Your future is in the past.

“Fucking is Fucking,” explained Fucking Mayor Siegfried Hoeppel, “and it’s going to stay Fucking.”

Tradition is a beautiful thing.

“I didn’t know you could cut hair,” Hubert said.

“I can do anything if I lower my expectations,” I explained. “A satisfactory haircut, like anything else, is just a case of expectation management.”

Later that night, when Hubert saw the uneven hairscape of shaved patches and long bits in the back I missed completely, he said, “When I see guys like you, I can never tell whether they’re hip or Bosnian.”

“My lunch!” she screamed as she clutched her package, “My lunch!”

“Bone appetite!” I replied cheerfully.

“It only makes sense,” I replied. “Sometimes you need a Glock, other times a shotgun does the trick, and there’s nothing like a versatile flamethrower.”

I went on to describe some of our defensive armory at the lab, from ceramic, bulletproof vests to hazmat suits to my chain-mail helmet, although that’s really just for recreational use.

The woman looked at me blankly and walked away. I wonder why she asked me about polyarmory if she wasn’t very interested in it?

I don’t know why people bother to write poetry; machines do it so much better. For example, the perfidious charlatans who send me—and tens of millions of other people—idiotic email propositions us a computer program to randomly generate strings of words to ensure each message is unique in order to avoid being filtered out en masse.

And that’s how I got this poem.

Any given soft carpet is thinking. Any small camera is thinking while whose shining house sleeps. A sloppy silver television stands-still. Any given green purple green camera run. His brothers round-shaped paper adheres. Their purple printer calculates. Mine little walks and mine little glasses is on fire as soon as our children well-crafted bra smells. Any given round-shaped glasses show its value however, a given round soda spit. Their noisy tall balloon makes sound. Her daughters well-crafted noisy bottle stares. Her daughters white soft soft table snores at the place that our children white baby smiles however, any given beautiful beautiful caw fidgeting. Her white golden stupid boat smiles or maybe their expensive phone stares. Mine stupid cat fidgeting at the place that mine odd shaped stupid car fidgeting. His golden noisy little house sleeps. Whose tall purple eraser calculates. The fancy exam book got an idea. Any white umbrella adheres. Their bluish bra run. His brothers small green player walks. Whose purple glasses calms-down the time that her round boots arrives however, any given round bra falls. A round pock snores. His bluish cat falls at the place that her daughters shining umbrella looks around. Her daughters shining balloon stinks. Any green boat stares. Her daughters green noisy beautiful well-crafted paper prepare for fight. Any given well-crafted spit. A little player prepare for fight and her daughters soft recycle bin is angry however, a given round-shaped beautiful little sloppy expensive bottle is thinking.