"renting" poems
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
~~~
for Matt
~~~
*"My suspect credibility upon the rockets of birds,
the soft parts of people,
the oceans’ inevitable, cyclical weeping,*
Who has time for poetry has more time than they deserve"
Breaking Spring by Matt Hart
~~~
your words warp me,
the woven texture of your composition,
Matt,
dumbfounding the sweeping, weeping, instant recognition in
the soft parts' of
Nat,
where credibility
long past being suspected,
simply arrested for statutory dark room
torrented questioning
deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse
You Jacob, wrestle with this angel witch curveball!
'tis better to give or receive
this poetry admonishment?
for who knows where the time goes,
when the fix is in,
the addiction itch,
commands and commends,
*feed the poetry *****
write or die*
one fix, one poem,
carousel leads to another,
yet,
with only time to live,
pay the bills
for renting the space you Earth occupy,
no time for illegal
compulsive word blending
the interrogator demands
deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse?
*who is your supplier?
who is your time stealer?*
by the ocean, weeping,
you plead innocence,
just ill drivel, needy for expulsion,
deserving of repulsion,
swear repeatedly,
never again, imbibe, scribe
*but the ***** coos in my ear,
reaching beneath
the vulnerable soft tissued skin and cells:
write or die
I thieve your time,
'tis nothing you deserve,
I am Poetry,
just your mistress,
better served*
deserve poetry
deserve blessing
deserve curse
~~~
June 25, 2016
written by the ocean, weeping
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
So I've been thinking lately
What if
he's on a journey out to find himself
reading Hemingway and Emerson (his namesake) and roughing it at Walden Pond
smoking foreign cigars
and staring deep into coffee
to decipher the meaning of the swirls of smoke
that rise from it in the morning?
What if
he's asking ChaCha! the meaning of life
or trying out a new brand of shampoo
or attempting to set a high score on Tetris
or out burning down bridges just to see them ablaze
or doing volunteer work,
reading to disabled children at the local library?
What if
he's decided that this is all too much,
that he'd prefer to live in anonymity
trading his celebrity for secretarial work or carrot-harvesting
or breeding exotic fish
or renting out those inflatable jumping-castles?
What if
he's tired of all those books in Technicolor
all the paparazzi out to get him
and commercialize his favorite beanie
just because he's on vacation because he pulled some strings at the office
thus catapulting him into some movie set halfway across the world?
What if he's sick and tired of them hunting down his girlfriend
his dog
that random wizard mentor guy that's a deadringer for Dumbledore?
What if he would rather sit at home and watch the Game Show Network
and change his name to something boring like John instead of living up to a thinker's expectations?
Or maybe just the opposite, he's just watching Family Feud to pass the time because he WANTS to be a thinker
but doesn't know how?
Or maybe Family Feud just makes him lonely because he doesn't have a real family,
just that evil guy with funny glasses and ****** hair and an awful Hamburglar taste in clothes?
What if he's decided he's on the wrong path
and needs to turn his life around?
What if Waldo doesn't want to be found?
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:05 PM UTC
A cosmic ray dispersed into creation
Tail wagging upstream with elation
So many victims fallen to ************
Anxious seed sprouting with incubation
Privileged To exist
we have no choice
Growing like a cyst
No time to rejoice
Cognitive effort to grasp us being alive
Ponder the place from where we derive
Reasons for life and why we must strive
Are we honeybees with earth as our hive
Pray to the heavens for when we"ll arrive
Greeted with a smile and god"s high five
Effortlessly we all continue to live and be
Subconsciously evolving the human tree
Temporarily renting this vessel of a body
Surreptitiously evading death to be free
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
*The most broken people live on earth.
Not even a good poet and wont pretend to be.
I fell asleep at my desk reading boring poems in school.
I failed the test on how many stanza in a poem.
Writing about broke people makes me feel good.
It's a long *** poem so read it or not read it. Word up!*
Call me white boy playing black hipster like the broken record Miley.
I can't type twerk on my keyboard but turning all ghetto on y'all.
Lady done done all she can to shock and mess with our minds.
What she gone do next, buy a house in a black hood and live there?
That's messed up and so I'm dumb and I love attention.
I live in a big town population less than sixteen thousand.
