The Definitive Account of What Hurricane Sally Did to My Roof.

When things start to get interesting, my first impulse is to go into the den and whip up something just this side of risqué. It could redound to my benefit in the event of a general sense of displacement. Who will tell the children that I'm seeing someone new? You can tell if the children  have had too much to break if their eyes are even shinier than usual. What do I tell myself? To stop repeating the word 'repeating'? Not at all. And not ever.

So what brought us to this point? Have we ever seen a fractured retail apparel landscape groan under the weight of a rare bone ailment? Our person is thought to relent and take a raincheck in lieu of a first-pharmer risk-positive alert status. The bringing of charges in the Claude Mooney imbroglio looks to be only step one in a drawn out pithing mash as a mother lode transits the pitiful benefits package that all have grown to loathe. In my version of the noon-tide packument dossier, I'm seen to just barely withhold the bearings of a child-sized portion controlled segment from a tipsy geriatric nurse's lying sack-of-shit-of-a-husband. And you would too if only you could see the long term implications go 'poof' as I claim to have, so many times, in fact, that it's getting old.

Where some people see a dream delayed I see a scream inferred but not yet invested with variants of the squeaky kind. The kind you'd rail against if all it took was seven good men with scissors and a way with the ladies. This is probably the last place you'd expect to read this but, the time is coming to hold on ever more tightly to each of your holders. 

The thrash-pavritic pastorship was a done deal until truth hit the fan and cried a random pole. My dying side is once again up for grabs in the meat muffin of rausty aglomerations. And those who refuse to believe me are courting a Dick Aster scenario as it seems they always do. My emblems are on the table and my table is on the roof and the roof was blown off by Hurricane Sally. Sorry, but my lower burst is starting to get nervous. It's not something that can be helped, try as we may. We may, but not until June. Trick her.      

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There's a Melody Which Creeps Up On Me Nightly, But I Refuse to Complain (cough).

Her large irregularities are my excuse to enter a now discontinued mentorship program. The inconsistent attendance figures are instructive as to the unworthiness of today's figures of fun. A scholastic supply house and its fecund advisory panel are the talk of the town in a place I've only recently visited. I took my life in my hands but, godammit, my 'hair thing' is over for good!


For the benefit of any disgraced ex-journalists who may be reading this, may I offer a subtly winsome ax-handle of derision to the last person standing who has not yet failed to yield his or her adamant positive evaluations with a wink and a knock? You can damn well bet that I'll be all over this and that includes trying new dishes out of boredom, if nothing else. What's eating you, is what I'd like to know. One part Kenneth, one part Cecil and one part throat is my personal recipe for a candidate to lead a major dream-team effort to scale the heights of political effervescence. But a talent for no-shows could get you tossed out on your hieny like so many day-old long-term refinement addictions.

What if, after all this, the person of the second person insists on ruing the length of the day while all around one or more sweeping gestures appear to fail upward, one scant measly threat at a time? On a baleful triune bounty, which you can count on the fingers of one palsied hand, we will stake the hotels and fee-schedules that wrap themselves into a false wind-borne lampshade of shame.

There's a melody which creeps up on me nightly, kind of like a gumdrop in its swirly tackiness. I'm talking velly velly swowy so I won't be misunderstood. Lightly this time. With bonding authority and a failed premise. You've satirized your last painfully brief exclusion scenario. And that's all it will take to lead a horse to water and watch it twirl. Drim dram drum. Phooey! 

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Sonic Navigation: The Jhisterne Edition.

The Barrier of One Solid Night.

Without agreement, or even knowledge, 

as to what constitutes a 'decent interval', 

it falls to your local person to scrape together 

a few ideas and just decide, if that's a word 

that won't get someone offed at a corner or 

three, just as what it is and who it will be 

when an unknown quantity is shielded and 

breaks the barrier of one solid night.

Inside a spot which sometimes appears to rotate on the ceiling when I've had too much to drink, a name surfaces. The name: Jerlene Krislak. She is my sister. We were separated during a fracas at the airport while our regional opponents' decision making process was coming under discussion at a meeting of six of the seven stake holders we've held at arms' length for the entire period of hostilities. If I've ever locked an innocent person-of-height in a random broom closet, I can be forgiven. It was an understandable weakness. The conflicting emotions were tearing me this way and that. I have soldiered forth with unassailable, if mundane, projections. The total cost is to be hidden. I am duty bound to briefly reveal in an offhand way just who it is who will still be with us when we storm the last redoubt, and post the relevant readout, when whoosh comes to unlock various unsold containers allowing 'the good stuff' to finally breathe.

