Bug Government

Scarab apparatchik, obeyer of beetles
Gives orders to the bugs below
And accepts from the insects atop
A beautiful structure proceeds
A republic of fecal proclivities

My Stranger Friend

My friend and I were at the tea shop, talking it up
And we could tell this person was overhearing our conversation
We kept going until interruption
I forget how it even happened then
If it was her or us that said something first

You know that funny feeling, like you already know this person you've just met? 
Well I guess she had it too because she invited us to her apartment
We were drinking mezcal and talking to this woman for a while before she realized how young we were

That apartment on Fox Point was at once the mysterious home of a stranger, and the most comfortable place I’ve been
I wish I didn’t let it slip so we could’ve just kept sipping and chatting
But that would’ve been lying to a friend I guess
God sometimes I wish time would pass faster

pedal sedition

happens when
some internal, necessary mechanism
happens to fail the machine
is it pressure or vengeance
you wonder

Old Texas Future

Each recently decoupled souls
We reconfigure on a bed belonging to no one
Here now, we are young hungry people

Bug Government III

Tree structures, fertile nodes
Open to insect probes they seem
Rerouting everything, carried bug streams
Ants following ants following trails
Trails laid out, attractively made
Do they know where they're going?
The path bureaucrat's showing


Just A Thought

My attraction to the fact that her dad is a linguist was incredibly alarming, because I was caused to think through the reasons that I was not to become a linguist, and upon coming to no valid excuses, I was forced to reconsider the indelible facts of life.


Jesus Fucking Christ I left
And it's been millenia since Jesus Fucking Christ's death
And maybe just then
I died too

Jesus Fucking Christ I killed him
The would-be-me of Otherfuture
I killed him
Now he's dead

And in this land of many crosséd buildings I see him
I feel him, in the heat, and taste him in the the sugar and sodium
And hear him in the cicadas yelling, pelting the air
With a tormentous, euphoric "Jesus Fucking Christ"

Wild, Fun, and Old

Visions of things
Of things like my younger mother, and her sister
Of things like dark places, fences, “the scene”
    Visions of her in the denim jacket she now gave me
And of the roads before the highway
And the shops on the street before the now shops on the street
        Visions like vast expanses of trees
Like    visions of trees only cut up by the river, and the used-to-be family house
Like            visions of her in the bed of the truck before the truck before the current one
—wild, fun, and old
            Visions like that


Deep in the swamp of love
Curled up as a snake at the bottom of a pit
Is where you will find the end


Rare curiousities, show yourselves!
You hide in the simple logics of minutia
I call on you to escape these crannies
And aid the modernist warriors of our time!

Learned Circles

All these old funk albums adorn the stylized wall of your uncle’s home
Where did they come from?
You ask him, and he elaborates on the record store that used to be on Main Street
He elaborates on postulates of truth, and the human condition
Ultimately these vinyl disks make you learn more than school


Becoming in and out
Of focus and slumber
Of dead and alive
Of birth and decay

Fecund units of truth hear me
For you all are listened
In ears and out mouths
The word is light

Stoop People

Did you know the guy who’s always outside the coffee shop?
Did you know the guy who sees ghosts?
Who has a rosary because the Diocese put him up when the state barely would.
He says he led to the wreck of the tallest building in the city, through the pursuit of a dirigible mooring mast.
And he writes about it every day.
Outside the coffee shop.

Did you know if what he says is true?
Did you know if he really did all these things?
Like how with thirteen words to a friend he changed photography forever, but never got any credit.
How by asking a teller about the history of airships he caused an elevator crash-cover-up, and almost got whacked.
He had over a hundred strokes.
If what he says is true.

I know something like an elevator crashed through his life around the year nineteen ninety-nine.
At least he has the coffee shop.


Six eggs sit in small cavities carved in tomato sauce
A dad carries CDs overflowing from a cardboard box
Heat transferred through fruit in a dish
Music enabled by old optics
Substrates permeate all that is done
Whether involving culinary or auditory fun


An old man sits with a boy
His student
And tells him about jazz, art school, and the only years worth reliving

How he used to sell two-dozen paintings every year
How he hated the austerity of Dallas and the Wild West
And about the remarriage, old jobs, and old kids

Advice, that is to say
On instruments and intuition


Ritual Pittsburgh

I can't wait to go to Pittsburgh next
My ritual in a new context
Some say St. Louis's the gateway to the west
But my roaming, to Pittsburgh, I lay rest

Ruminative Pittsburgh
Formative Pittsburgh
Exegetical Pittsburgh!

