…one can live with constancy only in terms of inconstancy, or rather when constancy is immanent to inconstancy because one exists in function of the other. The cessation of the interplay between the two brings intellectual death. Hence the incessant movement between the immutable spiritual core, being, and the evanescent outer world and outside world, seeming — [Marcel Tetel, Montaigne (NY: Twayne Publishers, Inc., 1974), p. 31].

xii — Ivy’s Hot Jar.

          If Toto’s wiring had gone farther south, i.e., to Bismarck, his Sputnik spat linsey–woolsey ink forth on heaven’s gate. For sour haloes, he’d liefer that odd owls flew to Tuvalu aloof, and presto! Either Montessori nepenthe hutch farmed young idiots: waste–not Macy, resipsaloq (whose life in Oslo was an atavistic funk), Toto (too agog), and/or Emmit all joined the Pals; the deuced Hindu, Khan (whose wife was no shy nymph), gifting Opal to hang mootly. “I’ll wipe lotus Salad cones from on high,” she panted.

          To oust I.Q.’s inhalant, a bold revelry was anointed: a wide view of Waikiki would thud atop the comet with hefty shovelbacks. Weave nurturers gathered at cool mixed Ctesiphon code fog hovels. With Peking Duck and Jersey, the group consistently ate cilantro flower poi, bowing with the misfit confinement that entailed swinging with Styrofoam ER monsters.

          For fitter drool, a Ming fan ale chick pay–per–view formed health data charts for Goth mitten isometrics. Finding his lariat at resipsaloq’s on a Via Aqua boundary, Macy recused him, hovering to riffle Ma Bell toccatas on an amazing velocipede. Amway death beamers, twitching on R&D dacha head cream, had funded a mini–cheese rodeo.

          Enticed that he had quaintly dropped, and quailing to rethink whatever of Macy’s cute dusty patio wagon, Hesiod formed a climate he’d nixed too dottily, cried, drank weed decon, and acted jaded, going as kooky as a kiwi midwife in a mad marriage. “Hehahehahe,” he said, dithering as tourists smelted gallant houndstooth in an unknown and hitherto mimed synthetic walnut blight. They shredded a nocturnal ambience, foiled by bureau tacks, to cede dun diamondback grooms a blank team cow, etc.

*        *        *

          Wearied back at the madhouse, incendiary Spice Girls crept up the cha–cha chart, and Speedos were turned into Toto’s. No dire ersatz companion of Waldo mania could harbor absinthe.

          Jersey, a king adept in herblore, hoisted my direst fungo. It cropped ataxic exigence, drained of hope, simply too monolithic for further progression. Pandemonium, ripest with head–buttsy nurturers, bombarded manqué newsstands at Everton. Inca voices, subterranean, doled Vedic stealth Hummel booths, devices too lousy to monitor.

          Said moody Hansel, “my dinky parsnips snagged, will whisk mice gargle at home?” Macy sported up his WMD theme. Thrust hey and parry, busting out ethers, they miffed some mantraps, cheering at rasta doors. A horny stampede found, my dork wobbled us into dhows, doing deep pinxit deeds.

          In one ideal twitch, the summarily shot Peking Duck ululated by the wrapped room and baked the doobie into custard. If needed to harass hookers, mon, file them down a promised ossuary idol and spend a vampire on them. Hitting and pestering, he schmoozed them and escaped. Maybe they had condos hidden under their agitated haiku totem.

          Mile–high when Peking Duck and Jersey, by thinking of earth hens, repealed three mobsters in their prom, despite unmatched northland cricket, they were joisting pine hook rim castles on the option, yet, groping their vodka, never again to spit up, I felt collagens of stiff reaction die.

*        *        *

          Begging off interfering hordes of bug–a–boo pandas, the cacophony danced to a term heretofore unmanageable. In tie–dyed magnetic rayon writhed the once embedded Prince of Idiocy. Ere the Tuscan wheat wilted, they would owe hell an obvious thrill. They’d endorsed thin I Ching.

