The muse refused to reuse the loose leaves of leathered longings for songs of laughter and other musings.

Coffee obtruded by falsehood the cogs of this or that slog through the bogs of Taylor’s Falls. Cold colanders enlivened the dancing muse of photography and sunsets, with cats in the city all day long. Lovely. Lonely. And Luxuriously. Poorer winks of twinkled toast appreciated the service of encouragement to others–pockets notwithstanding–and officers with muffled drums reinstated the escutcheon after a week-and-a-half layoff. Askance puppies took their aunts askew when corrupt insolence proclaimed the gravel in the guts and muzzles full of tricks slumbering in a bucket of potent swords and lifeless floors.

If only he had risen above his station in life, comfort and transcendence would enlighten all muses with pomp and mischief.

Primed for fearless flying or flightless fearing, the searing skillet wondered aloud how to contrive an early exit from the asinine cocktail party.

Galleries of hyperbolic functions–whether asymptotic or Zeno’s favorite soup of the day–and nothing else could withstand the understood meaning of the left-handed derby. Darby took down the birthday banner over the proscenium arch under the stars that filtered black currant juices through a web of lies so thick you could shake a stick at it. At it and between other derby’s besides. Beside the lone lantern, and the mild bread, along the furious cornstalk, and through the jilted carnivals, Darby knew only one way to live, and that was to shine as bright as the brightest skillet drifting by on the proud clouds of Ganymede.

Fearless flying has its virtues, but flightless fearing is the myth of all inventions.

The wind chill factory on the outskirts of town skirted the futuristic realm of the unknown heart of Gavin’s matter, Jeremiah knowing not what the future holds or what fortunes are born.

Gavin transcended the transpondent transformer and reinforced his learning with the bread and butter churned daily low and slow until the hierarchies of amoebas climbed to the tippy top of the skinny dipped dots of horseradish sauce. Sticking around the merry-go-round, the clown took Gavin by the hand, but Gavin screamed bloody murder, because everyone knows what’s to know about clowns and their unnatural births in the kettle of caramel corn soup. Frightened children unite, and all’s well that ends. And that’s all there is to it–for this  month and sometimes forevermore.

Gavin lifted the latch on the front gate of the wind chill factory, but it was locked. The factory was closed for the winter, and discontent flavored the kettle of caramel corn soup from that day forth, with a fifth of Jeremiah’s favorite spirit. Intact.

Ginger stumbled over the stubble of gantry figs and parallax Dutchmen, approaching galleries galore and whipping the stone froth.

Premeditated offerings of rarest terrors and trembling errors deceived the vowels into acquitting the fittings along the frigate’s nostrils and postulates encrusted with polliwogs and manatees. Settees were all the rage in the age when George traversed the splendid multiverse unrehearsed and uncertain of the mouth of the affair. Ginger told George to go anyway. George said the stubble was not longer enough to warrant an escalation of domains from up above the world where spiders take refuge under the sheltering sky because even the moon knows you are not I anymore. Razors and threats of dangers arose from the stubble under Ginger’s wonky foot.

George went away enormously aloof, but Ginger stayed behind to look up the number of her aunt’s masseuse and monsieur.

Julia set her fractals out in the sun to dry overnight, over the rainbow and over the artist at Auvers.

Vincent had less to work with, but Mandelbrot set his teacup on the sunflower pot and zoomed in on the spiral seeds of the yellow plant and wondered what they might taste like. Vincent said they taste like chicken. Mandelbrot said how do chickens taste. Vincent said with their tongues. Julia set her nose patch on the end of the pumpkin and said now were cooking with gaseous substances that even Schrödinger would never imagine. Erwin waved at Julia, set among sunflowers in her reading garden, and admired her functional knack for understanding how Mandelbrot set his watch following his second cardioid attack.

Vincent said but I don’t have a set or a wave function named after me. Julia said how else can my fractals stay out in the sun overnight without the starry night in the night cafe while I eat potatoes during the collapse of my sleep function.