This earthly journey so gestalt
More than any cosmic destination
It will satisfy my needs
More than any mere sensation

Do your bootheels wander anywhere but?

Tasteless Fellow

You J. Reilly-type, you
Sistine person, always
Judging, never
Smudging the lines. I
Foresee your pretense, but
Still cannot cope. Enough
preparation will not come. Too much

Statement of Faith

I believe in the Romantic notion of self-personage
They are here now, the thinking machines
I bask in the humility of empowered flesh
They establish a people clean of hassle
I see others fail to break machines
They are not fragile, and yet
I keep my beliefs


Grain Thoughts

Farmers have fought for different ideas on the plain
The spiritual, tyrants, rebels, enslaved
Do you ever wonder if they judge you?
The ones before you, whose crop: the same?

But under it all is a humble, human process
That there is no thought worthy to overcome

Our food will always surpass shame
As all ideology succumbs
To rice on the plain


To my Captain Walton's crew:
We find the North Pole with ease;
The Manzarek to my Morrison,
We find Frankenstein and please
The desire of an anchor falling
Deep into the sea;
The tide catches an unending plunge
Like water, like family.


After film school,
What's there to do?
Besides become poets and fools,
Shake trees and croon?

I'm haunted by it, really:
The uneasy tower
That life's climbing freely.

Unused Act I

With their homes now built,
Miles, each other apart,
Braving cold with rugged countenance,
And the private having most importance:

Frontiersmen's remorse

For the carcasses littering the great field;
For their hands that made bodies lay;
For the blood needed to yield;
For their abodes of corpse and clay.

Frontiersmen's remorse

And fail to placate their dungeons.
Those dusty excuses for soul and heart
Succumb to the muddied expanse between all on the plain.
If only there were a way to right, to closen, what's lain.

Frontiersmen's remorse

As they march, each to a separate temple.
Without the required, despised unification
They walk from city to supposed savior upon the hill:
A sad pride, when nothing compensates for desolation.

Though of While Driving

What will be of these torn bits of paper in ten years?
Each flake stained with past tears,
It's a card with your name, written and ripped after I'd seen you the last time.
The shards fall into a puddle dissolving, while ripples surround them:
Formative; mine.

Klaxon, at Nostalgia

You came out the door as I tried to step in
I saw your eyes and realized within
But couldn't put a finger on it
My friend inquiring:
"Are you in a band?"

Yes, the one I tried to see last night
Music one time, doors another
I presumed there was room and found no tickets at the counter

The saddest thought is that here, today, I wouldn't have made the connection
Had my friend not asked the question

Should I be more assertive?


Value Apparent in Persistence

All this time spent compounding,
The crystal, linear, is conflicted:
Choose to grow, dissatisfied?
Or change ways, twisting?

Left for fall, or to thrive,
Quartz has oft been splitting.
Next, to think, will it and Earth survive?
Time's to tell, since thinking's hurting.

With value apparent in persistence
Like virtue from the fight,
If known through Earth's insistence,
Quartz will be alright.

From July

The best feeling I've had since becoming
              Hunter Thompson
                     has been
                   writing in delirium

More Musing

An ideology:
Art without context
Relies on aesthetics
Yet is there dichotomy?

Still Telling

Subversive type sticks to sheets
Taped to street trees
Seen to seek tumbling so terrifying
Tried to say something too striking
So treated to satire
Tumultuation sans transpire

Radeke Garden

We happened upon the museum anticipating some,
    but not all,
    of its qualities.
The foreshadowing was there,
    but not persuading,
    in the threshold.
Piece after piece,
    we liked the art,
    but circled something larger.
A window looks out,
    then a corner turns,
    again and again.

The courtyard was covered in leaves,
    like snow,
    from a great tree.
When we found the exit,
    or entrance,
    we walked into this roofless room.
So quiet,
    as a piece of nature,
    embedded into inhabitance.
The architect was really thinking.


How Many?

The other day I accrued a crew of henchmen
Straying, unsatisfied, from the Kremlin
They spoke of overthrow of the current order
"How many, do you estimate
—Men with guns—
Would it take to make a vanguard nowadays?"


Alaskan lumberjacks in
Jackson, Mississippi miss
Sipping sap dripping
From axes.
Instead, in heads
Some terrible smell
Of dissatisfaction.


