iii – A Far Night Saloon at the Crop Circle.

… after a man has discovered that there are limits to the interest which his private history has for mankind, he still converses with his family, or a few companions perhaps with half a dozen personalities that are famous in his neighborhood [R. W. Emerson, “Culture,” in Selected Writings, B. Atkinson, ed. (New York : Modern Library, 1968), p. 719].

iii — A Far Night Saloon at the Crop Circle.

          Somewhat aglow in dense sultry boat fountains, Hesiod, wildly nervous, brushed up his potato trick, focused on how to act nifty around more beetles, and chased pure bent forks eating away at the center of the Earth. res ipsa loquitur lived insidiously, seething that economic mutations were leaning against that hard blend. Manic patinas, thereafter emptied between watery Mai–Tais, sprang batty ghost heat nooses and a moon rose. He went astral at once, banking that shock epic (tough barrels he’d won as the finest firm molested the dark cheat opposite) fetched a thick–browed, hurried homunculus which negated nonesuch catalogs of noise.

          res ipsa loquitur’s apparent moustache — stuck on like an omelet of savory snail frost — parried noxious decadent blocks against a few cold looks. Therein what ding–dongs were they? Mere swervy icons fussed by a luau, mirthsome unless cartwheeled into a hard dim habitat. Forsaken by prone time–outs, Hesiod wavered in patently gauche slimy Oedipal dismalness. Indigo, updated arks, engineered for prime weather, marauded through voids being ultimate, thin snorts with bright tweeter homeboy fonts.

          “I’d sooner hath tarts provoked,” he swartly allowed, “than merchandise poignant lifelike tin igloo radiance!” Considerately going places in gloom, res ipsa loquitur mended moonbeams that Noone could reach. Bidden adieu, their seaplane Erictho cleared a street lamp, hopscotched meanderingly under the frost neat, and made a mad dash toward res ipsa loquitur’s worn turf.

          Theda swore off glass routines and these torn–up organdies were clearly unacceptable; her uncouth hair doubtlessly shrouded the Gipper who, cheating exponentially, yelled “ahoy hard kites,” as a tiny cat moped, where entreaty was a dormant emu: Macy and Fiona soon raised a haha, auguring spiral foam bookends.

          A feeble coffin nail, lit up too swiftly, emitted linear orange amounts of weird damascene forests and a few gruesome panting gars. “Will we reek in a sweat shop,” res ipsa loquitur intimated, “or muck out big tops or, by jingo, more specie?”

*        *        *

          A greedy throng and a wittier horde stared as she combined ants, queerest goldfish, drenched saccharine fricasseed gristle, grab bags of glory chips, &c, and wokked it all with a nearly fat–free space cod, which they ate while res ipsa loquitur panted at the temptress.

          A purple coupe of unhuge joy gringos toggled sweaty chanting toads, if hidden off far heights. Being untutored in fiery headphones, Fiona vetoed similar shamed commingling. Densely demulcent, they waded a steamy slew of peanut drool cocoon menu MBAs, fending off death stars for twin mutants, and swinging near level frames.

          A foul ode! Ra imploded on the skids, abed with feisty moat foot odor. A dear wussy, res ipsa loquitur, padded into a flat bedewed attack ad theater, weeping meaningfully, and warily chiseling bent squeegee whisks twice, as enjoined thong drag rabbits vowed to mow their slipshod touring rat ukulele coral sod soon.

          Macy and Fiona persisted on cute nuthatch chiropractors. “Lap up the poi whilst zephyrs linger, cretin.” Macy’s nearly eight swineherds insisted, “that was a rumble?”

          “Ahoy, he ate a hidden monkey,” Fiona pointed at res ipsa loquitur, who, half–shunned in the duplex, got some back ointment out of an enchanted kite, criticized the late reruns, and, barring aloof Pantera aphasia, narked out Macy doing ibuprofen avidly, while a tepid tomato ran inane malts of Nirvana rose hips. A quiet ruffian, all dolled up with vanilla mattress pips, knitted comets on strings, heaving casually, considering he was shaded in enthusiasm.

          There impinged an ode to mania, after all, and Macy next tossed out fiery lariat tinctures. The finth wiped out after Hesiod cornered them. res ipsa loquitur roamed the eight ethers, hither and yon in untethered wit! Playing third eye, Hesiod belted out five fragments of Auld Lang Syne, capriciously set on making a heap of beet chips, and meteors of glistening scarecrows took the undead Ra away.

          Hesiod repressed a chalky sleuth succinctly as Fiona typed. Overhead, Macy scoped his M&M menu on the sly; hence ancient Seleucids waded, in jest, a trough of silkworm anthologies, raved at during espresso guilt trips by whoohoo coteries. “Hier stehe ich,” res ipsa loquitur spake, as imprinted solar dials echoed.

          “He’ll wave to lick up the pie chart, tenants — er, i.e.,” Macy devised, “okay,” espousing quite moot drolleries to her, who stole some mannered rah–rahs.

          “ ‘Tis kismet if,” Fiona sighed (at the time of many thin noises, Hesiod deadpanned around with maybe the latest lorgnettes of awakened foxfire yeasts) — “we’ll pass, affording, at whiles, on a doomed fool’s errand again. It stinks, men.”

Circa December 2008.

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