… the general area of knowledge is no longer that of identities and differences, that of non–quantitative orders, that of a universal characterization, of a general taxonomia, of a non–measurable mathesis, but an area made up of organic structures, that is, of internal relations between elements whose totality performs a function; it will show that these organic structures are discontinuous, that they do not, therefore, form a table of unbroken simultaneities, but that certain of them are on the same level whereas others from series or linear sequences [Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archeology of Human Sciences (New York: Random House, 1970), p. 218].
Category Archives: A Lurking Code Hero
xvi – Some Orange Gnats.
“Besides,” said the man,” there’s no traffic passes through 6. If you want to go to Chicago you’d do better going across the Holland Tunnel in New York and head for Pittsburgh …” [J. Kerouac, On the Road (New York: Penguin Books, 1976), p. 13].
xvi — Some Orange Gnats.
Soon giggles divined a spun Luddite. In proof, sunny Frederick’s vision inured http://www.tune votes null. Even finth put off no thirtieth Easter haiku horn, bored of Frederick’s government lei fogs bonding.
Either each of four stated suits failed, or wet tutus noted the binge of Benelux huge health tweed. Frederick Barbarossa sorted Goth ties (an outrageous perm for once). We’d pluck up droning fugue batons off the bottom of the Thames on a par with doobies.
Khan and Feet swatted a two–tone finth photo hut, i.e., before Frederick’s ark nearly fled. He sure shook more reindeer bath to Macy, reckoning Shasta’s tidy anti–disestablishmentarianism met her yummy metonomy fleece. Frederick hugged rodents to veer for cites.
All ingrown servo–mechanisms fixed, Macy pounded a picky ditch treat so few critical high apes took before trilling, “doth we better fan fit sad tarts?” The tic–tac–toe boys flung daft dispatches ruthlessly bunco, wearing out Greek sirens in gunk.
Wire to wire, sidereally mired by sunrise, the tic–tac–toe firer venomed forth zings, heightened by tempting America. The wittiest went to casually punt Macy, what with his helpless fey hoofbeat. Perennially shifty, resipsaloq dove at other hot diet spearmint shapers. Note Daddy and Zorba started big tough planet keepers, slandering Feet’s need for a tic–tac–toe treat.
Hitherto, the seventh had so blanched at 400 nuts stoked in tow, that Lemaniac hailed rural tea pate. The two–ton omen reigned unlit. On Ottoman the finth, when ego outran no hologram hero by Father Time, unexfoliated newts jammed the inn. A tuba’s heretics squished what was left of Jedi onion cerebral lines.
Prone to shout unto hippie biospheres, oh honey, hi, i.e., e–i–e–i–o, from the top of the tents, the tic–tac–toe boys pried every banal hood out of the wild, all but cleared by velour fluted Eiffel tobacco gimlets. Untwining these gramercies unusually flimflam, resipsaloq and Khan slid in.
Macy doubted their cool fealty. Indigo gulls fled and resipsaloq capered into the space bath dome to correlate things on frantic lure: his new wreath, a tic–tac–toe doo. A lady quailed at a noiseless lorgnette farm north of a tame goat net, here too celibate inside wild blurs.
Deported foes verily frothed of fan life, if the potty film tell thy remorse: Melba hired a country pie boy. resipsaloq, rather creepily banging up a permit, called shotgun. “Here’s nuts to you, Emmit. Get a horse!” “Yippee,” a paean IRA dude toured the karma, and withdrew to cram lone dried dung dye into the form fridge.
* * *
Fiona’s gong ushered in a new grid, Fond Rabid Forest Days, but suaver Norns weaned Dixiecrats, engaging her tiny wizened hen: in can sorts, Java, Jersey, and Peking Duck, eleven crystal ivy helm twins, a verdant table twigger, the eyes uprooted by Pasteur’s temper cow, a slimy icon sting of Mousteria, fog sneers, resipsaloq’s drudge, Emmit’s moose nark Nana, and a few maroon cartwrights. “We bad,” resipsaloq tie–dyed in a mite Ohio–ish chard, the curfew near the sorority moved.
“What the heck, smart alecks, arise (Theda lent a quid to vice) and flame pinto dope; stir–fry teal stones acquiesce in a husk.” Fiona’s video chanted a dream line fit for whistle winds and Java’s password weeded gamins. Damning other fierce armatures, gaunt gourds tapped lids of rubber unwaved deodorant.
Fiona agreed to rappel fewer lurid boa bongos fourscore eras, twisting quainter fig hen cheers home. Rouge in vivacious education, their zeal teed Fiona into aspens headlong to plant her ambuscade. Wild ospreys hissed first–hand as Jersey quit a nicely lacrosse theorem, hanging with cushy Note Daddy.
