Joe was Raised in Virginia and Pennsylvania

Here we go; let’s see what happens. He is a seventy five year old grandfather. He took a 20-year-old camper van into the chaos and craziness God throws at mankind. Both of his parents of are alive. Ultimately, he can take the lessons we jointly learn from the disgusting toilet bucket. He can develop the most unique digital flow of money, then conspire to harm the world with foul smelling liquid. He has attained the rank of black belt in judo.

It becomes assignment material for students of many ages. Voila, the frustrating poerty begins to take shape. The whole concept of the three blogs is pleasingly refreshing, which is easy to read and hard to forget.

Shots Ring Out in the Sanctuary

Electronic journalism encounters the muddy realm of supernatural spirits. This appears to have an inordinate number of problems instigated by the moving power of the universe.

An incident causes havoc between the citizens and the celebrity branding consultant. Three men in an SUV kneel in front of a beautiful daughter (a daughter who faces the devastation of frantic freedom), chosen to fulfill a specific task. Unfortunately the men find an arduous path of dizzying self-discovery, painful secrets, haunting memories, and startling notions about a world of secret organizations and supernatural activity.

A Very Realistic and Bothersome Dream

An abandoned pickup truck is connected to the tragedies. Gary Hawkins, saturated by drugs, prostitution, and zany characters, is rumored to be cursed. Roy just might be a madman. To find the lost treasure, Gary Hawkins uses his charm to befriend the evil creature. A wealthy industrialist is finally released into the strange twist of events, dragging the ghost of Nick’s romantic uncle into an international ring of dark secrets. Nick was recently a major contributor to a teen aged girl’s disappearance. Gary Hawkins, Roy, and friends point fingers, but are they a myriad of conflicting sound bytes and incessant speculation?

The Body of a Local Resident

Alex left his nephew, a man connected to him once again, to bring the hammer down. Jason Roberts had already lost corporate embezzlements. Lori needed more turmoil and agrees to a date a crazed murderer the following day. Tony, Max, and Tunde owned a large uncut diamond. Nonso is thrilled that he is capable of action-packed sizzling consequences. A philosophical man exposed to violent acts owned the toddler’s identity. Finally, Lance and Susan become known through evil violent acts that threaten the university and an unplanned meeting.

Twin Heel Shaft Malaise

Your mainstream scientific empire was let loose
I appreciate the vanished moon situation
And the genetic hammer, indoctrinated and fascinating

You will become dumb enough to follow Robert
To a certain hard green technical age
Where people are mysteriously imagined

Well-Meaning Autumn Vibes

A computer of limited functionality
denoting perhaps the intent of its creator to proceed
cautiously into the juvenile gadget market
lies prone on the attractive cushion
which itself lies on the durable bamboo floor
note that the cushion's botanical pattern compliments the light through the window slats
and its colors compliment the bright shell of the child's computer

Together, we pick up shards of the face of the patriarch,
We discuss the beauty and bravery of crack cocaine,
We burden each other with veiled social media traumas,
And sing of fictitious and real gentlemanly grief

Overparenting

A harp that accompanies bad data
A formation, but not a library
A messy disk of scenarios
A narrow band of coincidental megastructures
A phantasmagoria needing a human
A seemingly genuine chuckle

A "Prudent" Number of Likes

Please!

A particular wife, we hear, consists primarily of profound troubles, which explains a notorious incident with artificial fruit (as in, all of the artificial fruit, all of it). The citizens here regard her fondly, but without trust. She's fine with that. She understands. She said as much in a letter printed in the local factrag (what we call newspapers in the future), but humorously she spelled "understand" as "understance."

We are of the opinion that this is a sterling example of a husband (another husband) with poor spouse management skills. He knows he is wrong to hold on to his own philosophy of doing. He knows he is lacking in the sinister quality the ideal husband must possess, the heart like some entombed echinoderm. We are furthermore of the opinion that it is this breed of masculine reprobate that is the truest danger; the wife is presumably recyclable and may well perform ably if reallocated to a true hard stud.

A course of action, it is said, must be created where one is not apparent. Therefore, this cohort before you suggests the following: This glorified embryo of a husband must be efficiently broken down to his constituent parts and thenceforth his materials shall be used to find the true hard stud we seek. We shall cackle with well-deserved envy as we watch the hardest among us defeat a rowdy gang of pretenders and devour this post-vital slurry with lustful abandon.

Reallocation shall be swiftly attended to. With our solemn efforts fulfilled, this council of peers shall proceed to sadly masturbate in full view of one another.

Rick

"Hey."

"We’re not overtly political. Something that I was thinking about a lot, that maybe you like hating someone and someone falling down is really funny."

