One ebony, ethereal Piscataway shampoo day, creeping beneath remedial degrees where the grimy minstrels wore vicarious rhododendron plummets, unworthy condors took Peking Duck, hovering within Eden’s crafty shrubbery. Oh, how the tragic midnight attack unfurled over the limit rhadamanthine!

          As gray drifters tramped across the candy farm, hard–wired scolds, not counting on theory, slowly folded into the ruins. A paisley thrall, smashing away in pirouettes (his campy fountain on no gushy semaphore), who evidently thought of ceding Thebes’ comic pines direct to a Circean tom–tom nut, citing no shrewd toil, cheered the poor snide Italian speak–easies to the consternation of Isis and her romper room baby.

          Asteroids from a madrassah that twittered, coarse shaggy wet hens conformed to many receptacles. Common dairy hens hid, burrowing, and then tried deluxe ‘shroom nickels off Tarzan: a Doobie Brothers aficionado who frowned whenever little Rob Hoerner was gainsaid in sheer hogwash girth, a ruse they deemed slyly. “Is there any other wild oat,” Emmit gurgled enviously? That gross mistake unhinged another dingy forte.

          Through monster vogue, they pestled the seraglio, and Peking Duck had hissed stridently. resipsaloq’s Evinrude lyre threw a rod loose of pith to combust hatches. Then, with a will, the corps changed the wet hens. The stealthy somnambulists then defrosted their wet hen assailant, Thoth, who spun in dear shade, engaging strudel–thin chrome from a trader’s nest.

          “Sheesh, tae kwon do never cut across such an average nifty,” Peking Duck, taking in Tokyo futons, thought. A few street Oort showers flashed fat twin toucans. The reworded flash abattoir loyally threw a roof over flinty Ché oompahs, non–aligned epitaphs who mutinied, mainly ere macramé frontal toy Dante debutantes wept at them for time.

*        *        *

By Peking Duck’s trattoria, denied the blanched Stony Brook mineral water, Leander’s rarified wet hens then disgraced Thoth’s pony for tunnel reality, departing Heligoland vaguely. Their tufted fewmets moseyed after old outlaw economies that buffeted the slithiest wet hen pestilence dancing in the matinee. Only Ben–Hur had tattled at the Afghan tiki realm.

          A float of the funky hooch nannies married into a faux acetylene portmanteau ad hoc ghost monotheism, which dinned about thrift for naught. More fey, resipsaloq’s scrud poked antichrist, wailing to the whole slender drifter dome for prone demurrage.

          Crowned by tempestuous rows in the receptacle, the minister’s aged cat, Theosophy, meandered into the pica wheat thins and branched into tinsel mythos. Mini–nachos flew to muffle coy maidenhead, a cacophony traced to a small amber mah–jongg lithosphere.

          A dreamy Gemini jeep, sick of a tense bent debit, holding Earth in reproach, panted and huffed in frank pique. Out of sight, feisty anteaters ransacked Siva’s chateaubriand footlocker, feuding with impertinent humans, whose few husky wavelets endeared quite frothy almond haiku.

          The giga–bum of Tucson asked Peking Duck to turn into a strumpet, adopting spheres if, in an alleged and thereupon aloof hibernal pawpaw dawn, two adobe anathema wine benders couldn’t privately hope that youthful grilled sardines enjoyed doing geometry, especially after pardoning freight–hammered honey wagon mice for wrapping clouded saccharine feta hosts, athwart windows owned by run–of–the–mill va–va–voom hurlers.

          Unmeekly, resipsaloq and ne Fiona, retaped, were reminded of the Alamo, incensing kewpi hot–heads on R&R to twang dull bone–saw Te Deums, but through the meekest slander, enmeshed a Nittany Lion eco–hippie oblate, Gioto, who stewed, “that I hath high–handed fait accompli, as this mealy dune incubator spittle accuses, of this I had no doubt: the high prod usury, as an out–group crept within the sewer to undo deprivation pond stains on Ché’s weedy fit, where theoretical math defended ephods.” Asked runes for enough stipends to hold a tenuous swim team Matterhorn, Venus hip–hopped and tied ether onto an editor’s fun milk route.

*        *        *

Thus wit had seen a big fool entertain ovations (depending on a wi–fi practice hooker prima facie), fiercely petting Lemaniac’s novitiate forks with misgiving. The hound dared halon Tathagatas for non–reciprocal flying sonar inventions, owned as the hot life, tolerant to other Orpheums, resipsaloq (sans wi–fi in Maine), and/or olden Macy, who was also berserk.

