A mint was the last thing to squander a gander of wandering lilies–of the field or of the sea it makes no difference, lilies of the sea being a fine delicacy in this delicious region.

Legions of floundering polar bears bore the weight of the ancient lore concerning sensitive boulders and bunions of billiards across the great divide where Wednesday turns to Sunday as quickly as Mercury aligns with Pluto, Mercury being the winged god of the Mickey Mouse solar system and Pluto the ninth character from the Walt. Organizations of origami poster experts galore sent Gloria to the train depot to deposit the glorious manuscript of Missa Solemnis on the off chance Beethoven would arrive on the 1:07 from Brighton. He didn’t, but that didn’t change anything for Gloria who waffled her sandals to the baffled waffle market and ordered a gross of the Grosse Fuge.

Beethoven smiled, but squandered his mint and invisibility behind the lilies between the tracks over the nearby trestle. Fidelio and Fidelia.

Unfamiliar territory along the birthplace of the modern bulldozer, a dozen pugilists put up their dukes and hazarded a guess at the number of jellybeans in the jar of mayo.

The clinic said a taste would set you back seven months, but having no time for pleasantries, the pheasants froze the batter with a twelve-to-six curve and swerved the driver to the side of the cider with cinderblock houses and marmalade toast–eyes being long out of fashion in those parts. Partitas and fugues in each key and mode declared victory over the viceroy of Saxony–South High being long overdue for the comeuppance so well deserved and longed for, but schadenfreude only goes so far before the mists and gaggles of geese free the bird like a wire of midnight choirs.

A quire of squires took the bulldozer to the dance, and what a strange pumpkin that turned into when the clock struck Horace.

Ever the never-hearted filibuster, Evan wove the basket of woe into a trumpet of first-rate dough–baked on a counterfeit skillet.

Enraged over the flowers in the aquarium, the subject subdued the predicate nine times out of thirteen, but lost the all-around when the anvil had nowhere else to turn, being only a glimmer in its parent’s eyes without any tissue paper around to dab Evan’s tears when the waterworks forgot to pay the dandy bill. Lions bounded out of bounds with many pounds of wounds to deliver to the old folks home in time for career day–one moment too soon, before the moon could probably swoon from too much food in the first act of Tchaikovsky’s early un-staged ballet, Loon Lake. Later novelist (E.L. Doctorow) notwithstanding.

Evan stood in for the stunt double, and the rest, as they say, is the mystery of history.

Designed to unwind, Mindy’s mind finds a portal into a fifth dimension, being co-planar on the sphere of Damocles, the politician’s lesser-known half-brother.

Smothered by the looming looms of the Luddites, Mindy brought Brother Damocles to his knees of unrest and pilfered his swollen soul with yearnings for peas and carrots. Alongside fifty sweet chisels, a wrath of gods portended the end of the universe with their omnipotent potentates of pretentious pompadours. A romp among the daisies gave Mindy an idea, and Brother Damocles asked for his sword back so he could catch that fishy fish of Vichy completely unawares, but de Gaulle had the gall to defend Gaul from the general shivers of the canals on Mars, war being a thing of the past and future but not the present present.

Unwound, Mindy was bound to the promises she found in the hound of Damocles, and that made all the difference.

Frozen poultry aside, Dolores flowed along with the rest of the flo-bees and delivered a river of shivers unmatched this side of paradise.

Wise wisdom and flatware announced a long tale of coming woe, but the woolen mill sat down at the bottom of the sea of consternation and consternated until the cows came home–regardless of what Thomas Wolfe in sheep’s clothing had to say about the right stuff. Like that two wrongs don’t make a right but three lefts do. Being left behind the right side of the eight ball, Dolores filled her fidget spinner to the brim and brought flails of brimstone down from above with the love of a fairy tale creature plastered with scorn. Corn grew upright as righteous vegetables often do within the confines of actually being a grain.

Trains of Davids invited Dolores to the wishing of the stars, but the frozen poultry raised its weary head and said, “I have something else to say about that!”

A blizzard of buzzwords asked Millicent if Erdo was going to the Boing county fair.

