Fact-Check Each Other

Today in the tremendous town. Today in the bleak past participle. Today the final what are your shoes doing? Today the friend of the friend spoke wisdom. Today honest parking in consequential spaces. Today the dotage of town.

Tomorrow the moon struck a pattern of sorrow, month after moon month dialogue. Tomorrow we hold the day back. Tomorrow we saw the ease of sliding past. Tomorrow we were only there today.

Yesterday the television smile contest. Yesterday while winking. Yesterday the spelling will be better. Yesterday those onions of reproach will satisfy a presidency. Yesterday feels townships rights.

Any day gathers the any town of what we were to have to need to want to bring to the seeing of our life. Tractors provide tractors.

The map reads racist pauper, dig language, aptitude pause. We are only one, step at a time.

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A Child’s Proletariat Garden

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Adam Sandler Has Totally Lost It. Okay?

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Ask Your Ventilator

The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...

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