Outside of our obsession with faces of a certain angular quality, what would those in charge say is our prime fatal flaw when considered in light of a droning Episcopal Monarch's just-in-time pyramid scheme? Is 'one' your answer? Try to answer ever more slowly. It will make 'things' longer, that is to say: extended in (at least) one spatial dimension. The shoes you wore yesterday could possibly become the hat you wear tomorrow. There are no 'ifs' about catching a drift. And no 'ors' or 'buts' for that matter. Does it matter? Please try to think clearly.

 Along with the chain letter addressed to a bald person in the Icelandic capital, there's an insistent metallic banging emanating from a local fraud detection device which we're at our wits' end attempting to install, one backward facing nail at a time. And I do mean DREAMY!

But then a fountain-pen shaped pastry item is offered for our inspection. My vulnerable sensitivities are taken into account and all is 'hunky-dory', or so I think. Until I get the letter, that is. And I don't mean a 'letter' as in a piece of correspondence consisting of one or more pieces of paper covered in text and delivered in an envelope (remember those?) No. I mean a single alphabet letter, not printed on or affixed to any surface, paper or otherwise. No. It's just a single alphabet letter transmitted directly into my mind from an unknown (and possibly unknowable) source. One might ask: 'Well, which letter was it?' Makes sense, right? That's the thing: I don't remember which letter it was. Why? Look, this happened sixteen years, seven months, one week, four days, two hours, five minutes and thirty-five seconds ago as I write this. How am I supposed to remember every aspect of something that happened at that exact moment? If I could do that I'd be some kind of frickin' genius! Geesh! Get lost with the stupid questions already! I'm out of here! 

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Could Psychokinesis Be Involved?

Even if the approach favored by the less-than-complicit alternative brand managers had a more than slight chance of inducing the succeeding generation of devoted nudniks to part with even a vague portion of their hard won esteem packages in exchange for a two-fisted value proposition from Hell, I still could not begin to countenance the ham-handed tactics I witnessed just the other day while flossing my teeth. There was a (secret) stain proceeding ever so slowly, minute by minute, decade by decade, along the floor of my gazebo. My wife, on the advice of counsel, made contact with a professional person recommended by her ontologist, and, quite frankly, read him the 'riot act'. On this very day it was my turn to 'assume the position' and scope out the possibilities while avoiding the more obvious penalties sure to accrue if I dared to wait even one more day to make adjustments. If I ever thought there would be a day to escape what turned out to be a truly minor situation, this would be it.

I grabbed an oddly colored collection of items, swore an oath to Third Father and made my way (as pathetic as it turned out to be) via chartered motorcoach to a run-down section of a medium sized city in the Northeastern section of the Southern Midwest. There I made contact with representatives of an obscure faction. Their hats marked them as 'marked people', if you know what I mean. If you don't, then please stop complaining; your time will come.

Slowly it dawned on me that this whole thing was just a set-up. And I was a patsy, a rather pasty patsy at that. You see, for the prior three months I had subsisted on nothing but brewers' yeast and kandy korn at the direction of my urologist, Dr. Harflempt Nicosia. You could say I was a willing guinea pig or you could say nothing at all. Your choice. But here's the essential question: why do things move around if I just think about them, without any physical contact? This only happens if my eyes are closed. Is that any help? Just so you know, I'm having an illicit affair with your dentist. Glad I got that off my chest. I can finally breathe again, in more ways than one. If this is a shock, then I have to wonder where you've been for the last seven years and whether sentience is something you've ever made the acquaitanceship of. This is no joke. The End.

This post has been made  possible by the gracious cooperation of:

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The Current Status of Our Daughter Jill Loomis.

I lightly grazed her left forearm with my right eyebrow and only intended to offer some inane pleasantry along the lines of, "Were you at the Henny Youngman Roast last year?" or maybe "Have I ever told you about my paper allergy?". But instead what I found myself, well, blurting out if I'm being honest, was "Why are you always traipsing around with my Space Needle postcard like it's your coveted collectible?" It wasn't my question to ask. Really had never occurred to me before that evening. If, after this outburst, my breath became short and my fingertips assumed a more oval shape as was reported on Action 5 News, I plead the fifth. Look, I'm playing for time here. There's a teenage runaway in my foyer and a ribald account of my alternative uses of a neck brace has been making the rounds and it's all I can do to maintain even a routine homeostasis. 