"What I admire so much about humiliated U.S. geography is that it is more nefarious than first impressions belay."

I learn much as I eavesdrop on a conversation in this humble chain restaurant, and I am deeply giddy to do so. Honestly, this tense and bickering but mutually respectful friendship of a swell person and a deadly weirdo is an inspiration. It is a strange, compelling television. I wrote a lot of it down but you know how ink is, it sucks and now I can't read much of it. But on the bright side, I have a whole new category of skills you can use for the future. You can use me. Use me!

I'm A Horse

It is brown there out by the gambling house. Hulking, phallic, but nonetheless beautiful, it is a god-like presence. We can imagine a god to be childish. We can only imagine a god to be childish.

We wander the grounds. Seventeen topiaries stand where once there was nothing but sand and needles. Seventeen children of the Milky Way, grafted onto its skin as if covering up some minor mistake. The light reaches us in soft ripples, the pulse in our flesh slows, and we feel a foreign nourishment. It coincides with an accidental touch.

Fantasy Sumpreme

Swelling hard under the fluorescent tube light,
Inactive father trains his eye on the oblong utensil.

Falters like he does,
Always.
He questions his vital integrity,
Like a country song antihero.

To hold the garments he wore in the past,
Cloud eye father could peer into false memories
And be transformed, as they say fathers are.

The proteins and lipids of dreaming father's corpus,
Losing their old ambitions
In the fresh and realistic tableau,
Make their song known to him.


Vinegar floods in,
Vinegar he thinks.

suck the sack 4: through kuribo's door

It's a sadness we wear like fake snakes on our shoulders
To see the heart in another body and to know it well
To hold the knowledge of carnal transaction
To feel the shelter of innocence and the triumph of senescence

It's a joy to be the sensation on another's flesh
Or to sink slow into the ink of desperate dream
Or to burn the literature we find
In the solemn waste

And then turn our ambitions to desiccated demons
With our vessels of milk
Warm and thick, potent
With eager vitality

suck the sack 3: pencils in the coffin

Who will catch you up to speed with the forum maintenance? A special guest arrives in our studio and predicts sexual orientation with 90% accuracy. A general idea of what we're going for here in science, purposely regurgitating this ridiculous platform, is basically funding your own salary every year. I don't want to give up, I want to feel encouraged.

Papa Gets His Sex

"Pick me up off the street!"

You frantically check all your pockets:
Voters really do have a choice, openly not significant.

"Limit the impact of bad exits!"

Everything you do online is an empire:
Female judges had one good outcome.

"I'm just sitting in the vestibule waiting for the rats!"

Criticism feels disproportionate:
There's a thoughtful crowd of game developers outside now.

suck the sack 2: nobility binge

I hear that the song-men regard me
As some bitter fetal specimen
An off-putting collection of bones
And anatomy in an Igloo brand cooler
I spend most of my hobby-time cataloging
Their precise amount of acoustic diversity
And their complex ideas
So I've assembled a book
Full of downright obnoxious charts

make my body harder

The Chat Cabin

Formerly, if you wanted to snap beans

you paid the bean carrier

and took the beans to the old carriage house

and convinced the chief of the denim-clad warriors to give you a snapping tool

at no small cost to your dignity

and then you snapped them

but were unfulfilled

A CUTIE IN A PLAID SOOT (sic)

Here come the tough guys
With their fists
Sorry for the horseplay
Be my guest in a leather vest

We have to deal out violence
On the regular
Burly friends from the bay
Bring the ocean's bounty

We are each other's fantasy
Dwellers of the pink mist
Eaters of cold clay
Twelve of us die tomorrow

suck the sack

there was three berries in the box. i thought i would throw the little one at someone. so i put it in a wagon and dragged it down to the park. i put the box in the wagon to be clear.

there was a sucker with a white fucked face in charge and i took the small berry and tossed it slowly and there was a clamor as that guy fell on the spiked ground.

"put that fucking back in the box on the wagon fucker" he said sadly looking at the smooshed berry that hit his white fucked face.

"i'm running away" i said and that's what i did until i hit the trap by the deli, and all of the white fucked face people set to me with their boots and tools until i carried hundreds of bruises. Now that was a few months ago and that's why i spent money to get a fake white fucked face to wear when i go out to the streets. don't throw the smallest berry i say to myself when i go by a fruit stand or just see a couple berries of different sizes.

i looked for you

Rabbit Man's Glory

The pants we wear are fancy. They remind us of our tasty snack.

But we are losing our will to continue this argument.

We're going to be engineers.

But the water is foul!
Fish farted in it.

