My recipe

One footpath, two country lanes and one alameda laden with green palms. Two back alleys, one foothill, and three yawning moors. Two pebbles, one quartz castle, seventeen boorish carabao. Two zebu, four burly bruins and nine tipsy taffy-like rolling dales. One petal, two stems and maybe a bit of artichoke. There’s one cygnet, two St. Laurent clad v-neck hipsters, and one arborescent squigy punk. Five winks of a firefly electric circus, then one parading of hawthorns and haycocks, looking like mountaintop ruffians, like Crescent street gangsters. One hyphen, one sunlit pother of trans-galactic space-skin particles, dallying about a window frame like acrobats tossing. One coffeepot moon, one spoon pate as a hubcap, nineteen thousand rocket ships, whirling whizzing and pissing. One staccato snort of a cicada, one palm reading session with a seer by the overpass, one forest growing out of the back of a homeless man, one inbox, one billion gay people, three drunkard towers of pancakes for every Sunday from now until the eventuality of sometime whenever. And don't you dare forget a lot of midnight crying, toilet bowl psychology sessions, orangutan guffawing, pit-a-patting hearts lessons, speaker-to-ear-to-brain-connections, mid-Marbollo affair regressions, and to turn off the oven when your done.