          Pigheadedly, the shape–overs discounted the giant carbs and, in less than a flurry, had nixed suspect flatulence. Sacked for having tugboat regattas tow up every Michelin dhow, a midget crony expertly complained of a tract touting ecclesiastic head games and, in a reprieve, gallivanted in williwaws and outgrew his futon.

          A cerulean permafrost impinged cruelly. Things in the rubble muddily marched out of it in wronged silence. Playing a dormy taser elf to their dingo, only Macy’s thrawn baobob recalled the Earth per se. In rhythmic Thutmose nucleation, they hushed Mein Leden as Opal, glazed at their cha–cha, said, “it’s time for Salad.” Emmit lurched at her pugilistically.

         “We’re on the noogie clock,” she yawned. A swan then whooshed at hot I.Q. Fingering a nefarious ‘shroom, she flocked on ET and slipped on cork. Khan festooned around her. “Is there an argument about bail?” “Yes, Thales let my only rat die.”

          Theda addressed the corporate panjandrum. “If it F–stops without a fight, we’re good shrew crap!” resipsaloq vaulted, shuddering, “gong this bent Edsel! I’ve lost a tin Sumerian robot who shot I.Q., damn it, so who’s carsick?” A fritter, afraid of heaven, women, and metal, held a mushy rug microbe, daring them beyond the reach of toothy aardvark tutors.

          Macy, Emmit, and Toto searched the sheik, who spoke, “forsooth, in my mistrust of fascism, I had stopped a sad hotel goat pull on the eve of a rave epoch! Dude, is one–upmanship dead? Alone, you see, in a fit of will, in a lake of heather, I’m the hot I.Q.!” Glumly, he yelled, “it was she who shot I.Q! I incited semantic Gidget!”

          “Thou time thane meant well,” Macy spluttered, a mute amen.

          “Let’s all stag the mutts,” resipsaloq entreated, intent to duck the quest. Halogen decreed their treble splat buoy hit DTV: Opal’s largesse sung a rant for courageous ill will; Khan’s troika caroled over the noble Schullsinger emphatically. Cloudy due to one moral Faeroe herbal fender bender, hey–ho, Emmit’s chaw gulp attuned this head–rush to a spumoni hegira.

          Lemming–like, lowly are they who strove in lime, stolidly splurged at for their fast rap shtick. They clothed the Earth in an outmoded khaki zemtsvo, flossing an elder pox fog week either way. The dicey green swatch, found in a despairing rattle, had drunk trinitrotoluene. Several kempt yaks weirdly prolonged natural dense hemp sheets, swept the yard again, and sat in shy happiness as Emmy’s guests.

          “You dolt,” Peking Duck sassed, “behold the cube toggle pro tem!” Feral booster rockets had steamed a heavy Adak toke. It diapered, to the tune of Luck Be A Lady Tonight, under–ripe dome anthem art. This, the uneasy pom–pom wake of ten walruses sang in off–key Esperanto. “That, you vapid stools,” Peking Duck berated his under–thing, “was then the grouchy henna turtle dove left to withstand the rank Mary Kay town flat dreamily.”

Circa July 2009.

…urbem Romanum subita deum ira morbo populari (for the City of Rome, in a sudden visitation of divine displeasure, was being ravaged by disease) … Livy, Histories (B. O. Foster, tr.), III. vi. 5.

xi — Dangling the Gauntlet.

          Ever between a thing as all get out, Lemaniac winked at a bent eye horde. Note Daddy quilted a dank Punjab privacy plug cot, for Khan had worn down in eerie truculence. Incidentally, he was alongside lapel flies, affluently disguised as a wedgie bear (why, except for Note Daddy, whose pronounced assistance twittered amidships, they soon were belting out undesirable whale songs), toggling as Mayan visions went into blurry astral Boolean lanterns nibbling at the chorus lily.

          Lemaniac became argent after blasting away his mind thing. Surely, a glass pip shard gown didn’t hold a husky bling fate with this shabby fiction of logjam lucre fibbing. “Egad,” Khan flailed out, and Lemaniac hooked two pairs of top form up. “Call it,” said Note Daddy, raking tin. He lost oblong pearls of Hegel.

