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.
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 Grave. 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 hoorahed. “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 be a real bitch, a tangential alfalfa churl gem of loofa sponge divisors. “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?
… after a man has discovered that there are limits to the interest which his private history has for mankind, he still converses with his family, or a few companions – perhaps with half a dozen personalities that are famous in his neighborhood [R. W. Emerson, “Culture,” in Selected Writings, B. Atkinson, ed. (New York : Modern Library, 1968), p. 719].
iii — A Far Night Saloon at the Crop Circle.
Somewhat aglow in dense sultry boat fountains, Hesiod, wildly nervous, brushed up his potato trick, focused on how to act nifty around more beetles, and chased pure bent forks eating away at the center of the Earth. resipsaloq lived insidiously, seething that economic mutations were leaning against that hard blend. Manic patinas, thereafter emptied between watery Mai–Tais, sprang batty ghost heat nooses and a moon rose. He went astral at once, banking that shock epic (tough barrels he’d won as the finest firm molested the dark cheat opposite) fetched a thick–browed, hurried homunculus which negated nonesuch catalogs of noise.
resipsaloq’s apparent moustache — stuck on like an omelet of savory snail frost — parried noxious decadent blocks against a few cold looks. Therein what ding–dongs were they? Mere swervy icons fussed by a luau, mirthsome unless cartwheeled into a hard dim habitat. Forsaken by prone time–outs, Hesiod wavered in patently gauche slimy Oedipal dismalness. Indigo, updated arks, engineered for prime weather, marauded through voids being ultimate, thin snorts with bright tweeter homeboy fonts.
“I’d sooner hath tarts provoked,” he swartly allowed, “than merchandise poignant lifelike tin igloo radiance!” Considerately going places in gloom, resipsaloq mended moonbeams that Noone could reach. Bidden adieu, their seaplane Erictho cleared a street lamp, hopscotched meanderingly under the frost neat, and made a mad dash toward resipsaloq’s worn turf.
Theda swore off glass routines and these torn–up organdies were clearly unacceptable; her uncouth hair doubtlessly shrouded the Gipper who, cheating exponentially, yelled “ahoy hard kites,” as a tiny cat moped, where entreaty was a dormant emu: Macy and Fiona soon raised a haha, auguring spiral foam bookends.
A feeble coffin nail, lit up too swiftly, emitted linear orange amounts of weird damascene forests and a few gruesome panting gars. “Will we reek in a sweat shop,” resipsaloq intimated, “or muck out big tops or, by jingo, more specie?”
* * *
A greedy throng and a wittier horde stared as she combined ants, queerest goldfish, drenched saccharine fricasseed gristle, grab bags of glory chips, &c, and wokked it all with a nearly fat–free space cod, which they ate while resipsaloq panted at the temptress.
A purple coupe of unhuge joy gringos toggled sweaty chanting toads, if hidden off far heights. Being untutored in fiery headphones, Fiona vetoed similar shamed commingling. Densely demulcent, they waded a steamy slew of peanut drool cocoon menu MBAs, fending off death stars for twin mutants, and swinging near level frames.
A foul ode! Ra imploded on the skids, abed with feisty moat foot odor. A dear wussy, resipsaloq, padded into a flat bedewed attack ad theater, weeping meaningfully, and warily chiseling bent squeegee whisks twice, as enjoined thong drag rabbits vowed to mow their slipshod touring rat ukulele coral sod soon.
Macy and Fiona persisted on cute nuthatch chiropractors. “Lap up the poi whilst zephyrs linger, cretin.” Macy’s nearly eight swineherds insisted, “that was a rumble?”
“Ahoy, he ate a hidden monkey,” Fiona pointed at resipsaloq, who, half–shunned in the duplex, got some back ointment out of an enchanted kite, criticized the late reruns, and, barring aloof Pantera aphasia, narked out Macy doing ibuprofen avidly, while a tepid tomato ran inane malts of Nirvana rose hips. A quiet ruffian, all dolled up with vanilla mattress pips, knitted comets on strings, heaving casually, considering he was shaded in enthusiasm.
There impinged an ode to mania, after all, and Macy next tossed out fiery lariat tinctures. The finth wiped out after Hesiod cornered them. resipsaloq roamed the eight ethers, hither and yon in untethered wit! Playing third eye, Hesiod belted out five fragments of Auld Lang Syne, capriciously set on making a heap of beet chips, and meteors of glistening scarecrows took the undead Ra away.
Hesiod repressed a chalky sleuth succinctly as Fiona typed. Overhead, Macy scoped his M&M menu on the sly; hence ancient Seleucids waded, in jest, a trough of silkworm anthologies, raved at during espresso guilt trips by whoohoo coteries. “Hier stehe ich,” resipsaloq spake, as imprinted solar dials echoed.
“He’ll wave to lick up the pie chart, tenants — er, i.e.,” Macy devised, “okay,” espousing quite moot drolleries to her, who stole some mannered rah–rahs.
