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