Deep in Gossamer Gulch

where gourds are spider-kissed . . .

Burrowing toes shrouded by simmering sands switchbacks still beckon to doddering marrow candles flicker in gourds like flirting feral cats while a fond breeze fondles the mossy tendrils.

Once upon a gossamer gulch inlaid with mettle deeply steeped in the fake fray of pithy history five bespectacled munchkins defy a scarecrow by mowing every kernel decorating some field.

Further on, a rusty cauldron burbling vile fumes watched by who-knows-which gastronomic witch spits out a well-braised batch of gravy gnomes skittering into deep woods with parboiled pixies.

In time, trees begin to weep great gooey blobs of caustic pine stench among scattered bear scat punching up this gulch fricassee with a nasal zinger: why not blow up olfactory with a ying-yang factor?

Meanwhile, a ragtag team of rock-n-roll raccoons convenes under my cabin-on-stilts over the ravine splish-splash, these wild coons take a bawdy bath in a babbling brook of honeyed latrine spillage.

Two hairy spiders start bumping legs beside her depositing a dollop of that pungent gulch vibe leaning back, yanking forgotten toes from sand veil draws back from some landslide of dreams.

Aha! She should’ve recognized it’s all a dream! Dog snores remind: time to go dog-doddering three primeval crones on a pre-dawn bender warm face-bumping through briny mist pops.