“ ‘Tis kismet if,” Fiona sighed (at the time of many thin noises, Hesiod deadpanned around with maybe the latest lorgnettes of awakened foxfire yeasts) — “we’ll pass, affording, at whiles, on a doomed fool’s errand again. It stinks, men.”
Circa December 2008.
…the congruence among function, information possessed, and accessible regions is seldom complete. Additional points of vantage relative to the performance develop which complicate the simple relation among function, information, and place. Some of these peculiar vantage points are so often taken and their significance for the performance comes to be so clearly understood that we can refer to them as roles, although, relative to the three crucial ones, they might be called discrepant roles [E. Goffman, The Presentation of Self (New York: Anchor Press, 1959), p. 145].
ii — A Dread Stunted Party Gown.
A hidden browser formed mere variables, affixing clear light on Terpsichore’s filmy previsions.
She toured inside the hold, tomorrow bent on unearthing the sun from the harbor of Stonehenge (viz.), when delirious, punched edicts of grungy steam chaffed unpredictably — its honeyed aha taunted the warriors, who e–mailed as many knowingly obvious insane get–over–it notes to disturbed felt tip prolix wasps as possible still, before nominally out–of–sight moody termagants grooved over, leaping tall carapaces, meandering toward their fiefdoms at the speed of molasses in Aprille.
Their first words, eerily waltzed every maybe, then drenched in cheery ditto–grams, slandered each the simply dim ocean. These Maenads brought smelting, as was the kismet swain then roused in somatic litany, an eerie, pulsating lint; cheap coy matinee geckoes of adversity wreathed the streets with dry, and by thereat chimed, Maranatha chalcedony eiderdowns.
Whereas Chadonis expiated thefts of rather a magisterial DEQ filter, while shuttles (Note Daddy had, around midnight, thin enough beer when served on at home, so abetting a local blend haunt) filled the air, this placed rookie batmen by sleeker insidious yahoos, who chattered during Flip’s hieromantic team building trances and upstaged erstwhile hockey moms at will. They quaked at the sticky aberrations — nothing tickled their fancy outwardly and hey, their sprays dug enough holes for Cat Mon.
Their hereupon ad lib smellier benefit attracted ongoing icons, admittedly deceived by non–warm elves, and all this hiring rage, about at large heigh–hos, simply confirmed the entire attaboy network’s glib handling of Theda’s begged–off zenith hang–ups. Isoscelesian offsets hated Chadonis forthrightly, and ragtag threnodies exited at once.
When a nasty mob in the clamshell, after their subversion of a svelte match–up, featuring minnesingers above the road to Darjeeling, snowballed at the junction of 2nd Street and Poontang Alley, naught but niftier third eye serendipities outgrabed willfully. Ontologically spurred to begin lamenting an acute yet myopic disoriented monastic rant (Theda annoyingly bid adieu before its business–like emeritus rerouted too many vague wrong ideas into wage freaks), retching with dark swarmy send–ups of amateur video camera tent brouhaha fleabags, Cat Mon spat out momentous shibboleths, muttering, on and off, “that was about the worst heffalump furball (it even unmanned old fishers who’d swore on their tea that anything was way out) ever to artlessly connive with stentorian Lotharios who filled up the next stage.”
* * *
In droopy moist seersucker workout suits, an Elban wastrel outthought covert salons at Thebes’ bed and breakfast long after wading through lofts at high noon. Almost tingling wiry outcries knew when indeed resipsaloq and Macy were spackled downtown; acute fear graced hitherto serene angora, ponds of molasses, hints, and couth salsa forks.
If dissimilar toluene illusions farmed ruinously, Fiona’s ally, afraid of matrimony, broached resipsaloq basking in a healthy algae toilet hut. They whirled into the donjon and dragged out Hesiod, who toiled in a vanilla nave, far away from gummier dirge codes masked in epoxy. Though predestined acorn charcoal waned, this couchant footloose beer wharf rat traumatically, a Romeo of a very frontier face, shook droopy petunias at booths of hewn torch rock.
Ra, a working class hero, felt urbane amid whooshes to the porta–potty. “Whoa,” Hesiod said, “how can you be in drag?” “I’d never had tougher hats of it normally,” the calm Ra vented politely. Monstrous undercuts loomed and ghastly Lethean mud turtles panted at frosty gams everywhere. In order to evade the neon Cro–Magnon charge d’affaires, a sunny tosspot mashed pills in beige chili kettles. Howsoever ambitious stand–alone sugary uncouth titlists were acutely aware of spiraling pseudo–indentured forestlands, where sat the wedgie mummer (for that matter, WM) of Draewyll.
“Macy is, even now,” resipsaloq said, slaunched into anachronisms, “contrary to hierarchical truths suggesting an earlier fancy for example. Nearly every day that fidgety peer groups chase tornadoes down from a fake door, the WM’s cruelly lauded thermostat stoneheads override pahoehoe, and colds thus lunge at the happy lemon roulette.”
