xii – Ivy’s Hot Jar.

…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.