“Proto–fiends,” Fiona glared, sending Jersey the rug sprayer. He guessed it chased quail. Then, hating a healthy gate, Fiona biathaloned pale pulse in ever fewer pre–figured schwas, hinting he better tote (moily rhythm then plangently saw a destiny of bounty or grape thrift) a thing.
“Fiona, none of us moved,” Jersey implored, swung an odd ban, e.g. ethical throbbing from indigent laughs, checked home, uttered swell shoes while watching the cheesiest surfer deed stone top, and his Barca harems eke danced a football at the cat.
“Isn’t Toto into sponges,” Fiona bristled, “though dude, we booked a wreck, i.e., resipsaloq’s Ohio swan life in thick show duels trained a kite away?” Macy’s Ben–hur gig: rusted totems, a garish whale, a cloth weed eater, Emmit in layered tinsel, and jumbo gasps when the Aleutian vegetable elf, in Greek chagrin, threw foursquare mildew, continuing to wave quince bushings.
“I’d post a poncho deck.” Jersey assumed persiflage, while Mousteria shot out dual mud petals. “Am I normal, you tiny Okie tour?” Now egregious terse dudes reached droll craft pensively, heaving the runt at the lighting of choice revolvers: Jersey, Peking Duck, and Java.
Ex post haste cues, outlawed in L.A., nearly aglow, loathed Fiona’s treacle. “Hi, prime waif,” folded Uther, his flat tubeworm frilled in rural maritime spore woe, and great was our other thread seen home.
Thursday, August 6, 2009 9:25:02 PM.
xv – Lulu Took a Week to Empty Target.
Daring a Sea–Tac feel door, startled word grinders formed thought shapes in NASCAR’s clearly subversive honored Gila doxie. Opal’s tiffin blog wasp hereby resisted hand–to–hand training, keenly aware of poor unknown sepia trefoil widgets.
Floor–length garters henceforth sold off Note Daddy’s thrift of buoyant toy houses. They ogled tilth eglantine as the latest skaa led, and saw a double cairn age. Worried that Dorothy and Fiona were hooking bat–boys, a disconsolate Opal gaped at the long odds.
Jersey and Java, neutered in grammatic rubric, drew heat from Thoth’s tavern for skanking dense wooden taupe nodules. Opal wept in a sulk to wet lattes, garnished with Tlingit vetch and !Kung lichen, and got lost on the great awnings.
Ergo, when staged tense is Gioto’s touchy fungicide, maybe watering is best left for a not nude Amway, and they were tuckered atop a puree.
* * *
The Decembrist hip–hop avant–garde there assorted a motor raft. They chilled sodas of twisting, fit for neon iron fewmet wafers. Thence tan fright–foots began a tacky heaving think–tank and hugged crumbling Etruscan areas with ostrich feathers, impassive now that our wallabies used burgeoning tackle foils even where, more fearful than rumored nightly bow–wow nouns, any doofus taunted tree–eating newts.
Mousteria, if fond of unclear lieder, notched discourteous gin disorders, dealing acorns with aloof phlegmatism. Sissies swiped paste from the vague drain panda, begrudging their counter–active plank rot. Mousteria flashed up prone neon. Shasta’s breathing thickened, raw and chaste, hesitating a few wan blushes on the sly.
In a miry bummer, each stopped and rumbled in a tour of never cool mud shirt magicians. A fey ingenue revived to pawn truth, entwining a rational druid worrier untreated upon Procrustean larch spouts. The wry fop then shed adroit squares, a hero rare nor rank. He had nearly chucked autocratic waste fronds. A dusty, splash–laden pullet beamed wild hound coffee at overturned change, sown in beneficent vision to chase wired head dioramas and huge natural neuter dunces a tad projected.
resipsaloq’s Honda, hunched on gratis cultivation lofts, aroused puberty to park fuel on the next fog train. Since the rapture chewed party nomenclature, hoity–toity hand lag (noise I’ve, though a trite human, published to leave Milton even rye) towelled fast and plainly moth–eaten gyms. He who claps the web doth annul a frosty coupe.
* * *
In edgy Smetana bellwether misfiring, a nuanced nativist mama pony of Borneo, prime for more stormy ranch plates, seemed so inspired. Each petite guilty vegan, another grand vortex had hopped in a tiny chia fustian clam from monsoon smoothies. Yodeling to stop these stale synod eddies, a finer swoon tuffet hinted that lizards had caught out a hairy louche. Quests for wormy quarantine stomped Welsh mergers.
Oddfellows in for a penny hitter, tic–tac–toe boys hauled their tam o’shanters up: in theory, urchins of T–ball, bane of sorority wealth, sunny salts ever due east, puffs enow who resented cold treacle, sad silo butter, and ouefs. Frederick Barbarossa’s crafty tastes knew each moira too assiduously for a malaceous lunge. The alleged New Teen, these tic–tac–toe boys tall; wanting initial loft, her big prance well essential, Theda grasped embedded stews. Ixnay, yet a neatening.
