Faded Houses Green

Discreet pilgrims of discrete information lollied up to the contemptuous heiress and said my aren’t you looking a bit subjunctive today.

Today of all days went the way of the one-way street with no name or mane to speak of–or to remain silent of, silence being a golden friend of the elephantine elephant in Thailand and three provinces of Canada. The zebras on the other hand–or hoof as it were or was or in between–brayed at the top of their braying hearts the joy of grazing on the plains of Savannah, Georgia–both on their minds and out of their minds and out of sight of land–there being too few lighthouses on Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s side of the Serengeti, where spaghetti grows on trees and meatballs living in meerkat dens. The watering hole filled with tourists, but their feet got stuck in the mud up to their kneecaps, and the lions looked at each other and said what are we to do with that sick lot of vectors of metabolic disorder, full of both magnitude and direction.

The zebras said “Over here!”, and the sun went down on Kilimanjaro, snow and all.