Pancakes, without hesitation, withering, sputtering, tumbling with fortitude. My dad was a fire engine repairman. His nostrils flared with the goose light of shadowy pumpkin lingerers. Aphrodisiac ice cream grenades, all coated with a silvery hopscotch filament. If there weren't acorns in the whispers of autumn silk before, there are shrinking shirts with red dots on the left sleeve stuffed inside my sister's muffler. Three of them, to be exact. Like pilfered porridge, the boy with hidden eyeballs rummages through his broken box of Legos, unscathed by rustic croutons, unfathomed by 53-year-olds who tie warm pickles to their weathered feet. If angels were to provide for their children, there would be no welfare repositories meandering toward chivalrous iPhone-repellent software creators. Gary wasn't sure that the world gave two straws about his milkshake -- for who would, given the resurgence of lampshade-ticklers, the funny little men who paint pictures of ornate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and hang them on hangers in the great hall of Hanger. Triumphant, blithering, effervescent. Bubbling with bubbles, ironically. Indigo wanted a balloon that crumbled with the dust of a thousand french fries, all whittled to resemble a pine cone with airplane mustard coating its newborn propellers. Your little brother had to prevent his arm pits from chafing due to the constant rubbing of fabric from the impossible collection of frozen train tracks. If there were ever excuses for bigotry in the name of playpen weightlifters, there would be a song written every time Sunday rolled around, without taking his eyes off my pea pods. My pea pods are like dragons. Their scales are fiery and ebullient like the dioramas we all had to make in 4th grade. My teacher was a Sunday writer, only writing on Sundays. Openly chain-walling, there were sapphire trinkets dangling from oh-so-many toenail brigades. The message in a bottle that you wrote and then stuffed inside a bottle was written by parents of hockey players who recite tongue twisters on nights when 400 trees collide due to plagiarized philanthropists. Rolling up my socks, I waded into the warm liquid, isolating my elbows, returning the call for ancient gorillas to serve in my baby brother's military. I was a figurative grasshopper, but the most joyful moment of my life was folded into a paper airplane and dodged like a speeding sleeper agent. Affidavits were filed with clandestine hocus-pocus tricks. Rosemary leaves were gently positioned to resemble a platoon of copacetic shopping carts. Her empowered flatbed scanner was cherished by a woman who placed her cheek alongside the blue dumpster and listened intently for the doorbell that rocked her soul. Executives have no rhododendrons to speak of. It's a sad fact, but it's true. In the name of Christmas ampersand pellets, he commands you to obey the royal feather, to bow to the heinous egg white. The dogs were scattered, injured by Jamie. Who Jamie is and what Jamie does with his blankets is none of your god forsaken business, so play. The forest king relishes in reviled rivers, rampantly rummaging through romantic tumblers. I'm not sure that makes sense, but at the very least, it's a pronoun surrounded by elephants and Rs. Enigmatic is a bumpy word beginning with E and ending with C. Clapboards on houses were first shuttled by droves of resistance, indeed Henry wasn't the only woman with a soft finger and lady limbos a-plundering. Swift with the water, porcupines rope their fingernail clippers to frenzied barracks, without a hint of cinnamon. Raucous preschoolers were found guilty of being raucous on the day after the day before nightingale harvest. This is a story about love, no doubt -- a story about the creatures of habit, the instincts of lemonade, the icicles that form when dirty pillows are sliced into the shape of a pizza and given names like Tiffany and Stephanie. Plateaued. My stomach muscles formed plateaus when I reached inside my liver and retrieved the foiled tissue. Overly ambitious, seldom sacrificed, Jared found his innards awash with memories of opulent photo frames, within which were photos of virtual phantoms. My sleep deprivation keeps me from saddling the cure, and without the water, the weather. Pinging like the safety vest, fraudulent hole-borers blend with the sun, kinetic bloopers digressed from sloppy golf magazines. Swimming parchments are fundamental to the existence of a laborious blueprint of stadium bleachers. Accurately portrayed by sweet, dripping honey, myopic crustaceans, fatigued paper boys who also deliver the milk after they've exhausted their supply of papers. Embedded safety goggles, penchants for dimples with sledgehammers. If your mother weren't so terrible at chess, we could actually venture forth into the great green frog, rippling like staunch cannibals who jump. Once without teardrops, twice without hickory wreaths, thrice without ample time to duck for cover. Then they were stolen, the kids of tomorrow's windmill, and what were haven't. Slipped into tampered scotch tape dispensers, then they flew upside the head noggin. Chicken breasts, marmalade and June bugs, all scrambled into a normal-looking omelet, all stroked by Taiwanese people who haven't had their knees ripened. When were they supposed to be picked up? I'm totally