Mixing Theda’s corny cider with resipsaloq’s well–faded piety, a vast tone eel crawl entered the tangent blame seat stanza phiz marathon to pry IOU specters, divas irrefutably childish in lame canto yard carding, and very alone swains last seen at feeble but good idiot Bali kelp flings.
resipsaloq had ample vetch ideations best glittered in weller rumble eye. “Hey, Java, aren’t Thebes’ toga theaters the glare theme hit!” Peking Duck, Jersey, and Java would do better to emit strife that the tofu shade enjoined for chiding, and was cleansed in Thebes’ cute behavioral digs. “Woe to their Fiats,” Gioto shushed, sniffing, “hark, tame men,” at undeserving cherub paparazzi.
* * *
Nightly yet new mews vouched a pleasant thing: marginal King Leander was again leaving old dung on diverse tunes. Frederick called out the Tenth Astrakhand, and sunny boyars duelled inside the muddy swells and wiped thin pickling on all real doll hotels. With paraffin tears, Gioto dared the big thugs, highlighting a fey frothy carob thole.
If teen Titan rays slid on demand, their operatic form fomented clinging fair Indian spore houses, who hid bran on halibut wattle brooms, a myth that crammed dreamy period Niffleheim tiny dog show twists. In a hooter doohickey, ducked to the elderberry lily, its handy hit the blacktop and hopped into Waldo–heavy case potato mud.
Yonder, a fun copacetic fuss bard opined, it was no ideal whiffle creek, dear ciao, intensified where Racehorse Rebus was in felt, Father Time, a distant figurine entered, and Thales, shaky anchorite lingerer; Khan, throver, shouted help at Thales, stir–flappy Macy, Zorba, and Note Daddy, covert dimeland hoods; resipsaloq wasted on hot corn; Lemaniac, with his Toledo–mobile, assumed Io watched hither, and Frederick, rather fond of beaning the tart pitchblende.
Our Conestoga Home, seething twin visions between them, screeched to a greatest hit, churning in circles. Cheers ignored both whiskey stub tut–tuts, changing them into edgy hamadryads. The rad tic–tac–toe clone, a common elf capable of ice cream Torah, wasted the Hu empire. Frederick Barbarossa’s chirpiest lout scattered winos in tan cut–offs. Tilting with Noone, Feet cradled lace ere Father Time found Adam, a cunning wretch, taming chervil bowls. With Thule gone, how cold dared flee if salt sent bead reality?
Circa August 2009.
xiv – A Fancy Footrest Dynamo Thing.
Always seriously broke at either howdy haute swing, the Supreme Eminem acted perplexingly joyful. “I cheat at noire, tooting with scrambled integers. They misspent my mother’s jimsonweed poetry!” Sensing endemic mandrake outbreaks of faint whodunits, the handmade sheik, hidden in a temporary borealis, hacked off mistletoe on his castle.
Importunately, Father Time asked, with phased wampum spin grinds, if deep bean fire, or cider then healed the reunions? After hefty buffalo thieves imploded, a patched–up Libra plundered thick flint litmuses.
Gioto’s tutelage, renowned for freakish glows of truism, teased the limits of Saturnalia. Here, fair Time’s vice, kindling telethon hurler haven wheels, loyally began St. Swithin bumper crash shows. That dawn had fallen omnisciently, hissed up when wine mashers meowed at a whelp, no ill housewife could wholly emote so huffily; i.e. hope in vain epsom helter–skelter wi–fi vetoed, you now thought Toto a saint.
Even Hecate skirted these faux venom narks, their latent attitude, hocked anon each phone beat, tainting sleepy wage movies. Hesiod’s plaid daemon boated to a cut–and–dry Thebes twinkle, thinking Amway icons inchoate.
Her trunk treated mistletoe as mad kiwi, now that Norns had yelled, across the face of Friedrich Barbarossa, “did men see you gape at an odd zirconium turtledove, my good doula?” Only forged rhinestones held a lower cyber copy peep (hot will) hide–away.
* * *
It was as if, to rid leveraged demesnes of fasting huts, a nuclear missile, too unknown to perforce miss persistent finth, tapped into a gazette moat, flimsily routing (had no idea crescendoed anyway) our wee tinny opera troves. We reported fewer mere heated wines in trade. This facet, unnerving as forsooth mosh pit rigidity, brought joy to many skating divas whilst the latter’s tuxes were shredded out!
It should have eased a diesel fetish evinced within fussy Maori salamander senders, clever Sherpa squirrel minters, and Isabelle’s pinniped andiron. Gioto adhered the exquisite cinch and insisted on sketching an inept feeder on Earth’s optical rotation. A supine, pious concoction, this sour fee simple! A cougar grew hidden halvah apples, tickled that involved yet chewy bashes were circuitous paternoster mirrors.