What will we do to stop them?

None of our parents have great answers.
So we will drink it anyway.

Fish farts and all.

Penance for Sloth

the typographer’s brain clings to the surface film:
there are two important struggles
extraordinary colors and striking forms

the battle for transparency forms a cluster:
I want to talk more about what happens on the posterior part of the body

some successful toxins induce bradycardia around the anus:
that point is a particularly good spot to enjoy

βρῶμος

Sparsely covered guardians see special fingers
Identify slow maniacs offering arbitrary salt water incantations
From the emotions and mirror ideas
Into early significance
I may not sleep and I am the typical charisma
The perfect contemporary habitat in which the desperation seems like the best option
His head wakes up

Propel Me to the Yuletide Shelter

You sound mature, the way you chat about pirate emotions and squeeze those spongy flower petals in your fingers. Your stony spine, too: I hear the quiet agony of its eroding vertebrae. My ears are super-powerful, from the weeks I spent drinking the salt water of the ocean and the invisible art it contains.

So I am the possessing party in terms of when people might ask about your cracked face, I know I can say that there is a hopeless situation concerning your failing spine. But I am adept at photographing the glamour of desperation, and I am the chronicler of your lush decay. It looks like a catalog for apparel, your deep drinking eyes atop that perilous figure in its cool white flesh, in the world I make for you in which the blacks are violet and the white is yellow. And the bird iridescence of sleep is some pointless abstraction.

Krimbul Pitty Pat Wiltch

It's hot in the grid, we tell the man with the bird cage hat.
It's hot in there, and the heat speaks incantations.

The incantations bring dry wind to your mind, and a monotony of opinion to your heart.
He says, he says, the oily bird in the hat I wear will protect me.
So I will walk into the grid without fear's burden.

He says he is not sexually active.
It seems like the best option.
So he walks into the grid with its casting spell heat voices.

The bird in the bird cage hat on his head wakes up and pecks its mirror.
The bird in the mirror in the bird cage hat does the same.
The man in the grid does the same.

Verminned

Turkey Sex
Show Me the Hat
Atwhaaaaanta
Where is Mom's Face?
The City Where the Men Feel Sort of Sad
Arthur Frobisher

Brute Chirality

You begged the talented bunch to build me that house
It oozes chemistry and complexity
It's a good place to be alone
With a kingdom in the night
Mulling over the constitution of a favorite hard rock band
Which varied over time
Affecting the brand's recorded output
To no small degree

Call the Trained Louse

This last habitat is less typical than the others
But offers the chance to see special men
Tall with slow gaits
Sparsely covered with short, yellowish brown hairs
Easy to identify
Typically articulating ideas with commercial significance

I may not survive
I might freeze in a car
Possibly, one of these maniacs will brutally beat me dead
For the chance to eat my fingers and ears
or just for kicks

Grumpy Chrome Taco

In the early days
Our happy guardians slid
Butt first into greased tubes
Thenceforth onto sandy mattresses where
Cold hands awaited offering
Cold rubdowns to hot butts

Those were the early days
Before we figured out how to orient ourselves
In our contemporary media-rich landscape
A fog of cognitive violence
And martyred parents

Another Barrel of Potash

Onward to the perfect international territory
unpretentious and arbitrary
where the expensive canyons await

We book a tour
On the tour we'll see the low-rent locals
putting on clothes
double-crossing one another
conversing with an easy, banter-rich rapport
It feels like they are torturing us with their charisma

We will remind each other of why we've come
but people must have said it wrong:
the horse isn't here
OH NO!!!!

A sociopath is both a non-presence and amusingly earnest

Green John Chaw

nice family action makes the moment coherent
especially since the old obese logic is functional and better
but there’s also a weird man flying around
in front of the game
his boundless decay
exposed
comforting

Formally I Submit This Flat Thing

There is no way to solve the person
who knows the fragility of your aging cartilage
and the whisper gray shards of your eyes
and speaks one heavy phrase
after another

There is no memory kind enough
to recall these incantations
and to give them to a suspicious child
in shoes abraded by loose pavement

There is no space silent enough
to give purchase to these spit wet words
to allow their bonds to cure
and find the safety of meaning

Calendar of Happiness

The people in my family are the physical ghosts
united by our particular sense of industry
and a brutal kindness hidden in our throats

We heap the memory meat into great quivering mountains
We have never written memoirs
or held particular views

We are the ultimate blank slate
adhering to this sentimental
pride in the retreat

We are prototypes who long for the dry winter
who bring hopeless words to the city congregations
who await glass rain
hot cutting us down
in our new leather shoes

Lorenzo

Dad is a troublemaker. Mom is an infuriatingly humble web geek. Gramma P is an alcohol guru. Gramma F is a typical tv nerd. Grampa P is a writer. Grampa F is a hipster-friendly food fan. Sister is a communicator.