I spent the next hour frantically cutting tags and coloring in names, desperate to not be a follower
I thought that the car is a machine of freedom and concurrent oppression
And I'd ask myself questions, like:
"Is it okay to be pretentious if you're aware of it?"
"Is it alright to be a narcissist for an hour a day?"
"Can I even ask so many questions?"
I want to want it for myself, not for a sign—does that make sense?
So I did more drawings on paper lines
Wrote funny phrases, like:
"Everything should be refillable."
"What's your schtick? Distill yourself into a sentence for me."
"I want to be a communist fashion designer living in the Berkshires."
And so I wondered what I really wanted:
Do I want you?
Do I want the truth?
Do I just want to be happy—but where?
Close to here? Or even further seeking occupation?
I'm not sure, but I know I want to be a manifestation of a cultural movement—not a follower
See: I like loud fast music critical of US foreign policy—could I go somewhere with that?

A Confrontation of the Ignorant

Get out of here with your cynicism without construction
You're a proletarian necessity turned fashion accessory
You destroy everything we've worked so hard for
Get out of here with your health without humor
You've made life a game of fortune and fame
I'd play but you'd cheat
Get out of here with your glee without guilt
You're a thoughtless heeder of hedonism
You can't be so happy knowing what's been done
Get out with kisses without knowledge

Overconfident Wikipedian

Vaguely eccentric and lampooned by constant considerations
Like how a punkish homunculus lusts
For modern anthropology in the form of internet forums
That after reading I can't understate my understanding of
Nor suppress the underlying laymen from complaining


Smart Fires

Together lots of lighters light put-together lot fires.
"'Arson' said the accuser of the arsonist" said the witness, thinking of an asymmetric alibi.
Okay, I'll admit it: I started fires—smart fires at that; the fires that I start weren't just "okay".
They totally burned the badness out of them.
It was worth it.

Tooth Philosophy

I've been caught up in a cycle of consumption
subsumed by favorites to the tune of playwrights,
forcing me to globally apply my tooth philosophy:
as long as I don't have cavities it's fine if they're yellow.

Pair of Old Open Back Banjo Gig Bags (Found on Craigslist, sic)

Just came across this pair of old banjo bags that have been in the store room for years...
take a look at the photos...
not sure what they fit but one is vinyl and the other looks like canvas
(both seem to be for open back banjos)...
bargain priced at only $15 for both...
hopefully these will be useful for someone and help protect an instrument...
willing to swap for older guitar or music magazines...


Contractual protractor
Mandated playdate
Hickory hellscape
Escaped belated actor
Found out about it
Now won't allow it
It drowned it with it
With it it crowned it
Iconoclast: venerated and floundered
Repatriated, then coronated—betrayed
All hail the actor royal

Do We Need a Law for That?

In the city, the people's will overrides establishment:
Walk despite the amber hand, and
Occupy garden written for built.
Folk intuition can be great and harmful
With hate- and scorn-ful elocution
For gar- and boor-ish art forms.
Won't a plurality get all the power?
Frightfully, that's the purpose of election.
How could a not-real populism progenerate from people?

A Prevalent Attitude

"I'm just a personal fascist:
I like it alright for me
And it would be better
If they liked it.
But not force it
I'm not that

Once the Federation Meets Middle America

A technobabble-future Oklahoma burgeons forward:
Cowboys mount robots and march to the beat;
Metal hooves kick back, synchronized—a testament to the progress of the Sooner State.


Short Anecdote Written While Driving Through Pennsylvania

Towns of mills and mines,
Sleepy cities dot the rolling, wooded hills;
They lose their race with time.


Flee to the countryside with me
And join the Maquis fight
Lead their fascist eyes to see
Enforced conformity's not right
Refuse submission nor heil Vichy
And open arms to freedom's sight

Myth No Longer (Another Sequence of Diminishing, Rhyming Couplets)

At least you're cognizant of your senior moments:
A forgotten tooth plucked from youngster's throat-bits,
Still under the pillow; now fairy's gone.
A lullaby sung won't right what's done.
And think how sad must be the child:
In ways anything but mild,
Has been sullied without
Not mercy nor doubt;
The hope annoyed 
And purloined
By a

Technology is a War Against Time

Galvanic cell electrifies
Volcanic Hell erupts
Manchuria attacked by Japan
Deliria abstracted by your hand
Crazy, say I
Lazy, says you
Make more, not enough
Take less, need stuff
Milked-out and made models
Built-up and broken bodies
Bawling then surprised
Falling then compliant
Technology is a war against time
Contra-chronology will never triumph