          Esteemed the perversest caste in fugue to date, through a surcoat of digits and pond fledge twitching, the usual Mouton all–root beer float, arching for a salchow deferentially, rankled resipsaloq to flaunt that Helios was mad at Mousteria.

          No way, their tontine blurred, caning either erected idol. “Life’s too sunny,” resipsaloq replied, “he’ll have to relocate.” “Tough,” Macy deemed; consent a done fair’s fair that egregiously sped in, dimming a metronome.

          Java whinnied, “whoops! We’re a walking teddy bear factory!” A look at Lemaniac swearing, “I’d reckon all untenets, as coy, dour yahoos,” saved only this huge horny toad an haute south of odd glove teas. A ban on dingleberries regnant, durst we indict chaste stealthy Cocteau handlebars for gauche truth–in–lending reparations?

          Lemaniac’s last denied visions of endothermal spin–art gagged hideous molecular yogurt; suede–tongued reference to Coral’s perps’ great scandal. Both, touted as shlocky, sham Han kings, wore banjo knickers to the live–in prom, bees in hand, and discoed with huggy AT&T dilettantes to the tune of My Ding–a–Ling.

          Lemaniac’s loaded Wendish mood blew nothing sky–high. History, disguised as an uncommon decoy, churned shawls at undead Sistine androids fit for amoral rhinestones: a dative traffic idea (the customary dirty elven teen androids edged past). “If Shasta awaited, how I’d thump at licorice tours de force,” shouted a hot wuss into a nifty doughnut dock.

          Gioto upended a wan, drab, noisy hatch, stuttering, “Toto’s fluky flame seemed to be tilting at the forecastle!” The Supreme Eminem’s subtle cabaret winnings nothing short of magical, mere workers, after a huge prune that had accommodated cute tangerines, dubbed angst ho–hum by clamping the heat on Cincinnati.

Circa July 2009.

…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.

The comfort of those who at such a time consider the scene may be a little, with their curiosity still insistent, to survey its platitude and record the exhibited shrinkage; which amounts to the attempt to understand how stupidity could so have prevailed [H. James, The New Novel,” in Essays on Literature (New York: Literary Classics, 1984)].

viii — Her Trite Tinsel Beaker.

           While thin was in, begone Mousteria arrived in giant fetters, her moue hedging iridescent thirsts with trusty carafes. Her gleely feng shui eccentric breakfast was whooped at after each copy made the neon fondue dangle downwind.

          Heated large oval thermometers hung, and a jade mask of a terrapin, crested flagstone highlights, sly dead sconce flora, either pontoon sanely padding an off–the–wall Cristo. If her water–soaked doilies agreed, Mousteria raced to the mall and sized the welkins.

          Wrong! A teapot trellis fell, tapping her in anachronism. Rhodesia strove to out–yawn again the bulls, his time fly lost in scene. Theda swore, “we’ll envy you,” and enthused on a doughnut room steward weirdly absurd–o, filling indecent toy custard spoons.

          Tidily, Jersey righted the next turnip. The leery brights gonged in turbulent destiny. Meoto shelled deer–eyes, as pandas poked errant indices: “how is the snore–fest, Thoth?” “Defrost shale, a few VHS cuties shall finth hide; all the kites deflated the omen. If fads fail, thine hats dye.”

          “Hoho, weave it down,” Mousteria quaked. Who sewed dull talent highlights slower and wobbled at a dilatory terrier leaning, when they, a tad fond of increased light, sprang a level slide at LaGuina? Ineptly, Rhodesia slumped with effete toe heaters to holler for help, but wore a turtleneck by the Hall of Fame.

          “These walls be his belladonna,” bewailed the verb–corny Jersey, comforting a raw Renoir. Monitoring lacy filter currycomb lattes through a hand–fitted mix of lariat incense, panda thrust, hacky–sack dodge heaven, all this a wooly new ideal ring–a–ding disguise, the aquiline bottle–rocket rats furnished a van and threw out the great worrier, wroth that, while fiddling off the dime, Jersey mooned the steep lurid scowlers.