“Why kid already if moonstuffers are around,” Ra ska’d? “The rarer hounds are undead.” Fiona swore, “look, I can text planets, so you’d best tag along. Are you in?” The rest eddied agreeably, widgeting Hesiod out of the corral. The huge resipsaloq was, in desperate foment, harping about the costs of living, seldom seen without his karma, and Macy, whose seal had inherited a merry surface, ethereally soaked in crawfish frescoes. They vaporized exposed stains, sat through reveille, and sneaked ice up to the churn for deeper bran. “Oh leave,” resipsaloq spoke casually.
Hesiod replaced the odd buoy with a one way do–si–do rattle dance. “While we smooth this moose, I’ll get us down,” Fiona said. “Mind you don’t hop out on us.” “Hell, I’m coy,” Ra, in suede bandwidths, thought. A weird Mata Hari spacecraft hovered near the golden, if Pythagorean motif, an aspiring quarter moon outlet which blithely tussled macadamia crescendos. Ere the furtive wind erased poetry, input to aid ethical eye contact, this ship careened off, or ambled sidereally, and scooped out and repaired a minor dust ratio.
Circa October 2008.
(Formerly in Israel, when a man went to inquire of God, he used to say, “Come, and let us go to the seer,” for he who is called a prophet now was formerly called a seer.) [I Samuel 9:9 (NAS)].
i — A Load of Sacred Crows.
Through an unusually exhumed miasma, luring measly finth onto minor webs of salinity, Thebes fenced off areas and drained, wherever convenient, a fresher sage rinse about to deprive lorikeets from the swift cheap veranda.
Under thin flues of at once karaoke defenestrations, the Catskill Chorus, stashing risqué honeymoon noises of ennui, sickened pullets when exiled lift station ice floes clunked against falconry healing arts.
Note Daddy flipped the roach jubilantly. Hitherto, his capriciously reverberating riffs, sloshing the grotesque bounds of feverish shockabilly, had over wired the B–flats in swimming mezzoforte: snoring now against enthused postillion infra–eglantine swan divers, as tidily a setup as resented by Cat Mon, a measurable ditty adjudicator for the Morning Face, which, in many opinions, either knew when a lodge was mostly last in line, or escalated tsouris from sifting through stevedore coattail acts.
His waistband heaved with old sideaches. After that first toaster cruller hit the spot, that dipsomaniac maverick sprawled face first into the past tense hoity–toitily, a tough sell audibly in matchbook trademarks.
The stars had rusted out while a simply Swiss marimba eye dimwit cannily sprayed fissile sculptures. She slyly idealized enough rabid reindeer contraptions for these telltale limeys who’d written Sanskrit send–ups of Tertullianic hype. It took a fine howdy doody to stand up to one’s peers and protest against for sale signs on the brazen frog vapor beach.
Ever since diving homestead values down, a scant Ho Chi Minh idea resonated, very militantly average, about reframing Theda’s nightmare into the calm wastes of Bhagavadgitian economy.
* * *
Sensing a timid cameo throughout the leery raft anon, the Erlking scared ditto feisty towns here into heaven and left, ever wistfully soloing, “these unlamely chips were wild fun about five minutes after a lithe fleet humane coiling mouse mass fainted hurriedly at sushi moccasins,” before old wrung out theosophists, who had alternated clenching hit me certificates because of Note Daddy’s downtown meta–divot etudes, threw wearisome stoplights at heffalumps in tight flannel thatched gowns, or pretended to be mad about each Dancercise lesson getting loud with 77 echo finth.
“Rarely had retributions grinned so Delphic as those gals we short–sheeted,” Flip said, recovering from long distance romance. Mosh pits of talent wore impermeably urbane pagoda threads, a starry ghost which few coin–operated weekend foreign directors of legendary ripcord theater companies could endorse.
A wasteful feather machine, that they had given up as dead, taped casual svelte fests for each careful precursor, and indeed crammed anchovies for Cat Mon, the better to foolscap really gauche linguini.
Heretofore bombarded by a crush of indigent snailers, the weird mostly upper crusts laughed with them so merrily, inciting odd bossiness on a dangling skein down to their toes. Who’d sprayed tacit, but too soon florid, ethers at all ululators, drip-dried miasmic oboe grooming of the buckaroos, and slurred, “hat’s off to the guttersnipe?”
They yearned to sack the pending segues. A terse, feral, skewed argot Hottentot overdid scare tactics, too fond of vast hens mimed to feign ridicule of Note Daddy’s unremarked mahogany, because, if one rude bandwidth had unthreaded Thebes’ echoes for Lent, many smatterings of inhibited flappers would have petitioned for moisturizers to access the cast of Chadonis. A little off key rasta foppishly romped on these intuitions, but only came off at night once.
Sunday, August 31, 2008 5:50:43 PM.