Poems About Poets

Poetry is theft
Said the quoted quoter or
Was it the other

Alternative love
Song sold in the newspaper
Propose with purpose

Pull a Richard Hell
Quit school, move to NYC
Become a poet

Terrified to Introspect

I see you're only slightly sightly
Wouldn't want to look too long
The horror's packed in lorries shipped and towed
Hung in hangers, planes lain in lines
Your worst fear realized: Oppie's a commie
Now tremble before the court and attempt to court me
Justify the dropping to crop the fighting yield


Looking for the New Beat Generation

Dialectic electricity sparks a plethora of eccentrics
Planned methodic mysteries frolic in fields preventing Moloch's yield
And ruminate on the empty date of gift-giving to lift yourself from hyperbolic notions of decline.

It's with a depressive optimism that these thoughts are exchanged, rhyme, hanged, and climbed
Up to the pinnacle of divinity go the words of a literary visionary, flexing the interlockedness of her documents
Psychedelia found archived in an almost-non-fiction rose-thorn- and prose-adorned chorus.

For there's a forest for us, the sights of which they're unaware and scared
Of jazz songs and neon thongs the made-up neighborhood of Lower Heights is made
Laden with thrash-can-man ashtrays, stepped on, while dancing a bland can-can in private alleyways.

Making peace with your chagrin, dismal bin-picker-uppers have a good day smiling
The disastrous masterpiece smiths a surrounded island
Astounded, I ask, "will you be with me in Rockland?"


The jet pack slacker
Fills blank jet-black tanks
With jet fuel-cranked tools
He jets across the sky foolishly high
Just nudged my judgment
Not a plane
Not plain

Daydreaming Escapades

The see-how-it-goes Lowe's construction material
always works best for ad hoc ethereal
building projects you think about at morning forgetting to put milk in your breakfast cereal.

While you take up making it a seriously delirious fear electrifies without shaking
and petrifies without breaking
down like a disappointed kid ridden of clown-nose birthday shows.

"Where did the time go" you ask laughing at epitaphs until it's reciprocated
on airplanes flown by when you're having fun too soon and the pilot's hallucinated
another problem to solve until the wings orderly devolve.

"Oh I remember" as you resolve and say
pouring the two percent into the baked corn flakes saving the day
and in a weird way you're glad since Cheerios make cheery not dreary or bad.

Make Cavendish (And Corresponding Diagram)

Flying banana factory in space
Orbiting 'round at its own pace
Churning out yellow fruit stock
Domineering power bloc
Controlling the supply
Fueling fog sky
It hurts

Corresponding Diagram

3-Act Trip

Lazy chair lyrics developed while reclining
Convey mixed spirits about fine dining
Hazy afternoon before night caused frightening
Sunday feet weird and tired get mired running

Trapped, you try to step back to your chair
Suffocated, you fail to inhale the fuming air
Elucidated, you declare dreaming pulling your hair
Finished, you pen the last word returning to your lair

The episode triggered by text haunted
The mind you tried to keep in line with
The focus fried and broken by
The hocus-pocus of itself unshelved

Stealing Guitars

I can't wait for leaves to grow on trees
And for them to die falling off again.
The ground's crush under foot is guiltily great.
I heard smashed plates are loud so stop that sound;
It's interesting artistically but I need pure rhythm now.
Like modal memories who remember in different tones and
Groaned misery happening on dilapidated keys,
The old music pickups pick you up and I say:
"Pick me up; shake me awake,
Then purport haircut but not short.
Where? What? Let's get more."


Existential Anecdotes

Disparate etymologies separate homophones.
Desperate mythologies progenerate DM-zones.
You flew the belated balloon,
Ruminated, rated, and mused
—Now what is there to do?

Competitive biologists seek unlabeled tree frogs.
Disillusioned ex-linguists speak non-prescribed word-wrongs.
He found what was never before,
Not once asked her why he wanted 
—Now who lies on the floor?

Writhing Reviewer Blues

With a punk-rock-but-not-pop-punk spunk
The objective music critic
Makes up for his taste
With his prose and his wit.
He tries not to sound base
With his pick of hits
Thinking no news are "A"s.
Just make his ears tick
Stroke of luck, not grace
Happened to pen it with BiC.

Objective Order

All of 'em always offered an advice:
Avoid alliteration.