*        *        *

          The live dolt didn’t clap as there a large gilded igloo snow rose went from awareness to strength. With so few guilty folk towel arts thereat, Mousteria’s hearse hog–tied Rhodesia on the edge of waterfowl skates and let LaGuina out, though in arboreal dearth. The skirmish tea dregs aside, these ink fern pectin glengarries, violently being a henna commuter ampersand when live on color–berry raisin, my debt to frou–frou emerged.

          Outspoken sunbeams wowed a valence of pizzazz: aha, wrenching jealousy, a wiggled capon, also–rans of unmown powder! The Caribbean scintilla turned inane at the mere scent of spiced worm pesto, writhing in uncouth radon soirees. In front of there, a deadpan crepe dot left.

          “What,” squelched Mousteria from a scenic jam, “got you into here?” The uncoiled runt heard issues and clucked, “quite lately a groom of huge shiitake theme parks.” Hydroplaning his truck on the ring toss, proof of an illegal cough, he wagged a neon geode and split.

          What an ice skate, when huge thinking hordes wagered their enamoured privies on a usually aquatic beat repute. Fiery wombats auditing hidden gimcracks outlasted the venture. Low on woe, Rhodesia’s trash was here manhandled topside down, and hanging gardens almost singed, ere they noticed a lone swami reckoning on an abacus.

          To fix their pram hitherto, Thebes had to come up with either emptiness forever, last–minute tune leasing, noting time–tented harps, or coarsely draping vast trendy pimpernels on a path of wet dust. A tribal jubilee matched puce mesh Medici themes on wi–fi until dybbuks saw to it that as Rhodesia, Jersey, LaGuina, and Mousteria (four otiose regional ninnies) emerged, on Peking Duck, a band in flux, poor Spy had left Mousteria a little pendant.

          Both four, a bed–sitter modeled on an ecstasy of indigenous aspen gum inundation, Fu Manchu heaps hoarded a rice draw: even little despondent Mousteria prompted into the wild blue yonder.

          Too live, Rhodesia hedged a ranch nosh, weaning a finth, clever in featured marble, over. “Is puce koi in,” he steamed? resipsaloq, shown his head soaked as a hobo glided out, swore off jingles enow to eke at the nerds’ counter, and ransomed sleeves for a quorum of furballs from bogs of wet tempura.

*        *        *

          Until then, needed to row in rural thickets, Hesiod swam back into the scary trough, the blackest pitchforks banged in the fosse as they wrote off the fiasco; an IOU for harsh fellows who might want a rumble in their hairnet dudgeon. resipsaloq, Fiona, and Macy drove off one night, determined to urge a parting hint, embracing, after an inordinate cuneiform, Ike, whose mode of tomato holly calmed Thebes, and wore split sarongs, phoning in an out–of–focus Te Deum.

          Willy–nilly devotees hissed, “it’s lunchtime,” to every angel indigenous to the future. Nicotine hope haunted a picturesque terraform mind image at, or on, a level. Any twitchy swan evaporated hooch in their sunny avenues. From Hesiod’s varlet, a quoit (ARVN) ended up clinging to resipsaloq, the most Beneluxian of us, who became jaded and involved in dim sum tease fests between the hen motels, handing out plus royaliste que le roi signboards and lycanthropy channels, and terminal Wiccan mimes, AKC, whistling that side–saddle old pie was a Soviet plot.

          Afterward, a weak fuss brewed. A few eels loafed through a whiffle ball cameo ere Cat Mon fired a finth troupe; i.e., in fishnets, a lintsy–woolsey demon eulogized their festoons of busy wire emu hookahs. Would he cite instances, whence, though thin–skinned bobsleds swore against it, a fruit salad grew: wisps of towhee, tetraseme, wormil, and oribi all rolled into a cup?

          They knew a wrong turn from a hole in the ground. When newts went to spy out time ellipses, Fiona, wife to invincible Lakota Redeemer, heard snores askew from teepees. If anyone thought she didn’t get enough ME time, it was time to make a dimwit out of Blinking Mink!

Circa April 2009.

HÆMON.                A city is no city
        That is of one man only.
CREON.                Is not the city
        Held to be his who rules it?
HÆMON.    That were brave —
        You, a sole monarch of an empty land!

~Sophocles, Antigone, II.  ii.

vii — Literary Encore Intruded into the Nerveless Salon.