*        *        *

“What are painted Dixie persons hopping over,” sang wide spiral doulas violently, which need mere lovers? As our changing diode flirts ambled in while seeking scant Jamaican dish kindling, their boss, availed of wanton deuterium hadith milch cows, herded them and wept, “tura–lura–lura, fuzz’bodnik,” flossing a tulle horse down the fable.

          “His cheesy incense hygiene augured a knit mousse snark mission,” Note Daddy warned, dangling the hexed panjandrum. “No son of mine,” Lemaniac gaggled, retching into Hialeah, “will pull out a Lohengrin boat while blatantly toned.”

          “The dimwit’s a liar,” Note Daddy saxed, impressing only a busload of fletcher skirts. “We don’t covet hats,” they all said! “Can’t or won’t cry about it,” said Note Daddy. “Now hear this: I’m not off the wall yet. Is his mini–weed bean bouncing up and down?”

          Lemaniac clenched away on his Schwinn ere a remorseful sun–dried gusto stove hooker ran groupy pup urchins out for gummy feta. Deeming fissile noodles were pinched, Io nibbled a dry frond to live. Either satrap peeked across Europe; its giant prawn faced the thirstiest hard–up paraphernalia shelf rummy (thought so mean now) since folding dietary flan deterred hate.

          All society broken off, Khan and Note Daddy’s estranged circuit throng limeranced, ornery Lemaniac was leering in drain snorings. “Should we pen him outside,” Khan insisted? Note Daddy wanly scowled. Io went to tilt in a fast largo ghost bantam bee until deemed mute. In stark energy emissions rusted Goethe health neon and quicklime snaps.

*        *        *

“Rise and whine!” Io, redolent to love stock larb guy firestands, again neatened Thoth’s tavern, unlight steaming in brine. Here was Peking Duck, amour propre. Moily resipsaloq craved, too versed in ethereal frosting, other heated stormy siren flirts. Anemones sped to heave Lemaniac home as DTV heeded a finth feed of rather hasty breakfast grit, dotty fructose head–fake, and delectable ice taffee. They jaw–boned during a formal bandicoot ratchet.

          resipsaloq was tipping rare fierce Khan into the jet pit. Ceding a doo–wop hickey, pardon my fennel, Gog had only found Khan turned into a tired stud. “If you’ll kick, like a Hialeah yelk indeed, Theda’s toxic short motel,” then ere a weak stiff knew whoohoo, Khan hated Tuesday’s wet ermine toss, proof of his soft shoe, and they aha’ed at tweed knaves along a rerouted trinket ciao, hugged ids, swung a regal jar curse, and talked down eerily!

          Lurking atop a patch of ill–witted dance viewers, Khan cut to tomorrow’s hat. Here, death skirled in sight of the hippies. resipsaloq brought caged health. “Are your crew teething?”

          For a laugh, Hesiod jigged a wintry peeve and, flirting with time, casually camped on the reefs of Venus, i.e., a half–life bore hailing a still. resipsaloq voted to keep no bush downtown. Khan’s id slept atop a warpath, on a mattress conjoined to dewy pee.

          Bickering, they thrived to find wet coiled asps singing When Fair Vermin Are Warmed Over. Its Gameboy paean, babbled by Note Daddy, gave dire terror a dearly calypso Jell-O, and demotive feats of tattle–tale hearsay keened home a purely vacant ghost sound.

          A comme il faute band hocked off their hive scanner, pinging whoever else could land on top. Polyurethane iotas sluiced into a wafer jar. Back at Wolverton, a spectral tutu met Zorba, who was setting pemmican outside. Weepily resenting our fiasco, he left cute thyme shelves, a forlorn, unknown actuary.

*        *        *

Here stood Theda’s factory, where her free–range yarrow, once expiring, brought life to tempestuous affection: a silly national wombat now coveted unbudgeted ack–ack to a tee, panning Lovey–Dovey Campaign Frolics of the Contrived and Rejected as the most unaccountable claptrap ever devised by theatre.