"Something's simply serendipitous:
Sliding same-sounding syllables!"

Where to begin:
Why talk boringly?
Wasting tongues bickering which type's better?
—What? Totally benign.

"Can't you feel the urge to repeat?"
"Correct, yippee! Freeing, this yearning 'tis ripe."

As it stands, all is smooth;
Flowing thoughts, frighteningly thick.
How humorously have hindered we by them!
Grammar grotesquely gambits greatness. Whoa be this!
Moral of the story:
Make often things strangely.

Actual Information Auction

News clues you in on
Show tune goons three years
Old mold in the basement
Hasten it.

Brace pasted on construction
Paper maker of the plant
Green cleaner doesn't shine
Mine it.

Dine behind the dumpster
Truck bucks trash back to
Pile miles high going down
Drown it.

Brown gowns weaved on
Machines leavened with sour
Bread led to toast
Roast it.

Coast mostly downhill around
Easily breezy in your face
Ear pierced with gold
It sold.

East Bay, No Delay

I follow the path straight
I pedal through towns, past gates
Wheels roll me all the way
I'm taken to the final stretch
Where the Providence gets
Divided in two
Like a parted sea
I'm led as an escapee
Wheels roll me all the way
I pedal to the city—if my bike doesn't break
I follow the path straight

Exponential Misdirection

I prepped the night before the night before
The time vagrant vagabonds loaned Bohemian ragtime rags to
Unsung lads say "Rule Britannia", think: cruel Britannia?
I planted seeds that grow the more they grow
When an aggrandizing advertisement defies your self-best-interest.
The more I go the less I get anywhere—get it?
I can't move without moving off-topic—stop it.

A Neologic Poet Wrote It

Ampersandstone unites separate sediments
Handlebartool drives cyclists' screw
Notreasuretrove finds sparkle shimmers
Whateverwhom is silence silky
Dismemberclub invites Sunder Severs
But strangerisk rips van candy out of child's handy hand, man
You need a nonsequiturtestur

Usonian Clothing

Will you sell your drum set in pieces?
It's simple: I just need some cymbals.
Even nimble fingers sew with thimbles, though.
Whoa! I never knew you needed that to make hats.
Mercury's gone berserk, you see,
So every drop counts, fluid ounce.
"Pounce!" goes the cat to the mouse;
If only there were one for louse.
Get dressed, darling, protest: baseball's Spalding.
Lose your hair, hope it's not balding.
Help! I don't want to wear a glove.
Pigeons and doves are the same, love.
Do tennis menace pendants flow in the wind?
Or is that only for the flag thing.
Pledge allegiance every morning—boring.
Touring with the band's not the same as heart-placed hand.
Do you really love it? Or do they just shove it.
Boom! Drum fill.
Don't spill from the bucket on Jack-and-Jill hill.
Boom! Oil drum hit.
March around the ick or you'll get the bad end of the stick.
A yellow brick road, painted with gold, showed
No one to happiness ever,
Because we're still in Kansas.
Can't escape corn-filled ranches.
At least we won't starve,
Though we've got to wear some rather drab garb.

Montpelier Dentist

When talking to high-fructose-born syrup
Maple trees in Vermont blush a jealous green;
Grief strikes them as they see the turning tides.
How come your sugar's sweeter than mine?
Do I deserve it?
To be debased by something so turpid?
Lick the bricks by my roots;
Old-fashioned sucrose won't melt your tooth.

Anagrammatical: A Magna-Art Claim

One host he drone
soothed en on her
née hornet's hood,
so honed thereon.
Shoehorned note
enthrones doe—oh!

Son thee honored
hooted nor sheen
the horse on-node.
Three shoe don on
shed here to noon.
No others heed on.

Oh no! Sheered ton
neon-horde ethos.
Do the non-heroes
so need the honor?
—Or he not heeds no
sheeted rho on no
one throne he sod.

—Then Eden or shoo!
Honest hero done
none soothed her.
Need shoehorn to
do no nether shoe?
—Or he doth seen no
one horned theos?

Oh, ne'er do honest
horde net no shoe.
Heros need not—oh?
Theor' done shone
no horn do seethe.
Hoo! Señor, the end.

