Ice Blossom

   "Ice Blossom"

   Shelley ventured on, after the Sasquatch scenario, of course, a platinum blonde beauty never betraying herself, not giving an acquiesce due to a self-love, yet transcending soul preservation, though not Vulcan-like, knowing:  "The needs of the empathetic outshine the needs of the wasted collective."  Where the hell was Bones when you needed him, that cranky bastard, so pissed at bus boys and lollygagging servers, especially the waitress who inserts a sewer sour booger in your roasted duck, though the bird was plucked properly.
   Little Rock had a cruel division, proper in the form of a fading America.  A separation of man due to forged history.  Yet when America falls; next, goes Israel--and that seems the insidious attempt, not of James T. Kirk time-traveling to save the mammalian whales.
   Shelley just knew:  She needed a muscle car for this southern-fried rodeo.

Canis lupus arctos in Akansas

   

   "Canis lupus arctos in Arkansas"

   Shelley offered no care for murder and false testimony, being in a perpetual state of trans-corporeal struggle herself--or not.  Possibly, she was playing the dastardly bullies contained within the live-action theater of her magnanimous mind, often feeding a radioactive Godzilla some chilled-out breath mints, making it a bit bodacious for the monstrous fella to maybe French kiss a fellow mutation.
    Moreover, Shelley could not dismiss injustice, nor did the Lone Ranger and a galloping Silver, for as the Chinese proverb does instruct:  "For evil to prevail--all it takes is a good man to do nothing."  And in Shelley's cool case--it was a shape-shifting dame, able to pronounce herself true on the frozen terrain, looking straight into the frigid wind, imbibing the frosty struggle, for what is life without challenges, as all Old Testament giant slayers are aware.
   So, down in the dirty south, yet Hog Heaven was about to be famous, for no other State in the Union grew such an amount of Quartz Crystals, and the days of old never left man, man just forgot his transfigured portion offered by a Good God.
   Shelley thrust her cascade of platinum hair over her right shoulder, remembered those that were terribly tortured, and would always remind the delinquent darkness, that the Stars Above are a constant bitch, as was she, in a sublime sense of being a luminous lady.   

Jamming Aunt Mitzy

Blood money?

Angry people (Michael Clayton VS Karen Crowder)

A Squirrel Girl

   
   "A Squirrel Girl"

   Squirrel Girl, or so hence she took the name, not by marriage mind ya, yet through a type of spiritual adoption.  A fiction-grown character gelled into her mind, armed with a bushy tail, can crack nuts, and has a sense of tree bark, though never inhales the sap of the situation.
   She had no weapons save some jars of gasoline sprinkled with Frosted Flakes, the fumes cleansing the air, better than a purifier, it actually scalding the toxicity out, like a heated copper wire, channeling dire circumstances, in knowing that your relative has a mad crush on your daughter.  What, you don't think that kind of stuff happens?
   Squirrel girl, no--let's call her Blake, well--she knew bologna was phony, and that the system was rigged, but the allegory of Captain America out of the ice, having chilled it past tense--he liked the super-symmetry of circles, and yet nobody thought he had super-powers.
   He didn't even go to West Point and his uniform is red, white, and blue.  How can't you admire that guy?  Blake drew his name on her tennis shoes with a SHARPIE; next, fell into a dream-state, lucid enough to let her know she was beyond the heck of being overly social.  Anti-Social?  No, overly-social is much worse.  More instances of crime and rebellion against the Flag, Old Glory.  

Old man, ponytail--illegal firearms; possible child molester

   
   "Old man, ponytail--illegal firearms; possible child molester"
  
   They saw him limping around from inside the tavern.  I gave management his name and occupation.  Wrote his name on my sidewalk, maybe his initials are:  SB.  Maybe they're not.
   Still--maybe.  Possibly.
   Stalking, with guns, pot, and a halfway curved genital-fueled arousal, well--let's look at the porn on his computer, as well as that of those who paid him.  They gave him the loot.  Toucan Sam knows--if ya are picking up what I'm putting down.
   Wish law enforcement would run PTSD people through not phony checks, bu damn make sure that creeps like that don't get themselves killed for being, metaphorically, possessed by coal-colored intent to dig their own graves.
   If only business wasn't so casual, the Packers were back in the Ice Bowl, and scrambling Fran was at the helm, ready to jam out of the pocket.  Purple People Eaters at his back.