We listed on the map as a god ****** city. Word up!
I need to be a hipster and I'm going hood on y'all.
In my hood I see houses needing fixing and painting.
Got a friend who lives in a trailer park
metal piece that goes around the bottom of his trailer
fell off and his pipes froze during that weather deep freeze.
He's renting that trailer that should be condemned
like most trailers in that park but who the **** cares?
He's got a roof over his head and he should be grateful
he ain't homeless like the rest of the trailer park dwellers.
Landlords don't give a **** they care about collecting rent.
We got men and women living on internet trolling Craigslist.
Most trolling hoping to find dates are married.
Single men and women seeking sugar daddies and mommies.
They are broken people.
I walk down streets and our old and newer malls.
Same weird *** people shop at both.
I see women yelling at kids with ****** diapers that smell bad.
One used the back of her hand to wipe a snot nose
then went back to talking and texting.
Women with babies at home meeting men they met on personals.
Good place to hide when they married or got men.
Leave the babies at home with sitters or family and find new men.
Hanging out at malls is a fake.
"Meet me at my pickup in a half hour and don't wear ******
Read that message on a burner cell I found at the new mall.
It's a burner so it don't need to be returned.
Read the rest and she is married and has more than one lover
she met off personals.
Work it girl and keep the sugar daddies coming!
How many broken moms who should not be moms exist?
There are too many broken people who exist.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
The crowds, slithering down the aisles
aimless yet ordered, manoeuvering
shopping carts and metal baskets
Welcome to the lower class, the minion slave tied to the renting a house instead of a home. The climate is too harsh not to have shelter. They shop at thrift stores and outfit themselves for twenty bucks, hell they can find a living room for under a hundred dollars or bones or what ever you want to call them, that magic thing called Ca$h.
All those people spending that cash, in most cases, hard earned.
How did this ever happen * The Consumer they call us
We save a lot of money
Spending money we don't got.
Ownership is the problem.. How does someone have the right to stake a claim to a chunk of land, then parcel it off and make money selling it.
The Earth belongs to all of us.
The rich will go forward and lay claim to any planet they can reach for its natural resources.. How the hell can we let that happen. The Universe is ours, it belongs to everybody. We will leave this dirt and venture back when it has healed.
I can see them harvesting asteroids and riding comets, waving there Stetsons
And hootin' yee haw as they speed through the galaxy, trying to hold onto their imagined power. The making up the rules as they go along.
Sometimes I just have to ignore everything and create my own little world.
A world where I trust my dead friends for sure. I don't know about everyone else.
Leave everything all behind finding some real peace. Not this chanting about it, but shaping it and moving it like the malleable construct that it is....
if you can call it a construct... and if you can't then 'what the hell'.
We are more than we know, more than we claim.. the People can be the power
We can start again, start all over before we swallow ourselves whole... and in part. Dismembered for certain. Dismembered and sent to the other side of the country, or half way around the world.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
Before we met
How many times did we pass by
Each other on the street?
How many times did we
Stop at the same stop light
Or wave the other on in traffic?
How many times had we
Ordered coffee from the same barista
Within minutes of the other?
How often did we ride
The same BART train
Or think the same thing
About a person we walked past
On our way to work?
How many friends did we share
If any at all?
Before we met
Did you ever notice me hailing a cab
Or search my bag for loose change?
Did I ever give you a ***** look
When you laughed grotesquely
With your friends
As my own guild slinked by?
Before we met
Had you ever considered
Renting an apartment in my building?
Did you ever pet my cat on the street
Or lazily glace through my
Living room window as you
Waited for the light to turn green?
Did I ever see you
At the delicatessen
Where I eat my lunch?
Before we met
Had we ever met before?
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
girl you in danger
bad as a power ranger
understand i got a fever
phil collins
in the air tonight
your body goes back forward sideways
bout to send your *** back to college
for your major she says
oo you so sauve
i go you go both ways
more foreplay
have her hittin dolphin notes
no boat or a yacht
but im renting out this one place
and if your down id like to take your mans place
she says just shutup dont ruin the moment
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:21 PM UTC
Lights dimmed
Red soft lights
Baroque colors everywhere
Like sipping wine in a coffin
Sweet, free, dead.
