The Desert of Suburbia

I always liked how the dust rolled off the ground in the field by the dump. As I passed by the concrete stump, my sinuses flared, causing me to cough and sputter as I returned to my cave.  Brave men doth not walk in a suburb when the bobblernag stomps and chomps the old yellow fire hydrant tucked into the street bend.  Then again, no man truly takes it upon himself to traverse the dunes of asphalt and concrete until his sugar has disappeared for an odd amount of time.  Sublime isn't it, his collection of multicolored flamingos that populate in place of mythical bearded men underneath their red pointed cones; and how what it detracts from his yard in terms of beauty, is made up for in just how interesting it is that he'd decide to spend his money on such trifles.  Delightful denial of the final, frightful cycle through a desert land as the idyll, idle voices outside are violently stifled.  The Bible silences; and dairy-free, vegan waffles are served to the hungry disciples.