VII – A Resplendent Obscurity

8/14/2000. After the final Punic War, Rome had no exterior threat to warrant exemplary moral behavior, and thus fell to debauchery and ambition. This observation of Saint Augustine seemed apt for the present day. Uncle Mishka spent much of the weekend at the gym, compensating for his own moral collapse by tuning his psyche. But an attention disorder prompted him to return an interlibrary loan into the common book bin, earning him stinging rebukes from the attendants of what had been, up to this point, his sole refuge of sanity. One would have thought he’d dumped the crown jewels, from the way they carried on about it.

 vii — A Resplendent Obscurity.

          A funereal haiku offset de facto pinafores again.

          The tic–tac doughboys were foul weather G–force hoplites who went into full burst mode the moment any ditzy Rambo yelped in the interest of hysterics. They lisped at complex three–penny operettas, posed as charmingly slow–witted elders, and crash–landed their own thing, a chrome Thessalonikan kiln, at the latest stereotypical road shows of unstable Guelphish meerkats.

          Legion was left with his own fish to fry, a large and unpalatable coelacanth filched from the Castle moat, which he released as it thumped pitifully after a fluoxetine and was somewhat listlessly quaint. Without any more snoopy Sibyls to tease, he felt as morose as a sasquatch, and was wont to snore through complines while everyone else was out peddling their freeware.

          “I may intend to ban all existence,” he recited at the downtown dream embrace, “and when it shall be, sobeit in dog years, e.g., downwind of my reincarnation, only a roaming hindsight blooper will, for long periods, ever remind me of the impotence I’ve felt since being uptight during my own slumber party a few inseams ago.”

          In response, the newest glaziers appealed to an effervescent ninja from Messina, “please drop–kick this young moron before he challenges Hermes to solve Rubik’s Cubes.” While his triskedalion sidecar lurched in the background coolly, the allotted martial arts wizard amassed the four winds, froze all street time, swore upon the hilt of an aquamarine stiletto that Mount Aetna would fume back home if he failed, and as the citizens of Thebes gazed at such admirable facility, unswervingly clambered into the face of the sunrise.

*        *        *

          Steeds of Coriolis force eloped toward the solar firmament. Atlas, tittering calmly, pointed out that the whelp would no longer find petite bourgeoisie to chauffeur him willingly to the presence of Olympus; at last count even Demeter herself was all too busy sowing grains to intervene. The hapless Legion, therefore, was out haranguing apathetic yoga salons on his lunch tour. Affecting to casually stamp out fresh loons, he volunteered to put paid to an incipient monotheism post haste.

          Tepid implosions of deja vu unfurled! Withered pessaries blanched redistributions of alchemic free thinking, yet their reworked out–performances, subjected to fulsome omniscience, proved alas flimsier than a terra–formed pistachio farm. Some cheap moose had refused to file an environmental impact statement under the deadline. “Please your gods on your own dime,” the prophet Elijah was saying. “If you would only call on them, then perhaps they will straighten it out for sure.”

          Legion’s thoughts, bristling with trashy old vitriol, let loose such a stream of invective at this persistent obstructionism, that he was stunned they did not all but tremblingly deliver the keys of happiness into his mind at last resort. As it were, some neurotic joker on Asgard screwed up his words, causing this unwholesomeness personally! He hoarsely vitiated a colicky tizzy of abuse to be hurled as soon as he returned to his beeswax.

          Butta–butta–boom, the tocsins of doubt crescendoed thickly. He not only had already toasted an internet booth of dubious quality, but amid so very many final answers (unless he waltzed across Three Mile Island to affix blancmange upon the wetlands), he was unsure how long the divine Miss Eartha Kitt’s greatest smash single C’est Si Bon had stayed on the Top Forty countdown in 1957 anyway. And who would ever unswervingly believe he had haunted a funky ocarina factory in the nearest solar system? He could hardly act blowsy from 12,000 light years away.

          It had not been his last retort, they had told him, it had been the way he had finished it, so maybe he could take a flying leap across the galaxy instead. So much for etiquette, and “take that forsooth,” he yelled, hazarding a poke at his personal Yoda, who if nothing else knew that the Messinian ninja was already at large.

          Somewhat frivolously, the tic–tac doughboys also warned Legion of the impending 4H hose down at the fair edge of the universe. Thirsting for annihilation, Legion perversely sprouted awful tentacles. But at last light, he took time out for a solo terebinth, brewed by a scotch of bestial fickleness.

Circa early January 2008.

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