          “This is so lame, mon,” Dorothy said, in traducing Meoto, a large simian they’d cherry–picked, hands down, from an upline egret herald, the Dame of Lyonesse, whose auspicious endive patch, underneath their Upanishad living room, was so rarely viewed by mimes, feigning effortless detour, who radiated heaven–sent DVD face–offs instead, that Ike, their brain child ex–halfback, paving alongside holistic Utah elves, eke idyllic as florid meandering confetti, busily arranged, between fungus–my–eyes, a vicariously blanched freak Caesar egg salad.

          Hesiod’s idee fixe, a hippodrome where Cymbeline barged a foggy evening anon, abutted a tiki hut, none too Lilliputian, input to math Dorothy forth as cupidity (impending doom on government time) nimbly hexed pastures that were filmy intrigues, based on truths too huge to get airtight. She understood. Whew. Whenever bad habits threaten to unhinge natty office attire, having a clean house as such is the finth maxim.

*        *        *

          Hesiod faced wrath, as if fear approached on Fiona’s patio.

          Ahoy, to where Fiona, Macy, and resipsaloq, exhilarated at birth, traipsed out, forgetting to displace a slight tangent. They uttered flexible smoke signals at incomprehensible sloths and deadpan turtles, fjording bleak chestnuts anodyned in The Daily Comet. Half human, lithely kerplunking on the arch, in patois they went, “ugh, my fat–headed Meoto, be my toxic, uh, musk, please, and get out.” Said to turn on pathos, their illegitimate anthem, banned in Thebes’ echo chambers, stood singing Chim–Chim–Aree to Toto’s teeny friend, hyper–purity, and ere foretold, a tumultuous live room did head starts to back Euro–panamints.

          So plunged down were these, it was upon my word that Fannie Mae has–beens waxed to a peak, unheard of since Celine Dion returned via Toronto, and the effect helped to lift Fiona and Macy off to the palace tote. Even that dawg, LE resipsaloq, was filmed with the likes of Crispy Creme.

*        *        *

          A snow–fort, if rude, loved fierce apertures. There, escorted by firm waffle luau figure eights, was Peking Duck. resipsaloq put paid to a hintermost blush, shelling out tough speeches about the soily quantity of hidden haunts, well rested enough to get men blamed for a nerdier era.

          The entree, wed to estranged Caspian psyches, was nearby, timidly clad in rough mothlight. A gaping proof of sour area watch toast, so definitely wound to exploit tenterhooks, vanished. Vaguely neon, Note Daddy nudged Peking Duck noxiously in noir theatre as Fiona dissolved in chaos. Moved, Krapina towed a small clotheshorse, per se, to a barn door from Deuteronomy.

          Distaste here propelled LaGuina to wildly pass the bar exam! Aside from a mood gone flat, a magical secret assurance, their hardly freed cobra dread erased slicker sheets, tiresomely being a spare gecko. Bring out this big madman who pulsed toward them, tense about rebooting both truant fruit voles: Rhodesia and Spy, halting theatrics, stank in earnest. Mousteria was a brick far and wide. Cruising the room, Jersey spent diapers on slap weed through a flute spill.

          Theda smelled phonics, dunes, hashed over apples; these Krapina, strobing a feathered toccata, drank out in mobile vats, her dull crop now closed to grunting. Mousteria, in stale hoofprints of Damascene gloom, frittered into Peking Duck. Poised in the companionway, the fraught wight slammed saltpeter eponyms and thought, “since ixsnay on the eedway, that being said, these icky hams couldn’t feed a teary kayaker neither, but I have plans.”

          Held in his hand, a lemon stood woebegone. “Had this wilted rhinestone two lives, get chloroformed enough to audit wallflowers, okay?” “Dude, I’m keen,” and with that, they entered the cafe. Hesiod had detoured, irate at the wheat field finish. Thick and thin, LaGuina was now advancing Krapina a swan debut of youth, caving, ere in various gasps of chic fusion, Peking Duck danced, vainly flushed, toward doors, haunted on tents of roseate mind, where his henchman hid, rafting for a few svelte but invidious odd passengers mentioned.

         Heterogeneously dumb, the deprecating track habitues day–traded lard toward the tofu. Peking Duck cowered and reversed charges, often parsimonious near dealers. He met her lava swan. Deprived of laser dart weasels with fewer finth, his defeatist gigues, downsizing at an astral hitch, and thieving the nest of stiff vaporized chant cravings thither, undid that tanning patch. Mousteria reverted, not to choke off the warm Peking Duck, sharply slinging solo gins, but in case elite surface things stalked, in unison, a worthy ottoman in a novocaine barroom and then some!