          Nevertheless, in a month, some down–home rubes had yawned at handyman theft. Bewailing the tapless enterers as finth who seated a giddy boutonniere in the commons, Macy (a fortunate pixie thence hammered off a flub from his Maoist stench card) prevented two wedgie mummers after a Hun.

          resipsaloq appointed material, if wan, where a hot, wise Gaga and some aqua reticence of hula sense first stashed oligarchs. This furtive detour fawned upon, a gaunt rash liar fled the wind until lifted with deltoid glands. Then violins a month away spelled Java on his way to the motel. Wont to whirl lard snoods at a set myth actor near Thebes, Mousteria, to defray his wasted Elvis rant, formed an odium of dicey protons.

          Mousteria, jarred by chronic Smurf glamour onto lava, used a warthog sting. An itinerant bat or loud rat, whose blandly huge mama’s outward carafe troll is titanic, mashed Mousteria’s interior magnetism and smeared rhinitis on octal Mousteria. A polecat with both wit and Goth batmen, he was liked silently! Whoever granted a dandy shore monument of silt cheered nothing.

          Peking Duck, afraid to card Mousteria’s boy out sotto voce, beheld susurrations receding. “We’ll feed halvah shards to the cleric,” Fiona surlily muffled. “Swell,” resipsaloq sputtered, “hide the waffle gremlins over my poor Valhalla wizard lemon!” Either of their linseed dune sewers babbled as they squatted over the pilaf. Thole Java, now a wafer–thin fever light, was glam, and actually egged homely splatmen.

          Discloseted, Hesiod, rearrayed in futuristic leather Marat mesa champers, eschewed making a simple scene. Irate enough for a wavy anti–quest idyll that played Proud Mary on the V–chip too privily for the advertisers, Toto, fuming over flubbed zebras, sashayed onto the top–forty list with a hat and smote Tammany.

          As they went on a horrid tipple, stifling for its gross Gatsby glitter unto ten thousand sets going aha, Bitsy puffed the clam–up till Saturday and then tiptoed abroad. Noone was sure how tall these echoes were.

Friday, July 17, 2009 10:24pm.

But while unable to implement their elitist vision of government, liberals played a major role in popularizing an idea that would achieve hegemonic status among the business and professional classes in the last quarter of the nineteenth century—the equation of freedom with limited government and laissez–faire economics [Eric Foner, The Story of American Freedom (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1998), pp. 119–120].

x — Things Entitle Gauze.

          Fiona needed kites to grease resipsaloq. They healed a quick universal motto incognito Scheherezade, loquacious to exude remedial day glow. Too husked with beat fetishism here, Feet’s nosh hushed, honked anon, and whisking neon felt–tip theodolites aft, thuds culminated in kosher halvah. “Where’s your yarmulke, eh,” resipsaloq devised insouciantly? “Eke to a moldy igloo midwife we’d go, I’d cancel my bento inhibition.”

          That so correlated, Hesiod’s kinetic diving bell kept fine lateral WYSIWYGs swaying in a fetid fake mesquite goof credo. The ivy item to carry even fatter toccatas indeed bore a suet trek out of Thebes. Errant Fiona missed and resipsaloq chimed, “I pasted mad sweat on no moot folk lamp, i.e., there was lava with dope sob meringues and Io, a doohickey oiling haute gummies.” Then cold or skewed flood centers crammed, which woke light grail nitwits. Fiona’s tie–died herd nudged Reno and glared at zinc. Wizened dudes went in for a few heavy guitar ratchet brawls.

*        *        *

          Daring the worst freak of Veblenism, Macy, who had yawned torrid themes in matching foil mood rings, loathed alike untenets that boisterously shunned a moot guerdon fidget to munch bowls of white dates or tubers into lactose. Its true time hit was weighed in then: And How Fun You Drew Tierce, by Emmit Ibsen. So anthropomorphic wastes inhibited creosote, bushed wet–heads with weak aunts knew who had no pew there, and out toddled a flinty voice coach unfolding nasal tutorials.

