Faded Houses Green

Reading Ulysses in Montana #654

Amid the dust of a thousand horses, along the river to a thousand seas, within the night of a thousand virtues, Gumpy woke up and, clearing her dilapidated head, said I know what you want but I won’t give it to you.

Decanters of empty slights awaited Gumpy’s presence in the kitchen, but Christmas had come too soon and gone too late for it to matter to her or anyone else at that time of year. Mildred stopped Gumpy on the staircase and said where do you think you’re going. Gumpy walked away having not heard her sister–or at least pretending so.

The armor shone no more, and the round table was missing a leg. Gumpy wielded the missing leg as a sword of defiance and said no one else will pass. But no one else was around, so Gumpy was absolutely right. Mildred said put that thing down before you hurt someone.

Gumpy did not hear–or at least pretended so–for by then she had muddled her dilapidated head once more and dreamed of a million hyenas laughing at the dust of horses, rivers of seas, and virtues of darkest night.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #532

Better Burgundy picked up the shaky pieces and put Humpty back together again and again, lapped with smooth X-rays and candid sting rays.

Ravenous pygmies of Humpty’s past turned back the clock a day and a half with a buffer of pinned coils teeming like frogs on a green ruminant. Burgundy ruminated on expressions of forward marches, stubbing out the plumbing with chests of vital counterparts, denuded through many successions of coughing redactions.

False accounts aside, tumultuous spirits of altered saddles straddled Burgundy, Humpty’s bookkeeper, with duplicate die thrown straight from the hand of the riotous croupier.

Shaky pieces of Humpty’s future, walking on egg shells, ought to bequeath legacies of lions on deceived confessions, but devices of ravens and fears of sweet mockery marshalled the gentle cousin Bordeaux with assurances of plenty and aces of Burgundy’s potted wit.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #160

The tower halted with a good frown and opened the blinders to the second-to-last collar grinding its way along the crosswalk.

Across the way, rhythms of empty sounds grabbed Jewel by the heartstrings and plucked a merry tune despite three bad knees and an ounce of joint compound, compounded in a variety of variations. Her relations with the other half of the moon people were much better, but better than what, she would never know.

Jewel approached the goddess of the moon people atop the tower, but fortunes last only so long and the way to the flippant pancakes bespoke another force of followers altogether, whether they wore collars in crosswalks or not. Allowing for salaries of studious exhibitions and separate rites, excused examinations faltered farther than Jewel’s father could throw himself or the fleabag he rode in on.

Insignificant though it wasn’t, the tower followed the beacon of the shadow of light and lit a bonfire to dissolve all of Jewel’s loose-fitting encounters. And that was all before the light turned green.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #225

Wiping leisure from the force of her argument, Richard’s brother asked Helena for the unadvised dance.

Engraved upon enraged repentance, kingdoms of foreign tears tear down the blinds of sappy mettle, stronger than the wailing of acquainted souls. But would he know what to do with it and when? Admired for remembering the miracles of candor, Molly told Helena when she could find the ashpit in question. The ashpit of Eden on the other side of the morning sunset.

Helena shrugged the shrug of eons and said what am I supposed to do with that. Richard took his dimensionless fleet to the clocks of Morocco while flowers bloomed in Molly’s deepest desires.

Familiar penguins assembled in distinctive lexicons, and their bizarre wishbones sent Richard and Helena and Molly to the brother of crystal innovations a week too late for anything innovative (or crystalline) to happen at all.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #660

Frosted windows and flakes of corny filberts flooded everyone’s fantasies of how many furlongs at Ascot. Or was that Santa Anita?

Now whether or not Anita had anything to do with it, Andy could get the best of the situation by talking his way up the downspout. Anita bagged the cracked filbert shells and poured a boundary of apoplexy this way and that. Andy said swollen clocks fancied bigger heifers than that. Anita was livid with lipid dreams of strange heels. Andy lurched in his beggars dance the way Anita lunched with her heroic luggage, frightfully aware that the imagination of devils, lunacies aloft, were more cumbersome than cucumbers.

Frosted flakes of flooded windows left blood on the tracks of Andy’s vanity and capers in the cracks of Anita’s soul, yearly poets betide.

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