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.

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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. 

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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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