Theodore Henson


Pax Americana

What's past can't change, can it?
The winner wins the right to write.
They set the writ to teach what's taught.
Come, sit, listen to the pedagogy.
Never any demagoguery; autodidact's evil.
Vines of vile grip the books compiled.
A historical dictatorial makes and breaks time.
Lime tastes sour and so does past salt.
"Halt!" The soldier screamed across the hall.
Fame's lame said they, now look.
Buy the new edition every year.
I know, it's much too much to justify each tear.
Sé, demasiado, peel back the ugly avocado.
Denim jeans thieves churn butter cream.
Cowboy, how boy, do you do it?—Move it?
Millions run up and down town allies.
Pallies, ally? Gal, shall I? Man, damn it!
Apples break grim secrets; quietly cry it.
It's silent, wouldn't you say?
Decir, ir, or stop? Fear makes the cleaner mop.

Grope the luxury on your stroll.
Think of the bugs you see headed for the hole.
Bowl, no water, don't tread on her.
March the fine line, not astray.
Think of all the games we win this way.
Don't think, just play 'til the
Time stop,
Ball drop,
Brain rot.
New year? Who cares? Go until the special pen.
It judges jewels not finely carved.
Writes "Diamond?—That's hard."
Name tags stickered on the surface.
Pen writes the wrongs long undone for fun.
Purpose: grimace, learn this, menace.
A no-frills quill bills you obsolete.
How does it feel, freak?
A dejected projector gestates your lecture.
Heard this, you learned pig?
Wear a wig, looks better.

The goal's reached, stopwatch at two o'clock.
Glock cocked, unblock it. 
Bigger war, bigger world, you heard?
Read the history on thee; Pax Americana.
Beam the thoughts into the rind of your melon mind.
Cantaloupe or Honeydew? Either way I'll get through.
In you I see a body for freely turning.
Work the machine until the crank breaks, and
Believe you're forced to bet your stake, yearning
Is a commercial pilot:
"I wish just once to fly over that next island."
Do the math, flight path won't allow it.
No gas to pass too far, you'll blast.
Smithereens, pieces unseen, no one's looking.
You're a crook in my book, read it here.
Robbers get no attention, Hood.
Run back to the woods across the brook.
They need you there if you're not square.
Beware the dogs but remember this:
Peace waits for hogs so please be brisk.

Why Would You Want to Live in the Dust?

A floor plan knows no one,
For it plots where feet go.
Doors open/close to hallways marching to and fro.
Some tiles up against the wall,
Build buildings three by three.
They never make anything/everything for free.
An architect draws her line,
Diagonal, angled as the pines' pear.
Freestanding structures jump/fall into the air.

The Desert is a place I've been,
Rather drab and full of sand.
Armies mold/place bricks by hand.
A few towns left me wondering:
Giza, Las Vegas, Dubai.
Why/how do/don't they even/ever try?
An ancient, religious, far-gone gambling desire,
Old oil's money hire people to make them.
Big ones store business/agitprop, a fake gem.
Once thought of as a parking lot,
They're going to need parking, lots.
Since 'twas accidentally a city,
And it doesn't look very pretty.

Your Culmination

Velvet Roosevelt invents tents for your backyard.
Sequoiahood waits for no man on land.
Post-war dream makes cities gleam of
Not talling, sprawling—Don't like it?
Pout or shout, but Ford's motorcar yearns for hairpin turns.
Bike lanes steal real estate from Main Street.
Gas makes poor motorcar go;
Only a Devil could shove it.

Who are you to build here?
"Stand clear of the closing doors, please, and leave."
It's cornucopic in the New Cornwall tropics.
Something-something like
"The grass is always greener on the other side of my picket fence."
And yet, it still demands me whence.
New Amsterdam, Old York,
"Two peas in a pod; two tines on one fork."

Washington tells Bethesda to make it smell
Like bombs dropped by
Everyday Johns on Lebanon.
—Or somewhere like that. What did you expect?
My geography's like "My Cat from Hell".
Does that go good, fuzz?
Of course it does;
Reality TV's the realest thing
Until The Next Big Thing, TM.

Terse complaints come from saints singing by hand:
"The echo of a distant time comes willowing across the sand"
—Oh wait, wrong song, guess I forgot to hit record.
Never neglect to take out your camera;
Be always ready, case one slips the gourd.

"Urban planning's the worst thing since that quarterback I hate."
Who are you, Jack?
Why won't you answer, fool?
What, do you really think you're not a tool?
You're in the box, in the shed;
Think of the great teleology brought on by mainstream homogeneity.
Lead the path others thought impossible yesterday but
Is now written in your silent style guide that only today you see.
"Just Do It."