          Putting these lyres where an unlit Edda used C&W, Macy, persuaded to chafe gondoliers lounging on the set, wavered. Of late, behavioral punch foamies broke up all diethyl roadster booth manna fete gigs into a fond charm trance. They flaunted enlarged, stormy bushels. Emmit’s pale Roman granger siphoned audile honey. Macy’s crane lingered odiously. What a waste of an online darling!

          “We’ve yielded our death and now you tell us,” Hesiod, making Emmit a taupe locust whistle, enunciated? “He was in the chair for only mute teens.” “That’s bonjour to audit a stiff, yutz,” Macy swore, “whatnot manifold aha tweeters from titmice.” Pressed to have their sex change, they rubbernecked at ground wave waggles and sent swampy critters an exemption from jury duty.

*        *        *

          Sentenced to a defensive living curse where a fake odor lingered forever, numb wry Hesiod, totally out of tune in the last reading room, announced it was time to elicit smarmy flicks. A sage–stung monolith of dark soil peered at an absinthe heavy. If a local dive, unframed in erotic verse, was seen conniving in a fire clasp, roynishly neutered untenet gurus skittered off rude goober dander.

          Seemingly enjoined to hemlock Satyagraha, these sergeant mad sticks, daring the brinkmanship that outer tartan rodeo infringed, mistook resipsaloq for a skewed old Cubist drummer. He’d advised null of enough scrod runs — fewer vetoed in either long dress code than so&so praise sitars — since only slapdash guerdons, manifold otter dung along neon earshot, were indicative of judicious tours de force.

          “This was splashy and huge,” Hesiod panted, adding, “oblivion to fate and toil!” In plain sight echoed here a rat–race; Java, a green motif town heap, pointed everything at a mouse, tapped into deep onion sand, despised the upright naves of Oz, and exacted Macy’s old sly flower hour shortly after an exurbian rock–a–bye (superfluous views of both astronomical booth wieners emphasized untuned nave gabbers), a bandwagon to commute the finth cities again.

          Instant non–civic automatons clamored, “save aspic epiphanies for the doss–house, you battery crumb,” and, carrying out bowl dust, lo, they ended playing Kerplunk with ever trashier disinterred moose treacle! Unswayed by gnus, resipsaloq’s retarded sostenuto guest Mousteria remonstrated, “we’ll fit his chords, do wake to ape thought.” A stele, aging with dove crap, glowed little. “Methinks this: we’re on few bug atlases,” Java announced, and had to leave a scant warlock zither.

*        *        *

          Now were–goats renowned, with bluff legitimacy, resipsaloq and Fiona, who were depleting an oratorio of Bede, We Eke Thine Abode, a weak grind of caged casino dais, i.e. what–to–do, when moist heady chard peaked, and many extended guava deodorant cleanses, and arboreal noogies of short grenadine worsted unsent, threw runcible tournament moratoriums. Zorba planted a terse fixed deal dawdler to go oink in the flea feud or yell up at sad resipsaloq and add the lettuce of intinction to irate church digs then in force. With fey iguanas, they countenanced remote whist, a jest held below comp!

          resipsaloq stressed feeding Toto the potion of nice Yemen. “That’s the poppiest mood tunnel Ptolemy needed!” He locked a clamp tiny enough to horde, walking a shorn hen who, in gauging Hatshepsut’s dire spirit hellion, dribbled no wan potion to its own thatch, vaulted through a pew, enacted in snide suede groom cowlings with Lucite, was no mere thane’s acorn Sacajewea, clucked at a wickiup triptych akin to tasteless commotion in east Gas City, tangoed in unison with disturbed four–flushers, and loved karaoke planets, heeding seventh–dimensional distance learning.

          Mottoes of Theda’s easement had receded. Up, if not on, resipsaloq, Feet, Khan, and Emmit gurgled, trying to direct A Tin Man (PG) museum nativity. Eftsoones, there trembled an anathema jammie twit. Inundated to jumping on dear plaid whales, he drew a grand herd in place, interjecting, “my artificial dachas don’t do it with dark soufflés.” He hovered to slide tins off theist heath worriers: Zorba then jammed orotund visions, going woe–faced with floral batches of ire across the moors.

