Faded Houses Green

Reading Ulysses in Montana #122

Vassals with vessels weaseled their way into the night of the living dread to guggle a gaggle of fine throated geese.

Henry had other plans. Succumbing to an inordinate ruse, he rued the day the levee broke down on the back road to Rouen, between here and there, there being 16 theres there. He admired her pirate guile, did Henry, the eighth time he encountered her in the frozen foods section of the non-local grocery store, befitting her many-whirled peas.

She was Henrietta, but that was another story altogether. Dietary sobriquets aside, the exhalation of phonetic vowels gave verse to Henrietta’s canine lyrics, sung to the beat of a dying heart, in the key of kindness and lost love.

Henry would have none of it. Recalling the scholar whose collar got stuck in the revolving door, the revolting parallel fifths drained as quickly as the gilt bards of modern romance with nothing but love songs to show for it. Fine hats would suit Henrietta’s suit better, but Henry’s baubles babbled like bobbers on the fishing pond of honored time.

Immemorial side effects affected the king with sharp rebukes of regret and trumpets, crumpets being the talk of the town, but the vassals weaseled their vessels into the heart of Henry and Henrietta, and the lark ran away with the tune.