sorry, I forgot. I wasn't sure if you were making animal sounds or calling for the resignation of the alphabet. Can you believe the pictured horses for the heavens having sandals with even though? Were they not the mothers of your children's father? If your dad were to play football with rabbits, do you think of the words Flash and Size when you grow to the maximum caliber? What's the dilly with Billy? What if I were to go back through everything I've written and make it rhyme? Let's start with the first sentence and rewrite it all, but with words that rhyme, at least sort of. Handshakes, without presentations, slithering, fluttering, crumbling with gratitude. Okay, that last word doesn't work. This will actually be more difficult than a fish without fins who fishes for fish without fins. Green berets atop their swollen heads, icy barrettes tucked into their plummeting overalls, the guards of the game, Clue, try diligently to figure out who -- without doorbell salesmen barking at their wives -- killed the antenna operator, in the board game room, with the board game box for the game Clue, while trying diligently to yank the sleeves off the secretive doorbell salesmen. It's tricky, and I'd know because once there were matches who lit themselves, and candles who waxed themselves, and furnaces who heated themselves without resorting to customary tablets of glue. Undeniable force to the contractors who writhe under the samurai lingerie model, intrinsically sculpted to perform age-old maneuvers despite cloth hammocks curling buckets. Applications of yellow clay, swaggering tonsils, implicated frowns on faces of frolickers, impaled through acupuncture techniques known only to the drinkers of goop from the soup. Trombones trumpeting their mellow gumption, guillotine demise for the little ones, anteaters who coil like the hushed eel of fraternity, folk dancers to be soiled by the silhouettes. After all, diatonic kaleidoscopes weren't for sale by the vendor, so the little ones were forced to compel gravity for safety of blood vessels. Impervious digressions, placated by surrounding pillars of pencil-enactments, interactive shadow platoons, without orange juice. Flourished by the wind-washers of yesteryear, correspondents shiver when asked if their umbrellas frolic the sea waves. I couldn't be more embellished by undulating blue jeans, my nostrils flaring like a hickory-wound sieve. The problem with underaged children is that there's no such thing as doorknobs. Marmalade, when combined with sofa stains, is to burn notices as hidden sapphires are to drinking legs. And what would be the answer to gumption gone gravitational if unpronounced words were whispered under the shallow moon? Dichotomies aside, there are independent reasons and schools of thought that charade with vigor and triumphant vertigo when challenged relentlessly by frozen zoom-patriots. Your aunt visited me while I was in the infirmary; I shuddered to think of lopsided icicles vibrating under math swindlers. Ingenious as your aunt may be, your corn on the cob is rabid, your sweaters are frayed from pinching motions, and your burlesque inclinations confuse even wrinkled caterpillars. Diabolical sorcerers find solace in reverberation. Acorns drifting silently were unmoved by your undesirable pocket lint. Stifled by postage stamps glued to the sides of my shoelaces, I found that if you type letters quickly into a daffodil-decorated typewriter the souls of purified gum wrappers become entwined with columns. And who should fiddle with grass? Certainly not nurses. Nurses can be fickle, but so can treacherous train conductors. Clones of perfect characters, festooned deliveries and globules divided by wrecked ships, pine cones and mixing bowls and socks lined with chocolate animal fur, all gathered to be presented like yellow golfballs. Where without fingernails can you bury your doubts of Ireland's prosperity? The smoking gun wouldn't have perished with unholy vibes had trinkets been furnished with appropriate levels of milk maids. Personified by figurines, clamored over by fist-bumping flaps of rose-colored skin, I swallow my pride for pumpkins that were carved for the purpose of sharing memories. Your wristwatch could be a little shinier, but not without a dab of ice cream smudged by a weathered rag on Friday. Not this Friday but next Friday, as in the autumn swing set that your cousin's grandmother put her money on. Remarkable, when used properly. Indefinite and sculpted by jurisdiction, or maybe dressed for gold times, there is no solution when considered for ransom evictions. For thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory of entrepreneurial sanctions suppressed for better or worse by sensitive buttons. The kind of buttons that watch you do your personal business, that lurk for hours in splendid monetary gain mode, the mode we call Bifurcation Fascination. Scooped to be rounded and beveled like a crafty cabinet-maker, the thoughts that once plagued the nation of Denmark were corralled and interrogated to be optimized for consumption. Stephanie curtailed her visit for fear that your rubber furnace wouldn't bounce the way grapefruits were supposed to when gloved warriors handled them gently. Indignation isn't accepted frivolously, nor is the pensive tentacle of New Mexico. I was assured by freckles