Reading Ulysses in Montana

Reading Ulysses in Montana #106 (revisited)

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The rumpled stilts flitted above the knee-high dresses of the virgins of the state of the capitol parade. Windows massed on the borderlina, concertina, Willamina went through three days of every ounce a meek dunce.

Thump, thump, thumping in the evening of the third day, the clanking clanking of the mourning of the fourth day amid the ruins. Love amid the ruins of the river Thyme to say nothing of marjoram, marjoram, wherefore art though, trebuchet? Sachet along the quay that rhymes with bee, but nothing such that stings so sharp and for good as lithium and albatross made their way along the boulevard of broken sighs, and up flies the warden with thirteen tulips, one for each virgin in the state of the capitol parade–one of which was his haha daughter, Willamina.

Willamina entered the cozy chapel that abutted the mystic bookstore, but she gave no doubt where she stood on the issue of heaping piles of mashed potatoes and either butter or gravy: both!

Faulkner reminds them that’s why they endure!

Originally published November 26, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #500 (revisited)

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The thorn of the jester gave puce thrill to the beastly pity of a bitter mystery. Butter would be better, after engulfing the bile of a bilious clown. Mock me, says the jester’s mother. Mock me dead.

Hand held high above the tower, the throb of a tribble trembled in the night. Whereon is the lead and the corresponding dearth of pickaxes? The sea is empty without your pickaxes, mother. Her offended trick wove strands of mist among the lilacs, the black lilacs, waving in the empty sea of sunshine. Landscapes do that now and then when they tire of the tried and true.

Blue potatoes taste like chicken which the jester pulled from his mother’s leopard skin hat. Temptations are in surplus this time of year, but the means to yield to them are scarce. Scarce sauce of cherry pit juice reduced to almost nothing; however, the jester’s recipe calls for a mother’s touch.

Fleeing the fleshpots of Egyptian tapestries, the black cat sprang from the leopard skin hat and fled into the lilac night.

Originally published November 19, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #422

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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. 

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #887 (revisited)

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The table sat in the middle of the room. The chair sat in the corner of the room beside the window that looked out on the night. The window did not sit; the window only looked.

The table crossed from the middle of the room to the corner opposite the chair. The table sat in the corner opposite the chair and at an oblique angle to the window that did not sit but only looked. Silence prevailed, and darkness prevailed.

The room had no light, but the room also did not have a seeing being nor a sensor in it to need a light. If there were a light, it would have sat on the table that sat in the corner opposite the sitting chair and oblique to the looking window. But there was not a light, so it didn’t sit on the table.

Four walls, a ceiling, and a floor bound the room on six sides. One of the walls–the wall to the left of the table–had a door that had not been opened for many years. How many years no one knew because tables and chairs and windows and non-existent lamps and walls and ceilings and floors and doors and silence and darkness do not know such things. Their secret knowledge is beyond all human comprehension.

The table and the chair sat in the room. The window didn’t.

Originally published November 17, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #301

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A calamity of clams calmly made the grievous error of consulting the vat of cocktail sauce, indeed and exceed.

Futility marked the foretold wealth of the nature of blisters and scallions–asleep these three thousand years–monstrous in all malingering. Half-placed drums and quarter-barreled trumpets committed the cardinal virtue of sparing the tilted banquet of affordable sands and Swiss health. Surrender, but don’t forget who’s taking you home to first base while I know steals the third path to merry second. Exceeding annihilated essence of preternatural nature, a gallon of formaldehyde is worth an ounce of prevention–at least if you know what you are trying to prove and especially if you are trying to prevent something miraculous.

That’s what the clams would say anyway in the way clams say what they say in the face of a nuanced calamity.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #678

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Cary pulled the thread, but he did not know the thread was attached to a magic carpet, so he was unprepared for what happened next.

The next-best thing to happen to Carrie was Cary giving her a ride on his magic carpet, but the following week she called to arrange another ride, and Cary never answered. Enter the next-to-last best thing. The fleas of counting sheep kept Carrie awake all night long–ever since the partially fateful magic carpet ride with Cary. But what really threw Carrie for a hoopla was when the sheep started counting her. She asked them how high they would count, and they said they would count until she fell asleep. Carrie said do you believe in countable infinities?

Cary realized he had slipped into the world of uncountable infinities and that it would take an infinity of lifetimes to train his sheep to count until he fell asleep, so the last best thing never happened again.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #240 (revisited)

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Too light, too bright, too tight! The cleaner entered the shed by the woodpile only to be doused with the might of a conventional bedmaker in full fright come upon the garden of delight in full daylight.

Whimsy. Whimsy gave her dog a bone because her cupboard was bare of brass tacks to pin the tail on the jackass in the adjoining room who spent all hours of the night adjoining with who knows what and where. Yellow would only take them so far, but they were all out of the other colors of the full spectrum of visible light. Visible plight of the lonely and lovely, hardened by years of inexperience amassed against the demise of popular culture.

The vultures squared the cube but could not dodecahedron the circle due to the instinctual cleaner who had remained in the woodshed with the dim bulb of paradise who had only just returned from a dozen years in the madhouse. Aren’t we all!?!?

Originally published November 16, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #238

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Yellow fronds of lily ponds devoured the least innocent end of the dark side of the rainbow.

Or as Ginger believed, in the last thrill of George’s comical pill, obnoxious to the end, the beginning, and through to the end all over again. Great lumps of pirate dust scattered across the false steps of the gloomy universal universe, universally. Contrary to unpopular opinion, the gates of chicken wings closed a moment too late, and the buffalo sauce fled into the pedal of permafrost across the contemporary fluids gathered in a congregation of misbegotten hobgoblins. The poem ends where the novel begins, which is why the language of the music of the spheres stopped in their tracks the moment a momentous occasion flattened into the eye of the beholder.

George gave Ginger a bouquet of yellow fronds, but they wilted in her everlasting glory. Abruptly.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #467

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Martha’s crystals, barren like the surface of a surfing surfactant, joined the long legs of prosperity to the enthralled thimble of everlasting castles in the tower of destiny.

Hours passed by the station like a flashlight on a Pullman car, knowing not how to pull off the spontaneous simultaneity because Albert was watching a little too closely, and thinking a little too dearly. Yearly auctions satisfied Martha’s falsely emergent behavior, narrated increasingly as a licensed modification concerning the salient point sticking out a little too far for everyone’s comfort. Kings foretold of Martha’s brother, who would bother to send an innocent accusation into the hearts of traitors everywhere and devise devices that avenged the verdict of thunder and the clemency of gold for blushing mutinies of the spirit.

Duty drove Martha to the station to collect the barren crystals, but the wishful thimble had lost all frame of reference.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #638

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Certified embankments embarked on a journey of self-discovery into a long day of nights, at least as far as Toni was concerned.

Toni filled the abyss of meaninglessness with paper clips and Styrofoam packing peanuts–unshelled of course. Enter sandman’s alter ego and that sets everything right. Contenders contended for the contentious prize, lollygagging and loitering with harmless bowls of soup and nuts, like Toni with her packing peanuts. Guilty meditations on the shores of the Mediterranean looked with foolish eyes at the bacon on the platter, supine and relaxed with an angle of repose even Stegner would admire clumsily, measuring distances with the malice and villainy of a weeping droid-turned-drone.

Toni embarked on an embankment of Jill’s last sweater, but the warmth of the local tide warmed all boats.

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