Reading Ulysses in Montana #231

A line in the sand, aligned with the stars, Alan told Alaine about the aliens that had alighted on the roof of his barn.

Alaine told Alan that was nothing compared to the frogs that had sung the Anvil Chorus for three weeks running until the escargot escarwent. The frogs, being green with envy–overcome with the green-eyed monster of jealousy–told Alan and Alaine what they had found at the bottom of the seven-month Shakespeare festival alternating between Othello and Winter’s Tale, but also how they had lost a frog during each performance.

Alaine told the frogs to look on the roof of Alan’s barn. Alan said that was a line in the sand too far near the bridge, and he was absolutely right.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #288

George landed softly against the ottoman and contemplated the full extent of the ottoman empire drawn across the map and courage of Charles Eames.

Ramshackle to boot, another time round the globe did nothing to assuage Ginger’s hostilities toward the bridge over the river Why? Steeples were never steep enough to ascend the other garden, the garden of vicious delights, mismanaged by George’s seventh cousin six times removed, but six times returning again to light the bonfire of the bathroom sinks and makeup mirrors–though Ginger insisted she was as natural as nature can be.

And another, if you wouldn’t mind, landing softly against the sour walls between us, the unfortified entries recorded the lies of our sometimes existence.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #110

Enter your sad occasions on the general intentions paved with daisies all the way to the rusty pump of reverend eyes.

Milking the billiards took all day–and for little profit–so the prophet of Mt. Jerome opened the valley of the Vulgate with a thunder of gestures and a granite of peaks. Furlongs beat the fathoms in the race to the bottom of the sea, the race track having found its way too far down Colorado to terrorize enough children during the parade of whiny cats. Dead men curved too far too fast, but memories soon to be forgotten reminded rotten jockeys how long the home stretched when no one has left the light on.

No one resisted the rustic occasions as he picked up with hiccups his hammer and saw.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #94

Parking the car of pickled guile was not enough to whet Heather’s appetite for undecided indifference.

Three times upon her knight of folly, she bestowed the ropes and chains of honor that even Rube Goldberg would appreciate. Three times the night of folly concluded in elaborate hedges of sculleries and gilt linen of olives. The trellis played a role like any other, and the balcony–visible in the middle distance–intoned a mournful note of obsolete swag. Choosing Clarence was her undoing, but a prayer for captives of liberty supplied his plan with the years his brother was loth to resign.

Victorious pickles told Heather when she could park her car with no more farewell from Clarence than Hastings could reposes like a captive crown in a secret, forbearing park.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #555

Hurled to the depths of the lengths of leather sandals, vandals of another marble encountered a sneer of lollygags on their way to Majorca.

Entertainments not withstanding, handing a cold hand to the other three sails at high tide could do nothing to assuage the ages of empires and dust. Rust was another matter altogether, whether you believe in the efficacy of Perry Mason’s true temper or not. Shilling for shifting sands outside of time and all the space implied therein, carnival maidens wove braids of linen sheets into garnishes of parsley, sage, and rosemary, time having exited briefly for a personal holiday.

Candide forgot the lines Voltaire had insinuated, but the great Lisbon earthquake made a name for more than one officer of the philosophical brigade in sandals and harried journeys to Majorca, none too soon.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #617

The hard candy turned a severe case of severity into the flavor of the month, two weeks after the fatal birth of the end of the line.

Meanwhile, lime green messes of dresses lined the walls of the thrift store on the second story of the honorable road through the brutal center for floating casualties in gingham. Confused, Noah knew no way to get to the second story, having read the first story too many times over the course of forty days–the rest of the crew not allowing burning oil lamps during the forty nights on account of the vessel being made entirely of wood. But what to do with all those dresses?

Endless statutes instructed the dress maker how to pop the candy corn with extra butter and a severe case of hulls in the teeth.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #215

Frogs in a parlor of furious trifles forgot the meaning of the word of the day, but they endeavored to improve themselves nonetheless.

Lester had no other qualms about going it alone than that his other three were still dissatisfied. Remarkable as it was, you can imagine what happened next. As far as Lester was concerned, a fortnight of four score dreams in the forecastle of frivolous delights was long enough to draw the forlorn conclusion that the shortest route to your destination is through the teeth of the storm, and the stronger the storm, the shorter the route. Paths of glory, paths of graves, paths of madding crowds trampling the road least taken until the yellow wood is a parking lot full of yellow taxis.

The crack of the main mast woke Lester from his despondent reveries of frogs and trifles, and he opened himself to the enthusiasm of love once more.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #605

The three-hole punch of whimsy dictated the last of the sounds of the falling waters at the edge of the language most forgotten. None given, none needed.

Ginger, on the other hand, put her hand in her other hand and gave George the sound of her own most forgotten language, learned as a youth at the knees of Milne and White until they went into law and discovered the other thirteen most forgotten languages in the world. George said that should read misbegotten, not forgotten. Ginger said that’s what White said on his way to the gallows. George said you mean galleys. Ginger said of course, but gallows sounds better. George said maybe in your most misbegotten language. Ginger said see. George saw.

George took the saw and cut the table in half. Ginger said two halves make a hole, so they entered the three-hole punch of whimsy and forgot all that was misbegotten in the most lost and most forlorn languages of evermore.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #444

Delighted, I’m not so sure! Enlightened beyond a shadow of the principle of least insistence, Ginger frowned.

George went into the wilderness for thirty-three minutes and found what Ginger was looking for, but he could not return it to civilization because the MacGuffin was long past its inspiration date and wanted to remain nearer the realm of mystery and doubt. Dubious instincts aside, George whittled the fiddle down to a bow tie and said to no one how do I clip this on. Onward, the minute minutes passed, getting smaller and smaller with each step of the toad in the suit of Jiminy Cricket. George remembered what Ginger had never asked for but had read about in dreams, and he smothered his way out of the wilderness with seven seconds to spare.

The shadow of the MacGuffin haunted Ginger long after George had earned the sleep of the lefteous, but the crows and ravens applauded her tender resolve.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #47

Assorted sordid tales, assembled by emblems of dignity, embarked on the back of a barking dog to find the end of the line.

Lions were quickly going out of style with flourishes of fortunate haste, battered with butter alongside the kangaroo of freedom, bound by sacred oaths these three score and seven decades ago. Against the winding staircase, the worm turned into a caterpillar in the kind of transmogrification reserved for only the most contrite species on the distant planet they call Earth. Berms of loam and joy overwhelmed the last of the first timers to enter their name for the winning of a new dishwasher.

But it was dandelion season, and no one knew better than the first last-timers how the rest of the summer would go down, to the ground, to get out of the boom boom.