A cataract full of cabbage embers flitted across the tender sky, Flevoland and regolith eating menemen for breakfast with Eminem (M&M’s for dessert) in the key of D-sharp minor.

Bach conjectured weakly about the twelve-tone scale of snails in a pump organ, befitting the empty leg of a horse-bound moose–on the loose, to get out of the rain boom, broom, shroom. One-by-one, leaves of blown glass sounded their barbaric yawp against the witness of a sweaty-tooth madman, awakened too soon–a dozen too soon. Units be damned, chap. Guanciale smiled the smile of the sleep of a wink of a bucket full of banquets seized a dozen too late. Units still be damned, chap. Straw mermaids struck the shepherd with his own pipe like the lad a century ago hoist on his own petard in a leopard-skin leotard.

The regolith of Flevoland bestrode the tender sky and buried for a dozen the cataract full of cabbage embers, chap.

Exotic moss neglected the tongues of vain voices like the syringe of monstrous roots.

Ginger insisted once more that she had nothing to do with the solemn affairs of exhausted bounties betrayed by the king of absence. Absinthe was another story altogether–and sometimes all apart, but the cinnamon rolls were still warm and dripping with guile and butter, and frosted with rendered consequences of feline pride. Peter found the lox box in the throes of the wood stack, under three cords of next winter’s warmth, but the lox box was locked and Peter had no key, so he looked to the sky and wondered what the light was that approached from the northern horizon. Floating above his own body, Peter heard Paul admonish him to not run toward the light, and he flashed a key to catch Peter’s attention.

Ginger said with a tongue of vain voices there is no such thing as alien abductions, but where have Peter and Paul run off to, and where is my locked lox box full of keys.

Obsequious oligarchs confess their pins and needles to the cat on the mat in the hatter’s paradise at noon.

Amanda entered the blind alley and asked which way was the kind chemist. Receiving no answer, she fled to the shedding station, three blocks from home. Rome, having been born in a day, found Amanda kind as a blind battalion of bats in the attic of Atticus Sparrow, straight as an arrow in the cuckoo’s nest of the dodo on mocking bird lane. Nurse Sprocket put Amanda in her pocket, but whether ‘her’ referred to Amanda or Nurse Sprocket, no one ever decided, so whose pocket Amanda found herself in–either her own or Nurse Sprocket’s–no one ever found out–including Amanda.

So Rome filed for rights to right the wrong of other places and stayed in one spot while Amanda appeared as happy as a goose out of the bottle of everyone’s pocket in the hatter’s paradise at noon.

Sinister encounters lashed the sash under the door to the adobe abode, flowers and solicitors notwithstanding.

Have you heard of Ruby, queen of Austria? Or was it Australia? Her fez gave way as though she were the pasha of Amsterdam. Jacques Brel has something else to say about that; however, allow me a question, my cousin, for the umpteenth time: how fractious are the fractions in the fictions of Borges on a false bronco?

Buckle up the liniment glare, forbears give four bears something to think about where Ruby is concerned, baby. Pashas and queens aside, the gambit-addled solicitations reverberate across the third universe from the sun’s left big toe. Big crowbars block the inflation of the other universes–whether accelerating in expansion or tackling the darkness within or not.

Knots are all that remain of the flower of youth, but legions of caution abound where life rebounds in the most approximate way.

Vagabond news. Beseeching vagabond files and transgressive harps to sharpen their pudding before pilfering the end of a dime.

Vagabond planets know nothing of your darkest secrets. Ginger. Vagabond cuffs the rights of entry-level seniors, coming and going too soon for the reaper to weep over spilled milk. Chocolate. Not stirred. Vagabond stirrups dig their spurs into the flank of the plank of plinths, whether a larch or a ground swallow swallows the passive voice and consternates the uplifted zed. Vagabond numbers fly through the interstitial space between the interstices and the sand dunes of beauty. Vagabond vagabonds vagabond across the rapid region of lost souls and John Milton, blind as a bat and loony as a tune. Vagabond tunas tune into the station their fathers tune into on a daily basis.

Vagabond is the source of the urge to flatter to your heart’s content in the winter of your disheveled vagabondage. With pleasure in the measure.

The caramel camel climbed into an ocean of lotion and, kneeling, scolded the motion of not the seventh, not the eighth, not the ninth, but the tenth planet from the sun. Boldly.

Mud bugs flippantly flipped through the ancient yellow pages, one-by-one, phone numbers galore. Was it a dime? A quarter? Depends on the age of the phone booth–whatever that is or was. Fumbling angrily, the silk pajamas haunched south for the summer, blinking the way of all flesh (the butler did it) with perfume freckled all over the place–all over the wide world of ankles and supper. Her shift wrapped round the cat, which plunged into the basement of fortitude, and trinkets of great pitch and momentum bowed three times to the slender colander, itself a blinking pocket of polished lemon wax.

Gretchen said but my name starts with a ‘G’. Because you are a caramel camel, came the reply.

Oh yes, it was a doozie, but not in the way a flood of floozies would hold koozies.

Crossing the Rubicon is not as easy as you think, given the propensity of window sills to enter the realm of the obnoxious: hand-in-hand, step-by-step, In-n-Out. Outrageous burgers flirted with skeins of mice and mental drive-through orders, leaving off the low-down hoedown with hay as the only insulating factor, put up in the barn a little too late to matter, but matter enough to roll around in when the fit takes you. A burger for your thoughts, she said. I’ll take that, he said. You have some hay stuck in your hair, she said. Klondike-547, he said. One wonders the wonder of ice and various properties of water at different temperatures and pressures, twice by the Pacific.

The dozen woozies of outrage reached a fever pitch on the stage and in the cinema, but the hay rick beckoned and beckons still.

Fate was all the rage in the age of horseshoes and hand maidens flying not close enough to the sum of all fears.

Ginger said I am not Georgette, though as for that the turnips there had worn them really about the same, not alike at all in bearing or fortune. And I am not George, as they say, as it were when we weren’t kings or minor deities. Needles needle the gesundheit out of the last remaining shoe on the turnstile, while Ginger studied the lines of George’s face and Georgette flicked the fly off my eyelid with a gentle swat of her non-linear hand–along with the skillet of cast iron, not seasoned properly–although she would say the same about me, but that’s the kind of matter she could take up with herself.

The rages of horseshoes showed Ginger the fate of all ages where the fear of flying handmaidens manifest themselves as cold black-iron skillets.

Higher and higher the fire grew over the scintillating froth of desire in a trice, further and farther along the ice age conglomerates and variable variables, a hectare of monuments.

Lance knew he could make it if he only tried hard enough, but how much was enough? Enough to satisfy and overcome the vague needs of the coming challenge, but must keep some in reserve for the future challenges–come what may.

Only after the throes of passion had subsided could Mae Lin see in the evasive eyes of the sons of Pompeii that Vesuvius had erupted yet again.

Lance was overcome with a stroke of laziness, and that saved him from overwhelming outcomes that would have befallen him had he the gumption to gimble about such touchy situations. Who needs such scintillating froth anyway, Lance asked Mae Lin.

But Mae Lin had risen higher and higher into the ice age of desire, and no more did she gloam.