This is the time of year when a swath of forgotten cloth will do wonders for starchy knuckles. We don't ever want to succeed in reacting to otherwise fluking empers the way a certain 'Sam Halsey' did. It doesn't suit a person with a trim appearance. If I'm thinking clearly and abiding by a carefully aligned can-do boosterism, then my overweening hyperactive security personel will schedule a meet-and-greet with the Pipefitters Union for the last Thursday of the fourth month of every third decade. This will give us a respectable time period during which to enforce an excuse regime on the one-sided patriarchy that an underwater civilisation calls home. It will also accrue to the magickal benefit of the basketball team I sponsor for the Jaycees. The last time I looked, our faded knock-on wonder list was seen as the last ablution loved by animals in prison. I mean 'real' animals, not the kind you see in the street. It happens that my street is paved with unremarkably sized stones. 

After I forced my way into her carport, I spotted my favorite tie under a toolbox.  Then, believe or not, I had a heart attack. I was rushed to Mercy Hospital where I was pronounced predominantly dead. When my older brother came back from the war in Vietnam I trained in Floral Design at Claremont College. My wife used to be vegan. Our daughter Jill Loomis is engaged to a prominent attorney in town. We no longer play bridge with the neighbors. Why? It seems they've all become Communists. If you approach me very slowly there's a chance we might become friends. Does that sound like a good idea? 

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The Last, Best Hope of a Christian Revival.

If the cold-chain torrent forces our hand, and the malevolence we seek to avoid comes face to face with those we put forward as a firewall of sorts, then we'll know that the effort to exclude any tell of a fancy drama will go down as the third most slipshod effort in the sorry history of our team to effect even a slight modification of the nightmare of moisture its been my displeasure to ensulvate so far.

By my count, the stable teludarm, enjoined to a separative lunging, freighted with asperated nontules, is scripted to jam at least seven phony escapes down the throats of our alternate partial foam container, leaving aside each event with no coach to call its only waning prant; on a blacker occasion the sightlines will eviscerate moderate leanings and the Judge stands a good chance of seeking cancellation within the week.

If we ask ourselves to list the telltale markings which identify the enemies of a rumbling, oat-slaking prenatal dirge, then Goddammit, it serves each and every one of them right! For who's to say, even at a one-word-per-hour rate, that these silvery putrid call-boxes will ever be enough to pile a dim astral circuit with the festooned remains atop the last, best hope of a Christian Revival? It stands to reason that the last strands of treason will never be essential to the obverse gradient we deem essential if this thing stands any chance of 'having legs'.

What do you call it when, at a partial distance from a now impermeable membrane, a host of our acquaintance, with a skill-set second to none and an above average shiftiness, is nevertheless compelled to tectify and train his or her ambivalence at our local Teen Stewardship Award winner? Just for the fuck of it? Come on! It's just not right and you know it! 

See me at one. Did anyone see me eat one? 

I just want to seem to atone. Blank fun. 

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The Shape of a Slithering Glove.

It happens that there is a small, grooved cartridge that someone is supposed to brood over. Would anyone possibly find that appealing? It could be a bargain for reasons we can't go into right now. Just know that the solid footing you seek will accommodate any and all manner of self-help gambits.

Listen young lady, those above me in terms of transition have a shaky grasp on reality as it's usually conceived. We've been pressed to the hindmost and found wanting with the best of them and at this parlous indicator we laugh with not a little winsome tittering! But we'd expect you'd find that nothing short of hilarious as a beam strikes a plow. It will all come to something small and gray but a trove of dishcloths is a hirk of a ching to pillage. The pressing need to appear graceful is all too apparent to give your remaining paraclete a motive to shred a massive tear in the shape of a slithering glove.

When bearing a trim guilty challenge, will your brow reliably encase a startled rainboat even when shielding the seven cardinal points? As a manager breeds a stoppage in gap-year proposals to salvage the median olfactory dilettantes, who will struggle in silence with a sappy sequence of rarefied spirit-bodies at work? Where is our salted perimeter sheaf, you dad-gummed, petrified praise-wrecking brick-stop, you? Could it even absolve a three-person team of the effort to train a ghost in dime-store diplomacy at the stroke of two? It would appear doubtful if our sense of deep infection is any guide. Ever the optoclast, eh? Wreak what you snow, but don't peek at what no one knows. That should be your gliding invisible pro-tip, is all we're saying, but you knew that all along,  n'est-ce pas?

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What Could Be Under A Bridge of Sand?

Is this? When you first backed down, did all the small lids need mending or does one by seven by six crash the temporal doll a piece at a time until, .... one of these days.....?


It's a pretty title monster. A hand holds the front but I'm not afraid; in a true August night we'll feel a frustration that will take from us. All is tinted buvonic glass. There is a trend.


Will Slape accuse Brother Moffat of withholding a true ring, this time even more broadly, or of scouting a trim brigand of insectoid trifles, while a cane stirs the hemlock diadem with a strategic manifold to pleat the grand?


