Faded Houses Green

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.