Reading Ulysses in Montana #60 (revisited)

Tara stalked his fidgeting liver while the upstairs thunder washed the kid garden with peas.

Jake said, “Where’s my hat? The household cattle droppings reclaim the whole place!”

Tara said, “The agenda is enthused to kick open the trousers of scarlet spearmint, but only if the bath of letters picked the summerhouse to hang up the fine morning.”

Jake hopefully crept down the garden wall and the cat said a hot day is coming. It is coming, but the collar of the raincoat is fresh. Fresh as a bee.

Originally published October 31, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #520 (revisited)

The cars. Chuck Jarvy had a righteous rendezvous with Sandy, but the sober commercials took rein and turned the mute gratitude a few nights.

Mounting the shavings, burying the bones, lifting the mirthful horse, morning fell safely from the farthest seat–the sideseat. His thumb turned awkwardly against her palm, and she covered his encouraging nape with a shake of her whip.

Slowly, Chuck nodded to exact his continuous plight, but the merry harness jingled a different tune.

Originally published October 16, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #322 (revisited)

Crowded showers of twilight account for the jealousy of Cissly when she peeped her head over the great breadth of attrition.

She crept a little jolly turn over the mystical venture, the saddest vessel, and turned her wan hat with contrition to the brim of the gentleman.

The gentleman wiped his mouth and exchanged his heart on a shingle for her assent. Her bright hope of double singular devotion abandoned fleetingly for a toiled laugh.

Originally published October 16, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #76 (revisited)

Conway believed it silly to fold the sheets of the bantamweight too tightly over the outspread collar smuggled in from the fleshpot of Philly. Betting the cod to place at Ascot, sharp voices of bricks won the Christmas raffle of turkeys and sports. Sports and turkeys. Turkeys of sports.

The pleated cyclist gave her messenger boys a gift of a horseshoe to doubt in an instant the raised eye of Conway.

Cheerfully, you can keep your lips, chap!

Originally published October 13, 2023

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #356

The entrance to the end of the road was not as well-marked as Kitty wanted, but Kitty was an ingenious ingenue, so she took the baton and battened down the hatches–no room for a miserly delay.

Back on dry land, the lubbers of laundry–Bath’s older sibling–gave rise to the complex soil and the growth thereof. Riddled with riddles, Kitty fulfilled the utmost ambition of her next door neighbor whom she had forgotten these last ninety-seven years or thereabouts. Brooding would do not good, but she brooded anyway. Delighted, I’m sure. Constance told Kitty there were only three more where that came from so make sure the sun rises in the east before trying to divine the nature of a perfect piece–a separate piece.

Kitty groomed the cat once more to the cat’s chagrin, and she slipped her way out of town for the verdant journey to the end of the road–the bitter road.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #237

Dorothea ignited the intermodal tea pot and shared the nuclear warmth with her neighbors until the later days of spring.

Upset at the lack of fixtures in the men’s room at the local theater, the porcelain doll blushed and curtsied and helped the workers untangle the baling twine that had become hung up in the spokes of the bicycle built for two. “That’s what happens when you ride such a bike by yourself,” the hairy worker said. Dorothea said nothing. She just looked down at the three workers with a blush and a knowing smile, and then she looked off into the horizon as though meditating on the best places to get Mille-Feuille in the middle of winter. “But it is not the middle of winter,” the flatulent worker said.

Dorothea smiled a smile as wide as the sky, shook the split locks of her porcelain hair, and invited the wayward worker to join her in the faraway land of the middle of winter, where Napoleon pastries grow on trees and bicycles built for two can be ridden solo until the tea pot melts down.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #387

To talk that way in front of the tortoise is as abominable as a snowman because Ginnie said, “White jackets in black hats–or is it the other way around–danced legless in the dunce parade.”

Felted fountains left the last laugh to Ginnie’s destiny. Ginnie knew exactly what to do–if only she know how to do it. Betwixt and between her sewing machine, Ginnie slipped into the bottle of heaven’s delight and encountered the beast of p-adic numbers, come to life in the rare air of her very own genius. The railroad track ended, but the train kept chugging along the desert floor. The desert floor dropped off a severe cliff, but the train kept chugging along through the rare air of destiny. The rare air of Ginnie’s genius dissolved into the vacuum of infinite space, but the train kept chugging along, enamored with Ginnie’s goodness and honking genius.

Back on her home planet, Ginnie threw a party for her departed self and marveled at the tortoise on whose back danced the abominable snowman, on whose shoulders rested the entire earth–for a nominal fee, no less.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #130

The purple flavored lollipop bit down on the child’s face, and the child squealed with delight to her mother’s morbid surmise.

Mother give the child a bone. A loan. A koan, like Jack Kerouac’s ice cream koan, not purple flavored but perhaps, considering that was left out of the explicit description. Ice cream. The child squealed. the mother screamed for some sanity to prevail beyond the famous sanity clause. Where’s Groucho when you almost need him? Probably in the elephant’s pajamas. The film had stalled in the second reel, the films being films and still on reels at that time, and the child squealed at the purple flavored clown doing tricks on stage while the projectionist set things in order up above the world–the clown being human and existing on an elevated platform called a stage back in those days.

Properly ensconced with a purple flavored scone in her nonce, the child squealed when her mother said the story must come to an end.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #19

Full of joy and the labors of the misled innocent, Sam gave her harness bells a shake to see if there was some bad juju hanging over the portentous festivities.

Sam said you would go to the far side of the liturgy in a bunny suit if it got you three steps closer to the end of the line. Jojo’s guitar ripped to life and sang a song of five pence–the pentatonic scale being made for such blues minus the eponymous note of the same color. Sam hadn’t had the blues in like a year and a half, but the cat screaming in the bathtub made her think twice about how far to take things this time around. Jojo changed keys and Sam said what do you think you’re doing? So Jojo changed back to the gin and tonic, seeing Sam wouldn’t be changing locks anytime soon. Sam found the Locrian chain of being and said we should all dispose of the dominant in the same manner.

Jojo said yes yes and yield the field to your purest joy and innocence. Sam smiled, shook her harness, and let bygones be gone with the zephyr.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #141

Sugar, pass me the salt, Dobert said to no one in particular.

The salt passed the sugar on its way to the landslide, forty days slumbered. The sugar said wouldn’t you know it–but know it in a more than Biblical way. The salt said carnal seasoning is the recipe for paving the road with good inflections. The sugar said I know what you mean.

The landslide passed the salt and sugar on its way across the road paved with well-seasoned intentions. The salt said wouldn’t you were the flavor of the month. The sugar said I have higher aspirations than that–but aspire in a more than Biblical way. The salt hummed and stroked its chin knowingly, and the sugar said you better not do that in public. The landslide laughed. The salt said what are you laughing at? The landslide moved on down the road full of infernal intentions.

Sugar, pass me the pepper, Dobert said to no one in particular, and no one in particular said please, not that again!

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