We volley and a vain whisper veers skyward as a nullified cocoon upholds courtesy in sullen waxy accents and Austen's piebold livery bench approaches Ground Zero in tandem with a charred rotting clasp which straightens my tongue as offered in trick buttes of grift.


You have dreamed that one willing piece shall explode the rational prying code in a Basque courtyard still unseen as a stern gentleman mopes at dusk. It treats a polyvalent non-event as one wishes and breaches the noon dystopia as if one lurks in staccato drippage with coonskin to veil the mordant pill in a pithy attempt at honor-from-behind.

In our final gull's leering vapage, the third instant's record trust quotient respects not one separated wilting tote-board and the reaming of solid flasks remains but a tent peg of infamy as semi-liquid trance-points are envisioned to lift a maid to the source of our blasted freedom under a bridge of sand.


But why, either at once or at all, do the boys of slumber take their stand and cake their hand, leaving a pair of latchkey pastry-eaters none the wiser in a lemony pastel schizoid blood-product sort of way?


You know the answer, as anyone not officially dead can plainly see. And we will give you the time you need to feel an internal rightness, while above all else, your train is busted. Now we clap. A person enters. Our zone is defiled. The sugary drink seems but a small price to pay for skipping out on paving the way with unmet promises. Fool.

A Person Who Is Widely Considered 'An Honest Broker' Is Alleged To Believe That This Post Approaches 'Truth', However Obliquely.

A plank which (mistakenly) serves as a threshold ...

... is a term aimed at the cohesion of America's festering force.
                 
                 -or-

.... grips us with a wanton, perilous, venom-excluding, scathing                  
               knock.
                  

                  -or-


..... allows our fundamentally pleasing hosiery a small margin for                 
                 earning a leap of breath.
                   

                   -but then again-



When something this invincible, yet sorely underused. tricks a                    
             stand-alone buffer to weep with rust in its sights, then...



... all bets are either off or placed at some distance aside from the                
             main turning blade.
                    


                           -or-



... a translucent disk enables a portable cheerless façade to skim a                  
                 triple stone within my shaded obedient storyboard and a                        
                      simple grain emits a durable lisp in a one-size-fits-all                             
                             bonhomie.

Then, far be it from me to reckon a boldly talentless mantle-trampling wizardry as the One True Need which will serve as a motley placeholder for the last unidentifiable minuscule object at rest in safety mode we can remember ever forgetting.


This might seem 'not quite right' but a restriction popularly evaded and a dread easily wreaked upon my sullen pupil, would, even now, produce an escalating panic in objects in motion. It's why the bland woman in charge of seating arrangements is mumbling coded fragments into a monogrammed blue hankie. And also why a person of hair mounts a dream defense even while establishing a paramount liquid as the drink of choice.

____________________________

But if all this is true, then where and why would we insist on standing? And who would risk a boastful refrain when a perquid vank would reveal the only trail we bleed? Move.

________________________

Sonic Majecticus Plenum:

A Book I Read Just Last Year.

There's an ordering process to my shirts that I'm struggling with, even now. I've been taking alternate weeks to try and get the hang of it. If I think my participation would make a grown man smile, then I'm all for it, warts and all. So, while the shirt I'm wearing right now doesn't seem to conform to what we all agreed to, then my friend's parent is likely to get fired and the blame will be enough to affect each of us on the inside equally. Sometimes it's about all of us pretending to be embarrassed while addressing envelopes as if they're people. We know better. But adjusting to this new regime is a thing of beauty.

There's a neighbor of mine in the Valley. Let's call her 'Sue'. 'Sue' highlights a problem in our local area wherein if a person decides after either an aerobic exercise session or a few drinks to try to mollify those who react to an atmosphere of distrust with a wincing pleasantry, 'Sue' will be all up in their faces, no questions asked. The answer, though, is one for the books, one of which I read just last year. It was called 'The Five Gateways to Sudden Wherewithal'. The author is Yertzy Bentham. I used to run into his widow, Hidalga, at the Farmers' Market here in town. Before we started dating she'd give me the the 'side eye'. I would secrete a celebrity paperweight into her mailbox under cover of darkness. One time I slipped and fell in the easement near her bungalow. We're still in the middle of a frankly unnerving arbitration process, which is possibly going nowhere. Fast.

