vi – Freed, We Turn in Orcas.

Calm temptation will be diseased on the Zima, I retorted, until two were unable to communicate orally for an ice vole’s scone stunt city. “In complete ovations, aesthetically endemic, you enjoyed a lesson in sable.” Two speak–easies, forever closed, sickened, stood empty. Traffic cones on the plaza seethed under a blazing eye. “Really, John,” said Marsha, wintrily nonplussed, “you are babbling in Newspeak for a caveless statue, you see.” She leapt onto a Mission Street myzinthra cart. “Rejoin the only seasonal bleak poet’s favor, lest I see other chintzy coconuts.”

vi — Freed, We Turn In Orcas.

          An eurythmic ukulele, sorry Hatteras, Hesiod outgrabed the romping maps at nadir town, and hustled a Texan at Stratego. Heeding an oily elk, resipsaloq slept in mid–cry, baking his shad in ethereal epithets of sea wood. Apropos, they’d need to march out in hexameters, done vying for a gold nugget sweep of the jangle. “It’s still post–guano, isn’t it,” resipsaloq asked? “Say what,” Hesiod reminded the take–out ‘r’us dude? resipsaloq hugged his lyre.

          Serenely sour heart throbs aside, they ferned woebegone rug gurus until noon. Cat Mon and Theda kept imagining and droned to the hop, waving reused grout at the second string: the Men of Spy, Krapina, Jersey, LaChapelle–aux–Saints, LaGuina, Mousteria, Peking Duck, and Rhodesia.

          Ignobly the cryogenic vapors flew lewdly as they dug the neon. Spy fondly sounded al fresco. They pulled an op cit tearfully, drowned a leaping hemp fire, and strove with a sodden wight through wallflowers. They sprawled to crash this script, ruefully petting mag wheels. Disembodied, the yes men peeked into the ghetto, discerning of the peevish snit’s asters. Spy pureed a halibut down an amphora synch on company time. “Maybe who’s dead,” he sadly breathed.

          “Aye, but off–kilter,” Rhodesia asked, playing boll weevil’s polka dot? They paused on occasion in vain. LaChapelle yelled for a priest, and the seminary sent an aged martyrdom. He and Krapina wound slave cables in hurried jolts from the seething sesame soup. “Did I add more parsnips,” LaGuina adeptly wired, “depeche, if not offering to snare were–hommes, and yet esoteric?”

          Ha! They only had to rock the casbah, but somewhat itchy, LaChapelle, ditching the lampposts, had sneaked into the cabana to study an artificial M&M desiderata tsunami. Its dilapidated dens paled in Idlewild estimation, given that every so often, dealt newest motifs that housed zesty magpies by the ton, the pot stopped boiling.

          Many valiant rascals led out Spy, whose humble death from a falling cheese–log was felt greatly. Macy thudded to the diocese on time. Spy’s ideal irk, reeling in key hive sheets, killed the clambake. Ere long, death’s will booted forever. “Hey, laser face, what’s wrong with your collagen expert?”

          “Away with her, I’ve lost fresh pages and all!” Mousteria gave alms as they rinsed four wombats chilled in foil rodeos. Then hinged neap hens hummed and chirped at legal clowns, but turned corny, lost from insight. Weird shore lemmings stashed warm ice, but without deepening hope. “We’ve air raids at the Castle, a debauched funk. This is as sour a fair as now ongoing, jerks!”

*        *        *

          Hesiod said, “we eat and then trash into what we erupt, until our angst, fully reaching an accord unamerced or eponymously scarce, dies, aggrieved that relevant, albeit superseded, themes are at the root of a lamer lah–dee–dah.” Grasping squeegees, eke sad about slandered tonality, Wahid, an old war–ferret created for coma, exited the stage to bath mints, snubbing osmosis. Flushed with chicory, they turned too wet. Their graceful cavalcade inundated past soft–soap perennials, linseed mingled in sorrel diorama.

          En passant, they tripped a squeaky schlocket. “You are lolling downriver,” resipsaloq astounded them, kissing, in duress, a blowzier pit bull full–length under the grimy chandelier. “Hang ten!” Hintermost, at the behest of serendipity, had an alien necropolis virtually clutched Rhodesia’s chard? “Your spotlight is desolate,” resipsaloq dripped, “as guests prove plainly hip–hip–hooray.” Fairly corporeal, they audited log walls for scented orbs of S–chip. Nearly alone, resipsaloq bobbed for strudels. “Welcome, little necropolis.”

          Hereafter mumbly, Jersey grazed — head high stretch — “just try it,” resipsaloq disgorged. Jersey doled out rice, used shrimp, glared, and daubed in wild shiitake, basking in gefilte. “You idiot! Buy the brass rodeo!” There, veteran headhunters golfed a mean bidet dance (they tossed it blithely to Rhodes scholars for ARM’s of 15%, which Jersey hand–rolled at will), events a great monster permit made tenebrously unfake.

          Prettier ajar, wet crepe motor yo–yo traps had a spit–up. They went upwind and struck bent heroes. resipsaloq hid in an insane tiny radio, jealous about reflex tappers, i.e., with neither canoe wasted, Jersey didn’t know who enjoyed gauche vows of local toy heather. Hesiod even sedulously moved that future welfare be deemed open to all of the Dungeness net minders, huh?

          They waved and sped their reparations. Eagerer to learn than once gaunt favorite video spoofers, they canned a mix of muumuu, alleviating the worst case of risqué pahoehoe ever annulled. A teatime pause took place in a wickiup without unduly ruffled Zoauves or gloomy pro bono dithyrambs over waffles. The heat was eftsoones a lamplit hue of enlightened mulberry.

          “A thesis mistaking buyback,” Macy madly intimated, “of rough habitat for feeble coelacanth is too calm to ever maunder over our finger.” “Yellow twit, let us have at your nose,” Fiona retrofitted. “My ‘chopper flies up the cloth paste,” Macy wailed.

          “I’ve a bug tingle,” Hesiod slurred, excepting his fifer to be abhorred in millennial glee. “Do tell, you,” they quaffed, to merry uproar. “Is gotcha an adversarial thing, Hesiod?” Ditties kindled a tough soup–of–the–day up in LeCram, highly askew. “I’ve got DEA.” resipsaloq held up the gauntlet. “My hat’s off to Ike’s Park!”

          Thebans took up the cyborg. Soon, the Bhagavad–Gita, which Theda drew, an unsung chi moose they graced with destiny was, by design, a revisionist uh–oh vertigo! The huffy orators wept tunelessly in lieu of the bigots, sneezing over chest–high piccalilli.

Circa February 2009.