Fair haired hares and vapid vapors vilified the end of time for all to see in the time it took a veritable handful of church mice to descend the grandfather clock and the grandmother caboose to let loose the magnificent bathtub full of bathos, filled by none other than Alexander Pope himself, himself a man and a man of many ventures, soaking in a tub of bathos water, exclaiming ‘Eureka’ as though he were some descendent of Archimedes, but probably more like Praxiteles, having won over the furies at the end of the first part of the last chapter of the first book of the end times–the end of time being the most favored chapter in human whimsy, but the most famous character outside human whimsy has yet to discover its true form or being.

Being late for the horse races, Pope asked Pepys what those buzzwords were doing around the Boing county fair. Pepys said oh that’s just Erdo, as you hypothetically know-o. (Daddy-o was politely implied.)

The barrel of the white harrow was a harrowing encounter for the Count of sesame seeds–one-fifth too far.

Ajar to its utmost, her majesty proposed a slightly higher calling for the lower classes, but the middle class said keep the politics out of it du jour and de rigueur. Alluring elephants bequeathed long-toothed gifts to the nearly departed jet plane, not knowing if they’ll be back again. Oh, please! But then what? Swimming pools and shooting stars left a large influence on the beetled breath of the only way home–assuming you could go back again.

Again the white yacht of temperate slopes assailed the stormy water. Again the white yacht of sometimes discourse mounted the sea to shining sea. Again the shining filled the white yacht with the horror of a glossy dream. Funicular.

Harrows only know how far to push the tractor for the sake of carrots and sesame seeds. One. Two. Three.

Contrary motions derive fugues and fortunes under the oceans where it might be better but cannot be wetter because under the ocean, like under the sea, is rock and mantle, and you have to drill down to magma to find something kinda liquidy under seas and oceans alike.

Like Glenn Gould said, thanks for playing but the limestone is just as rare as water under the ocean sea, and you only have to look as far as Ethan Brand to find a witness to this account, but having seen a Hawthorne bush, I’ve spent the better part of a dozen dozing seasons looking for a Melville bush…and to think what I saw on the mulberry bush on Mulberry street, where Captain Vere sent Guinevere and Billy Budd to the office Christmas party as the foretopcouple, bearing wreaths of Hawthorne, mulberry, and Hemingway bushes, the labs still lagging in developing the Melville bush.

When finding the young lab assistant asleep at the microscope under the lab by the sounding sea, his only defense was “I would prefer not to”.

A raft of colors adrift on a rift in the sea of pins and needles needled Ginger to no end–and no start, to be completely honest with you.

Complete dependence on the independent virtues of oil changes in the nude being a thing, George lifted the veil of publicity and declared he had nothing to declare except his gems and giant tortoise. Ginger said you can do better than that. George said I know. Ginger said you are always holding back. George said that’s as likely as a tortoise in a Kansas City wind tunnel. Ginger said Kansas City doesn’t have any wind tunnels. George said now who’s holding back. Ginger said I see what you mean. George said you can do better than that. Ginger said no one can do better than burnt ends. George said unless you burn both ends of the spectrum, then you have some room to maneuver in the dark.

Ginger set her raft of colors adrift on a rift in the sea of pins and needles, and that needled George to no end.

Connie pruned her trees of flippant daisies, but Carl would not go anywhere the transverse waves of sorrow would not carry him free of charge.

Bemused, bonded and insured, cataracts found where angels fear to tread, and the gulf of Connie’s desires took hold like a thief in broad daylight where Carl worked in the shop to the tune of a dusty drill press. No, band saw. No planer! Plainer than day, the transverse waves waved goodbye and went off to illuminate the laminate flooring designed to withstand the impact of a gazillion kilotons of children, but Connie and Carl had none, so they brought the poor dog a bone and threw it to him where he calculated the forces on the cantilever of ecstasy running along the third canal to the left, being left out in the cold night of the dark night of the soul of James Brown.

Flippant daisies could not care less, but now and then a sneaker wave broke through and the transverse became as polarized and polarizing as the latest art house film flower.