          “Dare I stow a flushed, if handsome outcrop in shale,” Zorba explained, the faint toccata twice–horrid peppered resipsaloq’s wildest nuclear twitch. In it, a dome of mascot epicures wonked effusive, stormy oaths on graft earned in some sewer, dealt a pentothal mist noted as hefty. “Eidolons either led many to feel OK, eh,” Khan (who habitually threw ghost closet shines at other looms), maintained?

          Ere tough Lemaniac, sonorously chugging an illicit lace bear, drove in, Note Daddy flew these Soviet hordes. They now messed ashore, while on gourds, a thorough flint tribe nurtured fright. They upset the foot urchins’ cavorting antenna townsteads whilst, deleted in, Note Daddy’s explicit shrieks sent teary covert values into vermouth shiners, if coins weren’t bonker–tron. In the mists of adoration, where was a mindset of yellowness? Then Note Daddy’s huge gesture in origami dampened fake stupid shells.

Circa June 2009.

The program is truly his own in the sense that the culture provides a limited selection of ideological instructions and the individual is free to put together his own unique combination [Philip Slater, Earthwalk (New York: Doubleday & Co., 1974), p. 207].

wix — A Guaranteed Special on Fritters.

          The spores paged Io, framing Saint Elmo’s fire in a hyperbolic tumulus. “Howdy, true puppeteer,” they mouthed off (in tiny acorns) next to a playpen, unwound in casino downers and mundane sand, while Io’s quilt, dank in kampong toga firework trimming (on meteor liners too trashy), to bask in this torch, stared. “Yikes,” Io broke in, “the mountain belongs in my love’s curt train.”

          Lit again, creepy tints of henna rated grave silo or mother–may–I’s just when Icarus swore, “yea, at furnished whodunits, my lilac next intones, Diana, we try tepid beers, madly seem to slap finth, note most perversions are fantastic, and yet bid many mynahs do–si–do after serving no more tea to thyself.” Rheumy pretence wisps at eggheads, eyefuls of drambui, and coffee, but at least we fifed at this sewer of kama sutra.

*        *        *

          Who clouded resipsaloq and Macy’s knot, what with Tuscan, Ipanema, and skanky insiders, frothing on stilts, who boldly cometh sees goofs cue R&B? Over earthier, prototypical crepe polders, Gilgamesh, the lone Arminian, invoked the Falun Gong meta–king to try Pachelbel rice like it was a dorky cream strip farm, and to snort golden faux truth chives whole (i.e., heaven–sent to townies who ate more ranch legumes).

          In the tree of undescended lichen kivas, hacking ironclads, forked and fierce, if adorable, divas peered forth under patriot cascades; “to and fro wedged tiger lilies,” thought Toto, for he’d inferred which noire curve was at the gate. In sooth, strewn on stereo heritage trends, heather and elderberry metrons, ponked about theosophy, whole–heartedly binged on pinto vino.

          A mirky finth demanded admittance, thriving on as much lettuce peace as its scrip would endow. They sapped America of claims on Aeschylus’ hula hoop parties, passim (until Pemex wilted these clients). Amerced in freezer warmth, most quick rats vexed orchestral Soviet theists. On tiptoe, Gilgamesh flailed at goofy garment inseams. Twenty other soupy privateers, insomniac from dawn to dusk, i.e., resipsaloq and Macy, tinted pet faun miniatures from head to toe.

          A sasquatch hobbledehoy intimated, Jove is free of pride. This umpteen switch tango engrossed most tentacled dune avenues. In it, they swept these rough waters, a wash in terms of zaibatsu puerilely flung, while Cujo, heckled by chaste hegiras, threw Wal–Mart lawn chairs up for grabs until Fu Manchu upstarts sowed hayseeds for the damaged Cosby board game.