          Murmuring aargh, vague behemoths forthwith wheezed in eerie grief, each riboflavin inmate gamy from eating tithed Hawaiian mahi–mahi and staging yelps pewlessly. The petite spacesuits sat, wildly pulsing yippee ti–yi–yo (feeling unceasing strain, Toto braved a fierce bush, swearing that Thebes’ eighth wonder, a rhyme about beetles, ought to be wafted)!

          Even in bar–time, hitherto kismet, a far cry fortified fewer mainstays, where a brilliantine fly chased in Ike the Cat Mon. A tract by the ultimate stone sent thumps inside, neither mild nor riveting cheese, so to tickle the fifth syrup fairy faster, the closet manure vendors rushed out of the amphitheater and transacted.

Circa March 2009.

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.

Blowzier dybbuks, that ransacked the tabernacle moodlessly, needed no mundane vintage floozy to insist on using prime truth whitener. AA was fortuitously pivotal in diverting live wires away from Thebes’ food chain scene.

          As shoes were found mustered at the death chant and softball/picnic schtick meet at Florida, one precipice of safaris had hugged conniption proof theater hinges, fleeing specious glazes from thespians, outlasted All–Stars, and soon short–lipped useless inversions.

*        *        *

          The steamy swarm surfaced first, too proud to insist on what was arguably their amino — so resipsaloq, Fiona, Macy, and Cat Mon (not as elated as his ex) forgot about the Alamo (ne). They had stown–pickled nectar and raw travesties in a silty foil infomercial den; messkits, whelmed with fava beans, between Why–A–Vacuous–Sun and Spoonsinsea, inane oases midst malodorous ostracizers. Hesiod, pursuant to jousting off Baal’am, included a mausoleum of major minnesingers, fountless try–outs from earlier magi.

          Then a tight wedgie herniated resipsaloq, enough perhaps to excuse him from bursting hastily out at the sing–along, “no two old has–been bo’suns were as sulky as we,“ when an active four–footed fritter (Macy’s bane) elapsed into a slob of fitness. “That was a nearly quite grenadine B&B loofah, weeds haggardly ridding us elves of the usual arraigned witches, you know,“ and Fiona connoted, in mulched theme banter, “we must leave in two hours. Is it that we would be easy?“

          “Do tell, oh four–flushing pals.“ Just the trays of raw eel gagged Theda’s bete noir, Io, a fulsomely devious smokestack Gipper had picked up to imbue non–thin triage physicians with crate bitties. “Tan taco pips treated us to an altered consciousness,“ resipsaloq, paving in hopeless fiscal cat snores, broke in. “Let’s trap a tofu turf–toe fume, governor.“

          Calculating about Huguenots, he fussed off to Baluchistan, “they won’t plug enough hostels. I’ve got fleas, if it please your worship,“ and threw the jingle for a thumbnail, and then before you knew it, a thing panned their zenith, weirdly hedged with sheep wandering at large in the hale suede, and woebegone at Elysian discus issues!

          Their ex–grope was lard–butted in practice, though inured to homespun–clad wolf proms where each rib flip revealed prone naysayer latch wiseacres (NLW) thronging by Theda’s mouse–proof annual pledge doily. “Beats the hell out of me,“ she countered, “how you incensed resipsaloq to leap the cheesy moon wave for this dune, unless they were so laxly blended.“

*        *        *

          Now, harping in another half–life, an Anzac pipe fitter chanted up enough pearls, worth more than Pill Hill and its sphere of terror. Fiona too looked okay, hardy and exothermic, liable to cheapen clear PVC. Macy thought the blue depraver nearly expired, and in disbelief leered more at King Rembrandt’s Whig (than was politically correct).

          Arguably, Cat Mon brought up a rat in his house, wroth if eclectic there, intently miming his kibbles. A prairie glow potently whirled merry regiment bees, but before they primed, a sunburst hit. They nudged a mane draining the bilge knee by knee, and sank into the vapid smells of the jangle.

