Ample samples of unscattered ampules amplified the daily needs of a murder of crows counting black leggings in an ambush of lemmings.

Ginger said I am not afraid to forego standard punctuation. George said what. A dozen canaries harried the postman–having had to ring thrice four days in a row–on his way to the forum of hippos at the hippodrome of Hippolyte. Parasites persist in the effulgence at the intersection of civilization and culture in the coroner’s affair of lollipops and despair. Desperate measures call for time outs with four yards to go in a cloud of mighty dust mites coughed up in an ecstasy of gold, digging for a dozen lifetimes because the shipment of bean bags had run amok among the mockery of pigeons.

A game of corn hole notwithoutstanding, the judge declared Ginger the winner despite her collection of mispronounced punctuation, and George was sore amused.

The tryst in Trieste was a treat for sore feet having walked across a frozen Lake Constance in a leaking row boat all along the watchtower.

At the end of the befuddled mud puddle of muddled mutants, Papa cast a line across the river and into the Garden of Eden. The observations of honored furniture became the operative activity in the days before all concern over and under the opposition to justice and rule of flaws in the architecture. Negligence was nothing compared to the complete cacophony of phony phone booths, wearing boots on the wall like a liquored up skunk in the outfield. Tongues of ice and bearers of curses angered the flavor of the month club with wounded conscience and tattered soles of their espadrilles.

Deliverance came with a fee, but the driver stalled at the on-ramp of destiny, and the furniture languished for all eternity.

The end.

Numbers of numbers enumerated the flawed possibilities of awed awnings aligned in bitter contempt against the filtered followers of patio umbrellas.

Fellas, how long will the throng of entire monuments to sadder days and madder heights trip over the rip in the tipped over carpet, they sang in unison. Ginger curled her hair to the thump thump thumping of George’s favorite radio playing unconstrained qualities of merciful aromas–benightedly.

Taking it all with a grain of salt, the sand flowed into and out of the hour glasses littering the menagerie of Kentucky Bill. Ginger scoffed. George wafted. The awning yawned at yet another neat trick of the establishment to prolong the day of disaster one more day and one more day yet again.

Enumerated possibilities numbered the numbers of disbelief and concerned themselves awl over again.

Grabbed by the seat of their collective pants, the enlightened zombies were thrown into the deep end of the pool table, but they didn’t know how to break dance, so they waltzed their way to Tennessee and reminded the showgoers what life was like before fat Elvis forgot to leave the light on for you, and Tom Bodet shimmied the Haka to the beat of Love me Tender ’cause he was no one’s teddy bear when it came right down to the end of the line as sung by a supergroup of granny groupies riding souped up camels (the camels smoked Marlboros) and what that had to do with British aristocratic houses, not even Colonel Tom Parker understood–nor did Colonel Sanders for that matter, but Kentucky had separated from Tennessee long before the jail house rocked me Amadeus.

The speed of light yellow flabbergasted the gas lights in the streets of ancient Houston.

Sharp hallways of the hallowed dean’s college made a collage of carbon and hydrogen in a heterogenous collapse of the receding elements cum laude con carne. Henry swore the dagger to secrecy and sauced the victor’s boxen gloves of boxwood mouths prattling on about the histories of damage done to leering beasts and fearing feasts forged in the mettle of Swiss cheese. Judgment notwithstanding. Creeping ordinances ransomed the fretful sovereignty of Elysium whether Henry understood or not with anchors replacing the albatross to much relief and meditations fraught with anxiety toward anxious purges.

Henry turned down the gas light one more notch and the believers said yes, a thousand crowns, one more time before the slippage proved too obvious and delicious.

Or the way the bowls of milk stood up to the bulls of silk, gathered tightly around the nightly lamp of juice and justice.

Ginger filtered the entire mess into this and that publishing contract that George had succumbed into a misuse of the word, but somehow it worked anyway–for a time–until they forgot all about what he was trying to say, and then it didn’t matter anymore–as if it ever did. Or didn’t. Nutmeg in bloom, Ginger assumed the argument from Ancient Greece could carry a tune along the potions of pellets disguised for such a purpose. But no more. No less. The planetorium fell into conjunction with the aquarium, denying Ginger’s awe over George, helming the opposite faction of fractions, deliberately.

Ravished bowls of silk and bulls of milk braved the hazards of the babbling dreams with courage and harkened heirs.

The cars on the brick highway had premonitions of premeditated temptations which led Carrie to the edge of the abyss of meaninglessness gone awry like wild turkey on rye–on or off the rocks, according to your pleasure.

Carrie spread the finer mustard across the granite counter top, flogging the knocking horridscope onto the left-most antipode, ambidextrous nonetheless and farther afield than you might think. All thumbs and accidents of warts awarded the latest toaster over to Carrie’s last dance with the granite counter top, often riding the bus, sitting in the green seat, to the kneeling statue of Cary’s entire fleet of favor. Carrie gave Cary a clue and said see what you might have missed if you had let your premonitions run away with your temptations. Cary smiled and said nothing (because Cary was a mannequin).

On the way home on the bus, sitting in the red seat, Carrie conjured up a jar of tomato mustard and dreamed what she could do with her bedroom mirror.

Ginger stood and lifted the stifled rifle to the top of the Eiffel Tower’s lowest setting to the right of the neighborhood watch party.

George said he didn’t mind as long as the fleet of empty dignitaries fluttered a fortune of mints into the storm drain of restraint. Faint streaks of deliberate light enlivened the proceedings of the fleeting miscues of Ginger’s first three cats, bats being a little too considerate for such purposes. Along and until the repaid plains of Spain emptied their Georges into the gulf of Ginger’s fried potatoes, nothing could trespass that would lead to a more fortuitous conclusion–Ginger’s driveway notwithstanding.

George stood up and helped Ginger grind the rifle against the top of the Eiffel Tower, but the snow started to fall, and the French snow globe had shattered into a number of poems that refrained from all the mornings of the world catching up with them by breakfast in light of all tomorrow’s parties.

Charles succumbed to the paraphrastic logic of three weasels and a garrulous ferret where the trees were concerned.

Derogatory sentences are taken to the woodshed and occasionally pandered to in an infinite variety of the parlor judge–plastered summons not withstanding. Pebbles of rattling sapphires and sticky florins of joy jilted the emphasis on luck’s winners at the tipster’s banquet with a fillet of velvet wrapped about Charlene’s wobbly neck–severe in seven graces and thirteen kisses besides. Scandalously eloquent. Burdens of high sparks weaseled the tasty sapphire across Sapphireshire with new editions usurping the company daily.

Honored doilies buried the news of melancholy and pride sought out by Charles and Charlene as far as the eye can see-or at least believe–with dishes overthrown a yard too soon.

The skin for the win with verve swerved into the banks of the Euphrates River in denial of glib vials of ancient history.

The mystery resolved itself without a big reveal revealing the tater tots and boisterous forms of disbelief suspended these eighty-thousand years since the dawn of ancient moons. Fortune flavors the cold drafts under the other side of the pillow at night in the night of all nights and the flight of all plights. Phlegmatic specimens of entire donor classes cleared the glasses under foot like that anxious scene in that Bergman film in black and white and red all over technicolor feeder rights. Contrary to popular belief, relief was just a motion away in the way of Steve Gadd and of all flesh, hanging like that portrait of Florian Hay, but a little too late for such reunions.

The verve dissipated and peace descended on all nieces, wheezing from April pollen and May fallen.