Ruses of triangular aberrations gathered shampoo for the great hot tub race down the slopes of Mauna Kea all the way to the sea, shouting, “Here’s champagne to all our real friends and real pain to all our sham friends!”

Twinkling fingers of peasants linger in vessels of foreign courts and vassals of domestic tranquility–lightly breaded. The Duke of Frederick had an audience measured in circumstances of quarrels and swords appearing as confused ruses and nominated for the second Duke of Juno’s crown converted from the muffler of a ’77 Ford Pinto station wagon. Potent spirits of furcated mincemeat bifurcated into a quasi-orchestra playing instruments of great satisfaction and respect. Patient merit and quaffs of median incomes quantified the quants of the next Quonset hutch over the rabbit warren reveling in multiplication and integral differentiation without one iota of churlish reason.

Arise, ye filbert ruses, and know the strange wonders of these slight events.

Harbingers of ecstasy precluded a build-up of piles, but the automotive juice, deprived of fixation, depleted the thimbles of Mercury.

Syncopated maladies, inlaid with corroborations with beauteous teakettles, corroborated against the dying of the light–without rage and not in August. Hemispheres in bloom told Judy where to find the pot of petunias for her mother’s begonia garden, upsides being downsized and rightsides being wrong along the long axis toward the given proverbial proverb.

Dendrites K, F, and G understood the nature at the heart of Judy’s world, unfurled like the flag of permanent popsicles. Fraught with peril, the loon dancers danced to the light of the new moon where even Judy feared to tread, although not her mother nor her mother’s other daughter from another mother.

Harbingers and maladies alike raged into July where Judy piled pots and flags for all to see in ecstatic repose.

Except when the filter, against all odds, gives Ginger fits of frivolous fountains, unplumbed by beasts or magic.

Ginger told George what she thought of the paleolithic. George didn’t hear her clearly and said the monolithic was the age of the great ones. Ginger said but the neolithic. George said I heard you the first time, and you can keep your polylithic jeans and fabulous hats. Ginger knew what George meant, so she entered the realm of possibilities and resisted the pull of anything actual, actuating actually being foreign to Ginger’s constitution, ratified by thirty years of service and fifty years of breath. The monolithic tree in the backyard beckoned to George, so he left Ginger to her realm of the possible and transported himself to the land of the impossible.

Ginger looked into the empty llama and saw it was full of faithful wildebeests, but only the magicians heard her, which was enough for them and the unplumbed llamas.

Sophia watched as the clever storefronts broke enteral news of good spells in groves of plaited, pleated, and placid pants, yesterday.

Newer news comes suddenly tomorrow before the brigade of prototypes gave Sophia a fright, the likes of which she could only have dreamed of after rendering Tannhäuser on the magical flute under a modest semblance of ambulatory disorder. Counting the wise, Sophia said where have all the flours gone, long hours passing? Connor said the huge deluge passed the hour of flour in the bakery of earthly delights, calories and related restrictions notwithoutstanding. Sophia said I had no intention of doing anything so just. Connor said more flower power and flour pour to you! I wouldn’t put it past you or anyone else as well-tempered as your clavier.

Clever claviers aside, the storefronts closed at the end of the eternal day and cast their lovely spells into the grove of exalted night.

A candle, a file, and a cup, informed by the malformed vacuum energy of a lost universe, among the trees behind the station, walked into a bar.

Nuts and bolts embezzled the sleepy Tremeraire against wicker oars woven from the dozen dozing doyens of Maple Moor. Heather filled the cup to the brim with candle wax and then filed the wick to nothing but awe and wonder at the size of the unknown canopy, covered with a panoply of stars and planets with an infinity of partitas and partitions of cantatas contrary to what you might have heard in the words of the last salamander. Ginger.

A file, a candle, and a cup walked out of a bar, laden with ladles of limping kangaroos, hopping the butterscotch waltzes and giving pause to the plausible flaws inherent in the systematic destruction of the ropes of the sleeping Tremeraire, turned too far for Constable Heather to care two whits.