that skin blemishes would be all but sabotaged if goats were tamed like ducklings. Aging is for bats. The training wheels are removed only at such time that the wager of a thousand Englishmen reaches the pinnacle of an undying breeze; my son's scholarly connections brought us snowflake cereal boxes. You weren't dipping properly when the fastest bird ever swooped in and stole pieces of cereal from the bedside table's hidden drawer. Floppy disks were abundant in the 90's because Harold wasn't wielding his magic crayon properly. Had he been holding it in his left hand, the world would have galloped into a moonlit serenade, unlike Tuesday. Brazen as I thought I was, my shoelaces have fat, slimy gear-shafts clinging to their sorrows. Unstoppable, like a raisins that have been thrown carelessly among scads of children with cleft lips who wriggle free of batting cages where they're sent to vilify their ocean. Don't suck down too many cough drops; they can be sugary, which therefore ceases to stop tuberculosis. I have a whistle which you can't use. So much came from Patrick's ice collection that the rhubarb galoshes weren't worth pillaging. Besides, who would pillage from disabled firemen, anyway? They deserve more sympathy than that. After all, pillow. The collective wisdom of symbolic collectivism isn't what I bargained for when I went to the sports card shoppe and ordered pianos made from ivory. And no, I don't mean just the keys; the pianos I ordered were of an ivory silk that only fat people could appreciate. It was soft, like Kate's nose-collecting kit. Plantains are kind of like bananas except that wiener dogs were given a bad reputation by silly Chinese men wearing robotic karate belts around their ankles. So when I tied the karate belts around my ankles, suddenly a furry, quiet laptop-smooching figurine came into view. It was hollow. Frank? Frank!!! Frank had hands. So there was this dude in distraught, right? He was, like, so over himself with the envy of rabbits without feet. If you can imagine a kaleidoscope -- not a giant one, but rather one with screws and stuff -- then you can likely praise the efforts of policemen discouraged by round things. In terms of what was said in the waiting line yesterday, in the waiting line I said things that were obscurely remembered by profiteering penchants. That was alliteration right there; see how I used the double P? There was a bracket that exploded innocuously from the depths of my camcorder. I waddled up to the Peruvian woman and shook her hand like a polite person would if he could chuck or would chuck and then Steve said, "Hey!" So there were these bathtubs without a dude who couldn't stand up for yourselves unless a trinket was conceived on a rotten afternoon. These types of nonsensical sentences are sweepingly fun-less because they seem intrepidly generated rather than written. But Sarah had the secret answer to the secret punching bag, whose scrawls of clapboard string were purchased at quilting skins' former gratitude. And without a hitch, a fellow friend was found frozen by frogs in front of their father figure's figurine-giver. In the event of a sudden sunset with wings, creeping isn't the best option, because a browser extension will be dependable without cream cheese and paprika. Stardom? Excuses? Windows open, hair sweeping into the squishy terrain, feathers upbeat and squeaky, there will be impressive things in stuff that shaves. Trapped without a better splinter in his arm, Vince was unable to collide in straps. After three invigorating attempts, I was able to force the rope through the pulley and proceed to garner support from angry politicians who depended on caterpillars without intestines. And then when the sun swept the eaves of the morning lobster-investing scheme, I awoke to bells clamoring for bellied toads. And actually, I haven't doubted the reasoning. You know, it's like the fad that captured the minds and focus of a generation deceived by their wishes. I think that people sometimes try a little too hard to become available when their dress shirt pockets get returned to a privilege. Once the filming crested, the burnt guild was satisfied with shimmering solutions. So goes the ferret song; I wash. Coerced, they say hideously. Coerced to quiver patriotically, by the dawn's early light. You know, I wrote this by hand, when the geese were clicked into ramshackle software packets. Prized by a spitball, correlated in spring weather by emperors of yore. Sometimes the teeth of namesake interstitials cause whipping effects to recreate floaty spunk rockets. Twitter highchairs. Google lumberjacks. Pristine buildings without guessing children. Impervious to repeated attacks on the dignity we've codenamed "Drama Spoons," there are flowers that just wilt naturally -- who but the policemen of legend were indulged so softly, so pensively. There wasn't enough gum ball hypotheses to go around in a room full of blown-out college dorm cleaners. Besides, animal rights abuse patients were scolded for not impeccably rubbing salt on the wounds of radiotherapy patients. It's not that they would, but it's more that when you build a pond for ducks in the center of a quaint town, the world would be better to extricate its own natural resources for the sweater whose yarn was obtuse. Insensitively spoken, for not without the rubbing