spiked pumpkin pie and some archaic Purple Passion stops by for Moonlit culmination, yet since the Sun always rises--it is never over.  Energy, like God, just won't go away.   

On an Eagle's Wings

  
   "On an Eagle's Wings"
   
   Boy--is that QB (Foles) accurate.  Eagles versus Patriots--is America speaking?  Didn't even Rome revere the Eagle?  Society has always been:  The Eagle versus the Snake.  In symbol and allegory.
   I got the message, until I saw the half-time show, thinking:  "What the hell is going on?"  I expected Optimus Prime and Bumble Bee to transform at any moment; next, I got dizzy, took some California Poppy to relax my nervous system and slay the pain; then, I passed out with some organic tobacco in my mouth.  Couldn't they get Elvis to do the half-time show?  People still see him--here and there.
   Oh well, gotta stay in touch with the children.  And even though Brady is a loyal member of AARP, it is good to see that the elderly can still toss a gaseous pigskin.
    

Beach Boys- I get Around

Luke's Lightsaber Training

OB/GYN--what?

   
   "OB/GYN--what?"
   
    I'm so glad the government spies on us.  Is there also torture, gang-stalking, ELF weaponry, and fire trucks loaded with hookers smoking Luckies?
   It's like World War Z out there.  Two old ladies were at the comic book shop today, arguing with the young worker concerning Trump.  I got my super-hero literature, and made quick to bolt; however, the young girl, the worker, asked:  "Why are you wearing gloves?"
   In her mind, I told her:  "I always wanted to be a gynecologist."  
   Beyond plenty things crooked--it's like Soylent Green out there, and I don't even carry a .44 Magnum like Heston.