The reason I bring all this up is that just today I learned that 'Sue' and Hidalga studied with same violin teacher in Estes Park, Colorado from February 3, 1981 to June 9, 1983. I was just a kid then but I can still remember the distinct smell of burning rubber. This is when we all had our own favorite (1) pass-fail test at school, (2) Youth Pastor on the South Lawn, or (3) Presidential Executive Order (PEO) secretly taped to the inside of our hats. Don't take too long to guess or it could get ugly. I think it's only right that I tell you my name. In the TV show it was 'Joe Sykes'. In the movie it was Archibald Perniss. In the comic book it was Levander Sluntferg. In what passes for 'real life' it's Swerpy Benk. If we can ever meet either in person or through a series of coded knocks, I'll tell you about my time in prison. Please don't get the wrong idea because I'm dead serious. 

How To Move Your Shoulder.

There is one simple way. If you find twelve holes burned in a map, you'll know you have the right one. The simplest way to move is with your left shoulder bound with a nylon shoelace. The tricky part is to determine whether or not any part of your body would feel better if it cleaves the seasonal trostic winds just so. It helps if there's a faux black scar painted on the inside where the fence is most vulnerable to nesting insects and their devious ways. You could hear a chirrup, but don't be so sure.

If you have an intuition that the holes in the map were burned by low-tar cigarettes, it might ignite suspicion in the alter-vasse compunity. It may be possible to cover for this, and for that a small packet could be made available.


The ease with which you move your family into a temporary shelter out by the rocks depends, as almost everything does these days, on the closeness you feel to our members' appetite for holding an inner breakage aloft, a peculiar notion for sure, but, if the little ones can acclimatize to a sporadic eruption of red wires, the crew at Stone can make a home like few others; trauma is 'the new wing'.

If, in the junction box, the single blue wire approximates a snake window, you'll have the right to a full military funeral, should it come to that. The line which was constructed exactly one year ago today (as I write this) at Brigantine Beach, now all but erased, in fact initiated a virtual 'pan-static era' and the brand we fought for (as Blid has it) is just fog in the blimp of God. Someone will pay.

There is a type of vapor, easily available at any major airport, which will ease a lozenge into a near-perfect approximation of a pebble made of human skin. If someone you once encountered at a not very well attended community event is seen drifting through life, undisturbed, even while undeterred, you'll know you've hit pay dirt. The grace will come and go like the cheap success coveted by the recently warned. The truth of the matter is there for all to see. But, see it they won't and see it they can't. A 'made in Holland' sticker makes no difference. Please eat a sandwich. 

A maintained wire is equipped with same the diabolic functions as the devil woland.
The man that each one likes to hate, of the constant older administrative assistant. The
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by the goatskin and has a great feeling. Traditional Hong-Kong a mixture of the screens
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there is it a thirst in the pupil and  has a promise in the Master. The newest product erfinderische
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design that davion of the forces in a library of technique in Achernar discovered.

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The One Thing That Might End Our Friendship (Try Not to Guffaw!)

It ill behooves my liaison to DARPA, Tibby Irsfler, to be appointed co-presenter at the annual Javits Dinner honoring fallen scofflaws from the tragic events of 4/13. She has an inherent conflict of interest due to an incident that occurred over six years ago when the Walplezil Reservoir was just coming online. It was a hot and dry summer, my marriage was soon to end and our son Hesmer had been transferred to the Outer Blanks for Cistern Crestfell wage theft. My eyelid condition was worsening by the hour but I didn't let that stop me. I trudged up the last hill for the day and ate a sandwich,.. egg salad, not my favorite. I had received notification via an abandoned envelope that spelled out in no uncertain terms the route I was to take. There's a rundown sky-blue chalet that you'd easily drive right by without noticing unless you had a reason. But I had one, a reason that is. A very big one in fact.

The turning point in our struggle would strike most folks as nothing to either brag about or bemoan in the manner of a paltry knee-high jid. I've been keeping a sort of 'diary' of each and every  time my name would come up, seemingly at random, yet somehow that never stopped them. They just went right ahead and produced a volatile  mifture of kake oil and mineral wax and made sure that every time I hesitated to remove a tall, dark-haired individual from our roof closet, I would be forced to see for myself what this did to the Support Staff as to stun-by-rights. It wasn't pretty. But I knew I was within the bounds of procedural obstinacy and a tracking device would be the last thing I needed to have mounted at a slight angle to my mobile trophy prank. But I had no choice. I wasn't thinking straight. 

You could say I was in 'a tizzy', but if you did it might end our friendship. I'm a sensitive guy, but most definitely NOT a sensitive person. Can you see the difference or are you just like all the others? Do you thrive in cold, wet indoor environments? Would it bother you if a Swedish news anchor could be proven beyond a reasonable doubt to have misplaced a small lamp? What do you think your reaction would be if I told you that I was deeply in love with you? Is there something you found out just the other day that you wished you had learned in Junior High? Do you mind? 

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