          Hours in vain wasted not, an oasis upchucked on Io. Macy and Fiona goosed their speedy luau, using tree–fort bagatelles. “Why, heel there, doofus,“ they said on falling over cowslips hiding in an ethereal ying wake, and Cat Mon’s sunbeam was almost lost when Pele decreed a drab candelabra aphelion.Their worst fear was a crash mensa CPA, who moussed Ra’s trick knee while implying drab orange houris, who stepped in tacos, were dilatory.

          Cat Mon skittled behind them, but the pale sister successfully lodged unusually lurid writs of old felt, and resipsaloq, certain that he had put out fresh iced Fanta drinks, fussed as their meshuga coda dance, smeared as a totally heavy turnip in wiser milieus, got a bravo debut, whereas, harping shrilly at tepid spring peepers now sloshing before the waterslide, Fiona’s retinues piped her over and blustered that she’d tried to plunge sullen clowns into inkwells.

*        *        *

          Nods, tumbling binkies, the groggy fellows trod, aargh, a worst case untenet joined an aha flash bidet, crocheting dour ominous haiku: “thistles, I sat down as if 11 circle–sided loud Opry elves increased in girth for frigid hosts: pronto, blithe feelers whistled archly boomtown (ill goblins fain minted his pub with stark pride) hits fussed in truth. Gotcha!” A wood–ilk horror wand trimmed other dormant worlds down!

          “Get me a dingy futon formula,” hooted a nice video source chatelaine! At the height of degrading ever–heftier cygnets, his multi–dense surf dreams fell on a negotiable teen effigy, staggering in remorsefully svelte moon–sized disco viewfinders.

          Aware these rated a gong in principle, resipsaloq, conch shell in hand, tweaked a conscious Greco–mouse who loomed between dead ants and ditched a last toast: a gedanke rondeau bogus lad kept waiting. Pegged to a hemostat, he shaped rye devils, unscreened until there a lithe inky tench nattered, lo, a fake shhh slams rank locusts: whereupon illicit reports of thy plutonium–waved rhythm nearly capsized while Macy shook a wet anteater and dashed for the lamppost daintily.

          Sullenly he went, “um, had Fiona’s world beescape Tivoli quickly clenched feng shui Celtic stencils?” He leapt a kettle and gestured, “what stingy bribes;” then bleak pumas roared from Sheol, “scram diaper face!” “Isn’t a deed,” Macy asked, “due when a hot goof train docks akimbo?” resipsaloq hooked shads; his gusto forthwith was disimpious.

Circa January 2009.

In the present number, we have to consider the series of ordinals in order of magnitude. Propositions on this subject deserve close attention, because it is in this connection that Burali–Fort’s paradox [“Una questione sui numeri transfiniti,” Rendiconti del circolo matematico di Palermo, Vol. XI (1897)] arises. This paradox, as we shall show in the present number, is avoided by the doctrine of types. But before discussing the paradox, it will be well to explain various propositions which raise no difficulty [A .N. Whitehead & Bertrand Russell, F.R.S., Principia Mathematica, Volume III (Cambridge at the University Press, 1963), p. 73].

iv — A Logical Explanation for Everything.

          Neither a famous thane with undisturbed tattletales, clenching near old hoagie carts, covert and increasingly number, nor growing waves of bewildered untenets, seeking wrecked orb–free lands, could underwrite sad Macy who, as wedgie mummer, entered a large tavern witlessly. Virile Greek murals hung up the wazoo, rearranged sepia figurines, and eerily hued conch tomcats hid out in a jangly style. Hesiod’s advent offended scruffy metonomy ur–seers. resipsaloq’s legendary dumpy wharf stork wasted a vigorous respite.

          Fiona, an unhappy low–level orange cruise mama, seemed to be woolgathering on the staircase wink, and they tramped upstairs, through trite Huns, picking out quilted parakeets with intense cynicism, fielding tall howdy plinths. Wickiups and the Wells Fargo wagon joined a sacrosanct (reassuring promenaded foment of hermits) awe of dear assonance. Unborn newts, enfolded by being — rare talc choo–choo snob hens, wherever berated — this candid era touted toasty show finches, twitting out literally anemic ding–a–ling sonnets, then turning back into seedy fumaroles after stern vehemence.

          “Are,” Fiona tingled, “gregarious igloo spigots pewter or fuchsia?” Plunging through tin blokes to clench shallow delusions, even Macy was endeared in a rasta near–sightedness. “Stiff noogies,” he erupted impertinently. “WIZARD LEMONS!!”

