Harangued by the orangutan in the octagon, the octopus flustered a fistful of filberts grown so long in the tooth even a dentist would have decayed by the dawn’s early light.

Uptight upright pianos and upstanding young men in self-righteous poses in sepia print scandals not even vandals would touch, delivered the news to the crews working the dock of the bay from Marvin’s favorite point of view if the frame of reference had not moved by the time Tina heard it through the grapevine on the midnight plane to Georgia on her mind.

But what? What would yonder argument over the evening star or the morning star have blessed the night of nights for either or both Romeo and Juliet had birds not found their way into the story and taken the glory for Venus on the half-shell like a clam and a half whose oyster cousins said if they had one more wit they’d be a half-wit.

To wit: pretenders to the throne wove a thorn of thrones over the bones of the last light of dusk giving ducks the shelter needed to proceed half way around that half of the globe drinking half and half to close down the last party of summer.

The orangutan had only harangued half the filberts by the time the nitrous oxide had worn off, when soon found out, had a heart of gas.

A scintillation of scallions demanded a loaf for the stallions on the dark side of the rainbow because once bitten, twice spanked, as you well know.

Pranks from the outfield were outliers to the height of the dizzy pole in the parking lot of the once-stirred stadium by the side of the sea, the sounding sea. Were Annabelle not so heedless of the headless messes making their way up the quay of despond, she would have delighted in a flirt with the suicide squeeze with a runner on third and a lifetime of regret to consider the consequences and ramifications of playing it safe, so she did and he did and they did, and eternity had an alternate ending that even Laplace’s demon had not foreseen in between the transforms applied in the night of the headless messes spanked twice, as you well know.

To say nothing of the scintillating stallions and their well-cultivated scallions.

Perhaps it was the veranda after all, wrapped around the house like a page ripped from the Cyprian book of the dead.

Toads aplunder wonder what yonder ganders gather together for whether she will or whither she won’t love him or love him not. Plots thicken like a slurry stew when mewling fingerlings forget to turn off the rapid rise to the skies of abundance and shelter. Smelters in Xanadu shut down for the annual rite of rites where Alf the sacred alien swam unbidden to his swan song on Swan Lake all the way into an ode on a Cyprian urn.

Turn, turn, turn, the troubadours learned to sing the song of seven pence–inflation beating taxes and death for the crown of certainty on the veranda, no less nor no more, no more.

Agony unraveled the thread of desire, but the lyre of Antigone raveled still more at the dearth of mizithra cheese in Hellas land.

For keeps, the weeping Hecuba feigned joy at the last thrush of the season flying south for everlasting eternity–as though all other forms of eternity had already expired. Retired from the avian aviary, the aviatrix of two-and-a-half tours of duty flew into a rage of aspic proportions when the favorite son of the favorite barber in a town where the barber shaves all those–and only those–who do not shave themselves and the barber forgot whether he was supposed to shave himself or not because he had lost the thread of the sentence somewhere along the line, and the line was fine enough to step over without full intent, full stop.

Hopping mad, the raveled nuisance unraveled the thread of erudition one last time for one last thrush before lunch was served on the dais.

Carefully designed to resign at the first glimpse of innovative pottery, the otter said you aught not fret where Uzbek plov is concerned.

The heads of garlic gathered in the Dutch oven of delight and signed the cumin accord that stood the test of thyme and tarragon–the beet juice notwithstanding. Standing on her laurels, Laurel plucked a bay leaf from the tree along the river bank and declared the day to be the day of the fig. To gather alone and be seated was the last call from the dormitory of dust mites–or mite knots on the stool at the portal to the mind of a lesser actor of our day–the actors of the night being too expensive at shift scale.

The scales of justice scaled the mountain of fish scales before drowning in a bath of hot oil and onions–resigned to design a better pot to weep in.

Aware of a wire stretching across the fire of Jonah’s brief desire, a leaf flattered the vanity of a platter of olives and cheese.

Bleu bells blew in the garden and rang in the new day at midnight of midsummer’s eve, even though the lever had not yet switched to the closed position, options being necessary for the calling of all cars and putting all putts into the blender of destiny. Congratulations are in order for the winner of the second annual what-have-you-done-for-me-lately contest of local contestants. Protozoas refused to play the first year for no particular reason, but their participation this second year promised to secure the permanence of the event in local lore. Fore! shouted the wire over the fire of justice–because desire had played out by that time of night.

But justice never sleeps–nor do bleu bell sharks in the depths of the sea of shining seas of Jonah’s dreams tonight.

The wretched ratchet told Nurse Ratched there’s more than one way to sink your teeth into the skin of a fat melon at medication time.

A dime of lollipops insisted the worsted bratwurst inflate the natural casings from the spent bullet during the ballet production of The Deer Hunter in IMAX with the lead taken by the  halter to the altar of altered sea anemones–once by the Atlantic. Pestered into giving up the ghost, Mary gave another dram of doilies to the Count of Monty Hall, having first chosen the second door and then switching guesses to the trap door under the feet of the presenter–on live television no less.

No more would athletes die young along the banks of the Waterhouse headquarters once they gave up their quarterly reports, faltering with the ratchet along the Thames in the time of King James.

Therefore, whenever you see the word Therefore, stop to see what it’s there for.

Abrupt seasonings of violet temptations tempted the hearty log filling the river to the brim, if only it could fly, it would fill the sky to the brim too; tools are like that, you know, and provisions too, but provisions shelter a double life among the back alleys of seedier parts of the town down around the acres where the river meets the sky. The fish-swimming sky, the cloud-scudding river: What clouds the shape of fish! What fish the shape of clouds! Such one finds over the horizon and anon where the bear lives who went over the mountain and saw more than he bargained for.

Therefore, send not to know what it’s there for, it’s there for thee and mee and the fish make three.

Clinging to the twig of apathy, I met her behind the gas station as she had intimated, instigated, and acclimated.

The field was sparse, the spruce was blue, and the blue cow rolled to the bottom of the hill in front of the car wash for sale these past three years. Buck’s T4 had graduated to T6 by the time the story was relayed back to the town of Rigby with might and main hoist over the casting of West Side Story these past three years. The car found in the river two days later did nothing to quell the qualms of the seven quaking aspen along the banks where the blue cow fell into the river–not baptized as reports had later claimed.

I met her behind the gas station as she had intimated, but the twig snapped and she laughed the life fandango, these past three years.

Astrid looked askance at the astronomical union of Lady Astor and her ashtray sitting askew on the coffee table of jute.

Astride a better horse, the unknown subject contemplated dangling modifiers of ineffable dimensions and alert fibrates. And as Frost said, we dance round in a ring and suppose, while the secret sits in the center and knows, but the blowing of the sailor’s hornpipe looked cockeyed at Popeye in that cockamamie cockney accent, imported from Brooklyn with a yard of sails up the forecastle’s jib while Bartleby took Billy Budd for a stroll along the waterfront, contending that even Marlon would not know what to do with Blanche in the best of times, let alone the worst of times.

Arms akimbo, Astrid asked if that was really all there was to it. The universe said yes.