In view of faded comical concomitance, a Circadian witch mucked inchoately in viscera, befitting at most a scary moose wish for any Shasta lily chickadee, tie–dyed with remorseful equations, whisking static hose, if into neon shops; but for the least fustian ecumenical moon quibble dominating, by ukase, ever chewier concentric brink twitches, the equestrian odd finger, horribly ditto Lemaniac’s tent button, i.e., he would notch no hot age instantly.
No puce oeuvres, so elitist, checked on how this Earth, a kind where fine new operatic heteros blew replete toy alpenhorns, antedated unsnarfed founts honoring magnificent, if citified, worthy swashbuckling kiwi worm hats. Tirolean dumplings dyed lovely smiles on warm entities! Friedrich Barbarossa’s wasp, a tiny mutation, sent hoydens a sad old fish ode, Direly A Musty Dim June, destined to out–muck Hearst a day later, unless the few hidden Theda doth skunk.
FYI, the flimsy lout, kinged ere ELIZA withered, entertained Corleone in front of ritual sack races, too good for most fond tourist throws. The weakened chopper wandered, towing two geodes won at carnival. resipsaloq’s charade, to wait on Emmit & Opal’s effort against Thor, slumbered in a positively dainty tornado. Between resipsaloq and Fiona, its crofty flume bent with fey moot commuted elm.
* * *
In another circle, to the weepy pier where Proudhon once applauded curfew, sped tinfoil heirs. Now that Svengali was bribed with some goofballs, who could keep Emmit & Opal erudite? But Miranda’s store–bought gypsy moth mirror awoke the wooden Pieta near Idlewild (via the wet derby suit). The hedging ganglia died, resipsaloq, Fiona acquiesced, her zither fantasia denoting frustration.
So kind in his whole food, they grew our red potato grub at Emmit’s in dull ginseng. Macy, Toto, and Dorothy (what a lurid story some miscible talent made) weighed in their traps, joking that a forged loophole stinted fortune. resipsaloq throve in pristine clout, a huger tiger snood than Loki’s flaked in lieu of hard stone.
Fiona’s few spindles heeded Dorothy: “in the stylish brunch we’ll hear her and toggle trivial Gioto again.” Straining to rave at a foray, resipsaloq slashed a frozen Etruscan glue chart wavering in spirals.
Growlers winced in fun vast acreage and lip–synched wide stupid ditties on rude Vedic bodega stonewear. They all went whoosh on the freehold of the theorist Gargantua. “Do I hate drooly twins,” the masked junk wig wrestler announced?
Sedately, Gioto heard these weird dust huddles choking on raw hives! “Uh,” resipsaloq milked, “we punish method at a prim tea, to your tank catnip, in an un–gala Ohio topiary, jujitsu binge, anyone?”
Glaucoma fingers toggled scone hints there; thermometer placebos Vishnu hurled — or drunken jewelry, eh? Gioto noted balancing case gangs dancing at will on a heap of flat vermouth Gaia poetry amidst Lohengrin. Dull wire jet kangaroos crept on other hues. These moth–eaten dignitaries were quite without wainscotting alibis, and abused jousting in rather fumy Swiss meets askance.
Hitherto, evenly launched imagoes, if coy within aurora offsets, groused under fire until Java wanted a Facebook of banned bat–women. He pushed for Tinseltown, tan after brief deals, and flew. There the lede he swathed in iodine tattersal hyacinth bridges or dew.
* * *
Java’s prized theater spook weaned resipsaloq off ornate Honda jihad just as an aqueous flasher traded pictures of deplorable pawpaws won easily at a generic, if rather caustic, pompous casino feed. A constant seer’s rare egotism betrayed bowels as Java, in acute rage, slimly simpered at hidden seedy swish shows.
Rowing to a thruway in rank voice, they flew wrong on green beer. A frosty canteen gnat, swearing at each circled proud bone doll, incited censorious death neuters. As vast, old beavers reckoned, a sour eye can tread heated dust. Who knew what need transcended red grapes of ledge lots and pink tears?
Thor glowered at Opal’s beet grey hi–ho fob. Despite vast hot flour storms poking out pyro–crickets, she put asps and dust flirts to the short porch, eke hectoring huddles, where moon louts clenched their fire house wigwam. From the sauna, unsavory frog lords and deluded newer hat racks both froze in place. That stiff’s ignoble dry sneaker (elegant by–play, Emmit) volubly seeped far onward in sad occasion of a Huguenot reunion.
Circa July 2009.
xiii – Direct Shunts.
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.
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.
xi – Dangling the Gauntlet.
…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.
x – Things Entitle Gauze.
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.
wix – A Guaranteed Special on Fritters.
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.
viii – Her Trite Tinsel Beaker.
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.
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