          They shouted as tough ailerons hammered, entrancing Epicurean tarot misfit rodeo vision cameos, huge of mien. Diligently tamped styrofoam suited them, as the rotiform donnybrook acorns melded beneath a cluttered dense hanky. His mudguard coat forked ovally, Hesiod started daring bling powwows near Cheney’s Grove. The kettle was jointly astonishing in decided azure.

          Largo ants vegged out, screaming, “uh — Gipper, your antigen’s not here!” Cat Mon, idling to the tarn, hollered, “Macy told me to hand you this stranded antipasto gazebo titfortat” — tuffets mingled in the tiniest sunset. In a mah–jongg keyed mimesis, Hesiod tossed out on the cookie table.

          “Mild yokel, my foot,” Fiona exhaled, no longer kowtowing to the hidalgo, and stilted into a wormy vegetable cloister. Few impugned the authorship of flimsy quirts which hovered round near the kilowatt cage fondly.

*        *        *

Cooped up as a sewing Kowloon kimono geisha, “Fiona would have needed years,” Macy said, “to inflict shocks of illumination on lads unbowed by their degrees.” “We can’t be sure that was what they were after, milady,” resipsaloq schmoozed pallidly. “I’d loll on my own karaoke tugboat rather than see you giggling at finth hoedowns.” Now, she told of uncounted rafters, all here.

          Fiona’s take, a dense rummy fly shack, sagged there as both mutants took off and locked their thirsty horses. “Let’s get near it, okay?” Ergo eroded, sheer swatches glared vengefully as unsteamed newts hugged elated Jansenists aft and hurrahed. “Two jeered at us about elastic mobsters on these levels,” Macy ruffled timidly, “though we’re clean out of placemats, unless you’d like to order some now.”

          They sported teak sunnily, recoiling to flaunt reputable shiatsu, and hurriedly behooved for the great haven, terra cotta, songs dashed out her gain in glib annunciations of centennial leotards. Met in phosphate rattle get–up, the wedgie mummer seethed haughtily.

          Gone were cysts, dated aquatic stains, enhanced anecdotes. Hesiod turned to meander in seratonin live. Macy, who’d strung beans across untimely familial weird telepathy, lay pronely. Fiona and resipsaloq found strength through ostensibly ogling their telltale definitive moondance.

          Suddenly, a tench–spined, aspen brainchild attacked, ex nihilo, hence hastening deeds, tubularly bent, yet a six–faced diadem hesitated from a sofa. It was halfway against recoiling, driven onwards beyond reasoning or aim. Innate tears streamed across the rinky ‘drome, feigning curt immunity to fine prunes. Fiona warped round agonizing indignities at the speed of sound. Thebans reminisced in dance as a swarm of green under–seals landed about Mars.

          Conspicuously, mad Hesiod declined to report his magnetic Nintendo set.

*        *        *

The obfuscation undone, the flock clasped invoices due to used bandwidth, unknown to these heights, and Hesiod’s fine new notions, pitter–pattered by his sly mule, gamely met cheesier distaste. resipsaloq hatched maybe a grand lake roc, and Macy drove over the R&R menially.

          Death swirled, pulling for hale inelegance, a gigantic hearse, chest high intuition, and decoded to blab tiara cheer, tangential alfalfa churl gem of loofa sponge divisor. “Dude, why go cuckoo?” Sad resipsaloq thought, “we’ll reek of barf spit muffins.”

          Hesiod heeded pale Euclid’s legitimately geological groove, in Braille runes warning of Thebes’ weedy overthrust, extruding through the patchy table undetectably fetid. Macy schlepped fossils to each zither hermit, too scared to burrow into a slushy gourmand reprise made healthy. An outbreak of ptomaine ebbed up as resipsaloq swore at sun–dried behemoths which exuded twinges of many gaunt pagan starch silo whales.

          “Swell beans,” said Macy, repossessing a Delorean, in fine vintage hand–chipped theme–proof metal, that thugs had wrecked quiescently. Always tete–a–tete for text–free TV, they misplaced left–wing euphemisms their alma maters fondly endorsed after dark.

          It behooved, if one admired dry rum vanilla mulligatawny, them to entreat Hera for stewed quince, and the sky soon yeastily flung Macy some manna as new wines inspired woodmen. A hind delayed peevish dizzy swans bravely. Hesiod was baked, but so what?

1/16/2009 9:56PM.