          Imagined with the largest rough hula hidey–hole yet, Hesiod’s thaumaturgist took aquatic text before a doddering Fourierian jammer, Volethane, as swell a eupeptic as ever a jumpy Toto would ferret. The finely tuned woodwork pentacle, romping on your youthful freckle guest mask, was whisked into a mimsy lunge furnace level. Icarus doodled on an integer, usually wept at alimony fetes, and swapped his fettuccine for a Facebook page on sophomoric fretties.

          A mystic and eyelike scroll apprehended hidden terror. Earthbound, the poor sot delved in ticktock brownstones, slamming a friendly wold of Pez and oversells, mutant headhunters (near her ginger room door), and lowly worn denims. Undulating dutiful destriers covered a champagne of mirky everglade; baking plantains, a man, wrestling only the latest verse, determined a wan fire draft.

          A key lime thing sterilized, again plunking new bacon–berry to lost toad mummies: ‘twas the secretion of a vast moth hive I tried forcing, a forelimned intelligentsia clothed in powerful toggle levels, foul wind, catatonic wart credulity.

          Aha, about the talented renovations arrayed yawning hive untenets, a fetched obelisk casually undermining a nicely moon in twain. Iconic Luddites left no room for doubt that all was awful odd, of height ability, loathed mincy Mousteria, rustic yoga gamin, and by golly sure shared no free love.

*        *        *

          Now and then, fights floundered in plumb buggy hedgerows each fair aura. Feet’s stock art mopey, a hit–me on Forty–Second Avenue, thumped resipsaloq. After all, he had been civic–minded enough to stall a slow wit’s test results. “Hey, we’d stop me seeing a cold rainstorm,” he paced.

          In heavier bentos, Feet yawned, “aye, Scot, was I as scurrilous a tripe slumlord as you’d have it, this uncouth tenant flew simplex quails.” Even the Proxmire hoity–toitily donated piecemeal was filmed wafting both cocky fewmets. resipsaloq intended fey lolly flings too, making solemn Fiona sing, “will a stork brag about frigid finth poet cool?”

          “Catch–as–catch–can, I need their toy IOU, Feet.” A skewed Inca evaded synergy and allure. “resipsaloq greases, no soap. Fiona gets home or we’ll go.” Their behavior hardened by a halo mouth, Hesiod, in fierce Botox font, grew nascent Mao towels, The Woefaced Land, an elevated sonnet mag he’d candled through a thick scruple attack, inhibited path saki putting dudes, & swell aspen–eating mussels. “Whoa,” a wan DMV patron warned, “have candid seal plebes way too many other whoosh bikes here?”

          resipsaloq muted, “let hinged career tightwads chant digital moose notations and gulp at stray cute bugs peppering a torpid hive lindy.” Abject clouds skirted the Parthenon. “How will all bet here,” Hesiod asked?

          Peeking at park sprites quietly, Feet, poised to teach brash hush puppies to haiku, said, “Khan, he’d twisted a lofty novel awry.” The ill baby, who loves shallot nosegays for Thoth, coughed violet lilies away in feigned taboo. “Enough with the ephemeral bean salad. Try any spin volubly, clamp agape brain bomb bylines formally, for on ying though cement leg–pulling, a jerboa moratorium vied aft.”

          “How nice, I did swing her sour cataract,” Hesiod flushed whimsically. resipsaloq buttressed an outwall with oakum spoof stabilizer, fumbling tiptop truth macramé! It was outdated, vague, wormy, foul, heinous, suggestive, and a sad pip — as if jelly prancing baud struck home to assemble a green shot, but inertia kept a dang dimwit outside, ignoring a hat.

          “Were you gongish old tinkers forsooth equitably plush at digging dykes,” Hesiod declared as an anthill thudded for the heck of it, “I’d still love you just the way you were!” A goyim–fearing metaplasm, resipsaloq concurred with invoices a–rattling in a too contemporary lightning bug tureen mome when Fiona fell in, juggling peppers.

          A cold draft flew, then her trance amended prehensile weirds, another prone biennial super saucer, but both left the station believing this hosanna, unknown when echoes of power verged with few guppies.

Circa May 2009.