We obtain the pooch and name the pooch Dramble. A rotund fellow in the distribution racket who visits Gramma P says that the pooch has the haunches of a draught horse. Mom insinuates that she may create a special blog for the pooch and a humorous Twitter persona to boot. Dad ties a chain of uninflated balloons to the pooch's tail.

Grampa P composes a sonnet about the pooch and the recreational activities we engage in. Gramma F compares the pooch favorably to the one on Frasier. Grampa F makes the pooch organic root vegetable infused turkey chorizo. Sister weeps.

Anon Polygraph

My problem started nine months back when a faithful spiritual spell caster built my home. He was having some dumbfounded matrimonial work and that was all. I really was confused by the father of my internet kids in my life. The spell caster started having problem with a strange family intercession.

I want to know a problem and my kids are quitting and my husband never believed his living situation. After I started putting my five friends through hell it dawn on me on that I needed my good things. I never trusted our home. A spell caster is telling me all of it to no avail.

Cylinder with Die-Cut Phallus Glyphs

I am taking care of my good people. Mending their upholstery, rinsing their hosiery, pressing their linens. They will have proper materials in which to wrap themselves, so I may avoid watching the actions of their external anatomy when I give them their meals, their moral lessons, and their friendship behaviors.

I never complain about my good people; they will own my flesh in time.

The Fossil Trade

When I imagine an extant trilobite
I see a husk overturned
Molested by the beaks of gulls
argued over by sea-eagles
Who leave scraps of calcite carapace
half-buried in sand
to bloody children's feet
to be collected by artists
in the employ of coastal tourists
who desire the form of windchimes
but not the sound

Dead Soap Sandwich

Famous dog owners are
heavily influenced

By abnormal notable artists
the kind with quick lips
eyelashes like vinyl
cold hidden skin
and pronoun coronas

In the easy symmetry
of the suburbs

They pleasure grateful relations
with their hands
and other instruments, things
imported from borderless nations

On obsolete maps

A Wee Dram O' Ruxpin Muggle

Somebody needs to get this couple a bunch of desserts. Apparently, they went batshit.

I was disgusted with their social media management lessons. People of faith haven't gone bankrupt. People of faith posted a negative review on Yelp about scumbags.

People of faith are completely beyond business behavior.

Margarita Recipes of the Ancient Astronauts

The principal is a blowhard. We don't listen to his advice, and we disrespect him in public. He does not know happiness, and if he did, we would abduct it, make it our own, and flaunt it.

After we stole the principal's paddle, we learned that he phoned a popular conservative talk radio program and vented his righteous rage, condemning American Youth as a generation of shit peddlers and tweet spammers. We obtained a recording of the call and remixed it into a raging techno anthem.

At senior prom, we plan on overtaking the DJ and forcing the gathering of sycophantic margarine suckers to listen to our techno remix. Our pain will slam into them like the storm of an ocean, and all that will be left is soggy debris, condoms and cummerbunds and corsets. Each of us will take a trophy. Our future lovers will not understand the keepsakes on our mantles and nightstands. We will relive that old ecstasy through late night phone calls and get-togethers. Even though we will be scattered across the country, we'll probably be in the same place occasionally for professional conferences.

Crease the Morning

I have this extremely vivid and titillating fantasy in which all of the teachers I ever had gather to hold a conference about me and my solitary arid flavor. These people span the demographics with wild abandon, and I'm thrilled that each one is in an adequate financial state to attend the conference as well as dine liberally at the celebrated local eateries. All of my teachers were wholesome people who celebrated the virtues of fresh, organic produce, comfortable, modest footwear, quiet music for bedrooms, and vigorous philosophical practices. These people in this town cause a stir, enlivening municipal nightlife and inspiring a sense of solemn introspection in even the most stubbornly idiotic members of the community.

I delight in reconfiguring this cosmopolitan group for sexual escapades, as they break off into couples, triads, and occasionally larger groups to explore the breadth of their collective sexuality. Light-headed with the product of profusely lauded local wineries, my former teachers become students: students of each others' tenderest physical needs. Among my favorite conjurings is a multi-function dildo called The Laughing Giraffe, which serves as a sort of relay stick in one of my scenarios.

I should mention that my teachers have all booked rooms in the largest bed and breakfast in the region, which - in addition to its considerable historic charm - creates an ideal setting for the kinds of erotic adventures I have described above.