Fascist Dish Liquid

I demand my degree IMMEDIATELY! On the table, a radio’s basic functions are fueling future desire. Uncle Sam easily stocks freedom somewhere more temperate, reflecting our inherently religious policy. I desperately search for my editing egg, I insist you return the paint to prove its propose.
Take this theory: We launch suggestive factions, except a better way. Dear forest, I miss you, but my recent house advances my situation. Kind of like a strategy involving a young child and a gun. Impossible a century or so ago but now our husbands’ entry level jobs prove useful, adding generic items to our lists over all the years we are alive. Too many bottles of dishwashing liquid with no rag. Imitation kitchen plates proclaim victory for America. Our expensive payment is criminal and will traffic artist and whore alike unless truth intends to insure that the technological fashion of today does not cross into fascism tomorrow.

Typist’s Lullaby

Key stricken papers sprawl,
technologically unsound clicks
ratchet by in  rhythmic bliss.

Type: setting, tone, soupy words
congealed in a spoon. Eyes the color
and size of black olives cast anxious
stares over shelves and shelves
of what we were taught to want.

We don’t just talk to ourselves, anymore!
We have entire conversations with bloody
alphabet shaped pieces, dripping sticky down

white sleeves. Return to the typewriter,
to leave an archaic ink stain.

Cast blame on marketing schemes
and little CHEF BOY ARE DEE’S dreams.