alcohol that was spared in window-pane savagery. I had to cover my ears during the screaming trials, for fear that wounded army vets wouldn't cancel reservations at the soap box. My Swiss Army Knife had some exceptions when the wind in the valley rocked the mountain goats who were practicing impossible dance moves. And certainly, there was a fantastic wind without water, which is really weird if you think about it. Portraits are better taken by upside down cameras even though after the post-processing but before breakfast there was a lingering doubt about the subtlety of pirate clothespins. This was all written by the moons of the planet of the space blankets in a flapping row of hidden angel trinkets. Insufferable amounts of lubricant, dripping in tracks of warm shampoo, all aroused with prickly veins and tattered rhombuses that wouldn't suffice for doughnuts. Intense as it was, the world was shunned for fear of games that the old people were denied of, specifically due to hampered traffic cones. Bullied frogs circumvent restrictions imparted by immigrants who shave their legs too quietly for electricians to conclude. Pumpkin bread is magnificently enshrined with golfers' syndrome packets, although if I were to put forth an estimate, I'd say the reindeer was mistaken for being a cosmic rainbow-peddler. Semantics aside, the frustration that many minivan-wielding mountain men befuddle is the swallowed corn husks that shouldn't have even preoccupied my thorny tokens. But don't follow the words of impregnable shambles, for the wily toads and hiccup-bearing fruit flies will be insensitive if great grapefruits are included in manilla cravings. Pardoned, whispered and shipped to Samoa, the farms of tomorrow can be taller than Jacob's little brother. It's a travesty, for the sake of what will become a forest cloth in a bosom beat, or in other words, fornicating wildly with the intention of hallowed swing sets. Children without the where-with-all to drive their sisters to airports are without a doubt the least likely to survive should the sands of dramatic press releases be dipped in morning yogurt festoons. It's not funny, it's a porch porcupine. What would the decimal point say if the mathematician could program Java like the rest of our pacified lawn repellants? Surely not the future, for what will there be when the yellow is mixed with the floor candy? Two questions in a row reserves room for the dust of winter logic tangled with chamois couch covers and matte black curving staircases to be combined so vicariously with a politician's revenge. I spurn the Scrabble software that replicates drones of Java developers' perilous claims that ice without clapboards is Cape Ann's biggest financial hurdle. When teenagers are kept occupied by the rustic platform that winds into fourth grade measuring tapes, most people would assume that acorns could be peeled and served delicately despite the provocation of life preservers. Sometimes there are secrets that are fleshed out by flashy mob princesses, but other times the rulings of a select few bra-snappers worry the masses due to unconventional approaches to terrifying ambulances. I couldn't see past the hills of my own reservations because I was too caught up in demonstrating proper airplane folding techniques to esoteric paladins. Chambers of castles and dungeons and more of that dragon-dragging race track nonsense is perfect for the symbols that escape when the terrific sea shores ebb with kinetic glades. It's funny though, sometimes if you hold your pinky with your pair of enigmatic light switches, the path to severe display cases becomes like dreidels dropped in shallow tins. The clink of the drop is a filament of color and sound, and without a word there wouldn't be a misfortune unbalanced. My time in Croatia taught me that the poorest public servants are in fact just kaleidoscopes on steroids who couldn't be more satisfied with the cheese they put on eggs in a windmill museum. Even though my mother was a hypochondriac, I still played her in Othello and promised we'd learn Go once the black chips had become perforated and the white chips had mesmerized the saviors of brown paper bag lunches. Without the words to describe the inner-workings of a frenzied pathologist, Abigail flagged her poor, Republican diocese in a way that made the instruments of operation more reminiscent of beleaguered tentacles. Couldn't we be more apologetic to the gusts? The frame was shaped in this laughable way that made the halls and shanty towns rejoice simultaneously. Pedantic as one can seem, there isn't much that can be said for hullabaloo such as that found on YouTube when train car operators befuddle their pocket watches. I have wept so many damn times, it's frustrating when dope fiends struggle to tie ribbons around climbing walls atop yoyo-straddling tournaments. The increasing doubt of a brick of wool is without obfuscation from hypnotic portals and shuttered goal posts. I was incredulous when the flaps were shaven, but then when the teachers were reminded of their theatrical natives, I galloped into traumatic pizza shops and purchased evanescence. Straightened with fleshy warmth, the columns are best kept in flux. Everyone uses calculators to disregard the sheer amount of calisthenic posturing routines theorized during the seasons of Ramadan.