Reading Ulysses in Montana

Reading Ulysses in Montana #123

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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.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #576

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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.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #10 (revisited)

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Ahoy the joy among the affluent druids for peace movement about the why axis, her ex said.

Broods of sardines swelled like petunias in the blind alley of fate at the bottom of the sunlit cradle. The cradle rocking and falling but no boughs to break under the mistletoe nor any shoes to shine to the delight of Mayor Blackstone. Her majesty the cuttlefish squirted India ink all over the bleached trousers of the Tippendale mob along the waterfront. Glib answers to the question of sidereal mountains going one more revolution than planned from her buoyant perspective.

She could only bolt downright, her upright being turned into a spinet or sometimes worse yet a fortepiano playing fortepiano (fp) along the River Kwai in great reed vessels filled with smatterings of olive oil and tinsel.

Hansel would have given anything for another gingerbread cookie, but the wicked witch, Gretel, had something else in mind.

Originally published December 5, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #389 (revisited)

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Delight, delight, a fright of wicked worms
Enliven forty nights of filigree,
But when the mighty oak has no more toys,
The light of night uproots the filbert tree.

Behold who mucks the stalls for eager bucks
Along the axis to the point of shame;
His brother rides a bell for geese and ducks,
And arms absolve corrupt and sizzling fame.

Full honest empty dowls commiserate
About the long eternal lingon brush;
She hadn’t had a sleep in sixty-eight
Alarms of soldiers moving toward a thrush.

    To one bereft of salve and lineament,
    They live who die a fleeting monument.

Originally published December 3, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #668

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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.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #98 (revisited)

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He mourns the loss of the coming of the mill on the floss, beneath the giddy horns of a gilded dilemma. Everlasting solitude beneath the lassitude of carnival patrons on the third night of Ginger come to town.

Harlan lasted only long enough to give the wheel one more turn of the screw, but the wheel had other plans, or was it the screw? A river. The river. He walked along the river until he heard the voice of the enchantress tell him to go no farther. He went farther. He went as far as the next bend in the river until the enchantress had ceased entreating him, enchanting him. Creole. Bell peppers in the belfry dried to a crisp; although, they say he was a dead ringer for his brother.

Vertigo wanted to become the thirteenth sign of the zodiac, but withdrew its application when Ginger–or was it Harlan–came to town. Out on the town, painting the town red; although, given the state of the prison yard, they say it was really mauve. So mauve it is.

Originally published December 1, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #223 (revisited)

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Sad eyes looked down from the balustrade and contemplated the abyss that yawned at the feet of the fleeing lover, ensconced in a cloak of fine finery, delayed by the translated bishop, the gray claw, and the hoofbeats of the silken zebras rounding the three-quarter post for home.

The mink coat would have given them a run for their money although she would have to buck the rule against adding a favorite to a parlay. Parley voose fronds, eh? Whose fronds ere I go to Panama by way of the Suez Canal and the Hinterstoisser Traverse. A travesty of spoons seducing the mink zebra with a two-dollar ticket to show the world what you’re made of if you have the stripes to pull it off and on the mannequin in the window of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade of the sugar cane ferries across the river Charon.

And don’t call me Charon, because the river is Styx and you can sail away to whichever side suits you.

Originally published November 29, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #451

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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.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #706 (revisited)

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The tock tock ticking of the empty barrel of laughing monkeys gave way to the glorious endive salad headlining the verdant wedding feast.

Fair trade winds blow across the seas of lunacy in the hour of greatest need for the embattled bridegroom. If only he could see the sword of Damocles’s brother hanging from a leather strap above a very safe landing spot, he wouldn’t have the cold feet of the light of dawn but rather the hot-to-trot feet of the marrying kind. So I’ll continue to continue whatever I was pretending to do in the early evening of the day before the night after.

Swept away, askance, arms akimbo, akin to the aching knees of a beauteous storm rising over a pusillanimous region of long forgotten dimensions. Dimensions so extreme as to make a mockery of butter stirred with milk to yield the same kind of cream that rises to the top of all human endeavors–whether good or ungood, right or unright, useful or rigidly diligent.

Originally published November 27, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #521

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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.

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