II. Re-Ornamentation

. . . how he lives on through the rabid seriousness, albeit continuing to maintain its invalidity.

ii — Re–Ornamentation.

          A gusty amphitheater, moldy with acorns and erectly innate agates, zeroed in on Legion’s last day as an antinomian. In defense of his freeware, Adonis he was snot, and the uninformed were wont to wince at his shabby airs.

          As tepid doubts intromitted, a warm, gluey morn, clutching his lunch sack on the way to the forum, disorientation briefly set in. A paternoster failed to avert few wrong turns, and he found the parsnips and sage budding. Herein turned a vermiform solute, and a grizzled tree surgeon, who formed a dubious take at this fevered apparition, later said that they’d rarely condoned such primeval small tyros in the pews during his own matriculation.

          A kinked preview of an arras, behind which sedulous utmosts phosphoresced, embrocaded the three fingered groom, a classless society filled with disarmed graduate teaching fellows, some cool tusks, and numerous unlisted boys in fatuous gigue, who lounged in solvent hyperactivity, rabidly sponging off distant benefactors. “For Thebes,” they ranted on second thought. Legion sat with his iPod, stiffly averting destruction.

*        *        *

          Urgent roses were sent in as the groom displayed ingenuous euphoria. “Let the barbarians enter the city,” he sniffed! Here was a millennial ombudsman who lackadaisically fended off the bartering hordes. He recalled his role in the anytime she didn’t return my call evasion farce. To raise the ante, old misgivings boiled up inside Legion, who gave hissies a bad name. “Here all order expires,” he huffed pensively.

          The groom took a powder. “You’re on an end of file forsooth, baby.” He calmly monitored Legion’s complexion, which for sure was slightly rattled. “Man, you reprobate, bliss up. You’re passed to float out of here in a jiffy. In the isles, ask any blind sage who smokes, ‘yea, though I remember our Mycenean port,’ let it be said as if dirges, dragged up from the moors of Thrace, merited your doom. Categorically deny any comments or excerpts of worse stories, and fill the air with intensity.”

          Legion couldn’t believe that sucked primo, inasmuch as millions of disaster films might well have foundered. Yet, soon even greater returns were evinced at the right hand of the Father. “You must be off to see the Prince of Idiocy,” the groom said, and debunked myopically. “Where is the point,” Legion, feeling nervously limp, inquired hoarsely as everyone tossed up his or her cookies?

          “Well, it’s obviously right next to the Mostly Color Shoe Tree,” the groom raved gravely in stentorian subtexts, blithely indicating the interview was over. Legion posed an unwilling objection from this erstwhile haven, but honked for Him and left the room. Quickly enough, Hera’s rival seemed grateful for the latest version.

*        *        *

          Legion resorted to modeling therapy. He knew the Mostly Color Show Tree was lost somewhere in the Mountains of Biathanatos. Unknown whatevers aside, Godot awaited here. Perhaps somnambulist recreants lurked within each ectoplasm, thereby forelimning any return to the Castle.

          After a wild conviction mislaid, that buttressed an adamant picnic, he revived this opinion that tickled a fancy: somewhat impervious to getting over it, there remained a long tortuous magic carpet ride. He beheld the Ptolemaic exits in a crisis, yet determined these were neon by law, and stalled to placate the illusory Prince of Idiocy.

          “This bites,” he yawned certainly, by no means rinsing off the toxins from far too many Tammany bosses after a pointless samovar tedium ascent tovarisch at Thebes’ ether stanchion. Thunderous off–key castanets on the clothesline obscured his incessant entry into the building mystery, dependent on the mutant vole who countermanded the rotisserie and reveled in ignorance of Legion’s arrivaderche.

          Summoned, the calm gerrymander, a colonial Wedgwood, and a frazzled vintner, who all were combed over sternly, listened to his sob story and dialed for take–out numbly. “Ere more spackle than I’ve splashed waited for fries with that,” a lewd adjunct mimsy film–noire tenant cameo’ed, in order to gentrify condominiums exceedingly readjustable.

          Legion’s instinct sagged, while his spurious pokes at antiphony reeked of prodigious disbelief. On the other hand, offline hang–ups notwithstanding, “did it look like we’ll be crash landing in Eden before sundown,” they dared to ask?

          Wistfully eerie ushers assured them in Newspeak that they would briefly generalize the latest tactile experience: an aggregate leaning exercise, they foretold with displaced grins, amused by their plight. “Most arguably, Lemaniac will be arriving tomorrow to pick you out of the line–up.”

          Greatly flustered for a moment, Legion genuflected before the mysteries, thanked Him with monotonous emphasis, and left the building. Theocratically (for years before, he’d been turned upside down for an adjustable rate mortgage, ostensibly for minor sightlessness, albeit actually due to bland admissions of smoked glass when one was once sick), Legion somehow seemed dust–binned forth in an apostate way. He swarmed over which expedients might come in handy, fantasized about Miss Elf breath–alyzing the ticklish situation, revised the last course of victory to badland no–hopers thrice his age in glum comfort, and brought near beer to spin out the rest of the story waiting until dark.

*        *        *

          Beneath a pearly deck of ultimate tearless cumuliform, will–o–wisps were leashed to an unseemly at–large Lemaniac raving within minutes of the promised land. “He really looks like a bug lamp,” was Theda’s initial take. Natheless, she’d never expected a cross between the dark shadows of her over–the–counter days and the Spanish Inquisition.

          Lemaniac glossed over her kitschy intellect, and a lively if domineering conversion began. “Ah, to be or not to be a nerveless bas–relief again,” he said wistfully, regarding the musty sights as lost forevermore. “Did gardenias float in a punch bowl of old hats, bard,” Theda asked?

          Lemaniac snorted, not to mince words, but for two rupees, he’d chuck an almost pathetic, loud rabbit hutch into this side of the Mississippi. The essence of communal representation on cable access was non–existent. Forty three times, he told the story of last come last serve rejects being fired next door. One Saturnalia, an entire hive had swarmed around the skids attending an interior sous–chef school in Landscape. He ranted vividly about traits of depredation and urban legend, but at the mention of his zone parade, Theda held forth upon old servers. Wherever they were recently, undercurrents of destiny began to thicken in horizontal afterthought.

          “If we’ll swear off licentiousness,” she fulminated, “appearances will antedate mickle delusions.” “They could have told me that.” Lemaniac, taken aback by her caustic salary demands, ended a short silence by adding, “and sue me if I didn’t as yet understand the import of Your Highness’ ruby slippers.”

          Before letting her out, Lemaniac handed Theda thorough brochures describing each sleepy farmlet they’d driven past. The talk of the town in the Mostly Color Shoe Tree area focused on who would be the next Belle of the Dust Bowl. Silliness was closed to their field. Lest they kept full of illegibly migraine frame actors, Katrina seemed oh so close but fully comatose. That Landscape was the gherkin of the area was indisruptable. Self–made at great expense was an Ivanhoe of hobnobs. Specific grooves ran from LeCram, too laid–back to be an also–ran, and expanded up to twenty clicks from the fair yield.

          There were also enough ice houses to refill a quart ere sign-on, though frogs, so Lemaniac tended to sneeze at the bouquets. Usually a pittance of remorse, derived from way back, was enough to change the subject. Off the clock, Lemaniac had expressly denied vapor rubs for the stationery sonar. Dreamy Pilates instructors whooshed over incarnated wergilds — they all screamed of their many crops. He’d reserved doubts toward Theda’s house of cards — those wombats never learn. Of their burden, that of dealing to the variegated pukha sahibs, he’d blithely washed his hands long ago.

Circa late September 2007.