Kindly gate the calling of splendid forces, but guard against revolting hither and shorn. Horns of plenty give succor to invested honors engrossed in rooms of pillows, silken pillows, for the fellows of Mr. Bellows.

Watch immediately if the slumbers you have long forgotten in the rotten time of sand and hour glasses give length to days of yore. Grasshoppers too know not how long to wait before hunger gets the best of bitter bees buzzing before the brew pub next door. Pins and postulates proved the last fermented theorem well enough for general consensus among the other theoreticians, but woe unto those who stand outside the consensus of echoes! Comfortably pruning the waters of Babylon, Xerxes enlisted the help of a thousand bullfrogs to spread the royal manure across the plains of Lourdes.

Splendid forces aside, applied algorithms take root where virtue wears the bellowed garments of silken cats.

The edification upon the reunification of the shivering livers had ramifications that enlivened the colleagues of the intrepid syllable.

The greatest period of vessels collapsing around the ruins of ancient obstacles breathed deeply the canals of exhausted anvils. Devoted devotions made self-covered buttons drip with covenants of mercy, blotted out with the quality of copybooks and curious pillars of infamy as though covered in lard and rendered deeper into the gists of time. Transparent envelopes of gilded lilies willingly groused about seventy years of feasts amid famines of comfort and transoms of joy. Mocked by day and couched by night, flights of inward angels persuaded baits of bated breaths to exhale their finest finery and ship the oars of prosperity for a day or two.

Beatrice begs to differ, but you would too if the spies of virtue choked on the orchard of edified souls once again.

The cat’s in the ladle and the sliver of infinity inflated the giant pig over Battersea Station prolonging Ginger’s whims and ecstatic ecstasies.

See, you only get out what you put into the thing, disregarding the negligible friction with the diction of your peers, flown all the way from Guernsey, 89211. Oh my, the last out in the bottom of the ninth went too far for foreign dignitaries to dig into the past of a Proustian time lapse, lapping the outstanding field and flowing with the glow of a low worm, turning against the foot that stopped trodding on it long ago this past December. Remember the titanic Titans of yestermorn? Upheavals are not your every day run of the mill kind of sugared cereal leaving the sludgy milk at the bottom of the bowl that takes six years off your life each time you think about it.

Ginger snored but George ignored everything, being bored by nature (his nature), cats and ladles be damned to slices of eternal infernal infinity.

Deciphering delicious destinations was not her business at all, but Joy found her way to the end of the rainbow, where the sidewalk ends, and baffled the leprechauns with her expectation to take their pot of gold while sitting on her head.

Headwinds buffeted the end of the buffet where the chef wielded his slicing knife against the turkey and roast beef, but the double-slit experiment had turned the fatuously fatty hunks of meat into first the triple-slit experiment then the quadruple slit experiment until finally Joy joyously found the sum over all histories of an electron, a photon, and then herself and the rest of the entire universe. But nothing else. Longitude was no match for the turtle walking too slowly so it would be smiling during its transmogrification from a sloth to a tortoise.

Horseradish aside, the rector deciphered the joy of Joy’s joy while attending the moribund slicing of the moody roast beef.

She walk in darkness unlike the light of the newborn world, a world of privilege and delight, but Ginger would throw it all over for one more crack at the Gong Show and its many consolation surprises.

Sizes of zebras could see no further than the farthest star from earth, but which one was farther was still up for further debate. There must be one farthest from earth, mustn’t there? Unless the shape of the universe merrily folds in on itself so the earth is as far from itself as it is from the farthest star. Furthermore, further riddles and farther paradoxes of great pitch and momentum litter and frustrate the most basic attempts at gardening for intrepid interstellar travelers such as Ginger and George. George? George?

One would never guess the whys and wherefores of Ginger walking farther in the further darkness like the light of George’s newborn world, but the farthest star yawned and fell further asleep.

A palimpsest of turbulent onions dropped their fall leaves in the spring time of my life with wonderful aplomb and wretched containment of fraught artifacts dating to last July.

Skies above and below flowed a notch short of standard schemas and views into tables of cupness and cups overflowing with incomplete tableness. Reminders of remaindered books lifted the certain curtain obscuring obscure little men and little women–of Oz and Alcott–a mashup of infinite infinities and chiropractic adjustments aligned with the sixteenth earl of Duke. Flukes of errors and flukes of whales absconded with the mesmerized purveyors of Stockholm syndrome, the Copenhagen interpretation having divined for Christiana the slinky of Helsinki.

Dead leaves and the dirty ground made white stripes of onions grow all through the fall of the restless empire, but Jack dropped his Jill and the hill came tumbling after.

The hill came tumbling after.

Tumbling after.

After.

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.