Like blood pouring out the vains
And it pains but there's no pain
A soft image of you. Dark ...Slim ..
Distant.
Constantly there
In my head
Constantly out of reach
In my life
And if I can take in this ******** I would.
and if I can make it better, I would.
And if you're disappointed then let it be.
Cause I made it be .
The rules and regulations put on me.
Renting a few moments of life, and a moment of you is what I need.
A moment I would pay morals for, disappointment for, guilt for.
Work, snakes, frienemies, money ***** white collar slavery, broken family, unwanted love, incapability, mistakes, lost.
But the image of you feels sweet.
A sweet maroon glass of wine
Divine
Mine ...
I wish
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
Great news Marjorie!
I have had tasar treatment on my eyes, so I am finding my keyboard much easier to abuse.
What a week I have had! Since you sent my letter to the local paper, I have had several people contact me. I had no idea the scribbles of an old woman like me could generate such interest. A young reporter even called round, and I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance, the poor boy went red and laughing all the time. In fact I was certain he needed medical attention but he assured me he would be fine in a minute. He did not tell me what it was he found so amusing, but young people can be quite strange, don't you find? He may have needed the toilet but was too shy to ask.
Despite this we did get on well, and he even said he wished I was his Grandma, which I thought was very sweet of him, while making odd gestures with his hands.
After we had enjoyed a mice cup of tea together I showed the young man around the garden and he seemed very interested in the greenhouse, remarking on its spaciousness. I asked if he had green fingers and rather enigmatically he replied 'sometimes'. He enquired if I would be interested in renting it out to him, an idea I found rather appealing. I think he wants to grow salad plants for his family. My faith in the younger generation is restored.
His mobile telephone rang while we were in the garden, and feeling it was rude to eavesdrop I went back into the kitchen, but I did overhear him say that he hadn't had so much fun since his granny died, so I suppose they must have given her a good send-off.
I am rather enjoying my position as a minor celebrity in the village. Even the bus driver was more cheerful than usual today, so I smiled and gave him a cheeky little w*nk as I got off, and I'm sure he noticed it.
Ever your devoted fiend, Dottie **
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
The news arrived via E-Mail
The fog draped heavy in the wood
The message read “Snail For Sale”
None of the creatures understood.
Their tiny minds had gone blank
The fog had trapped the bluebells
Perhaps it was some mad prank
Nothing round their forest sells.
The ants thought today’s climate dense
The fog had started to clear
Most of them sat on the fence
Trust the ants to interfere.
They wondered what the buyer would give
The fog had now gone.
And where would the snail live
They hadn’t considered that one.
The snail slithered past “vacancy To Let”
With a bit of a smile on his face.
He is out for all he can get
He is just renting the place!
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
Power of the wind is an awesome force
as you try to get about.
Incredible strength as man is powerless
to control the elements.
Nothing can stand in the winds path
or stop its almighty wrath!
Bringing down power lines and crashing trees
nothing is safe in it's wake!
Cars tossed about like they were polystyrene
roofs ripped off just like paper.
Moving the air at a destructively fast rate
ripping off the garden gate!
Nothing can stop natures almighty surge
man's vulnerability exposed.
No matter how mankind thinks it rules earth
he is nothing and at natures mercy!
Just a tenant renting space on a long lease
as time nears for his release!
Predictions of annihilation never seems to go away
and what is written must happen some day!
The Foureyed Poet.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 10:08 PM UTC
I've been told
not to feel
if I can help it
not to deal
with pressing bothers
but they scrape at me like pernicious elves
with honed candy canes,
made spear-like to stick in my guts
and stay there
I've been told to
watch out!
time creeps up and then you're forty
love dries up and then you're forty
crisises emerge and the spear holds itself sturdy
and all you've known is to go numb;
when the spear comes,
go numb;
babies will **** on their thumbs
and you will go numb
I have a cat now
it came with the house I am renting
it's grey and it stares
into my soul like it knows there's a hole
and doesn't stop staring until I close my bedroom door
but it sits outside on the floor
meowing for more
scratching to be let in, to dig her nails in my skin
and tell me with those cunning eyes
*life's not out to get you
but it doesn't mean you won't hurt inside
it doesn't mean the hole in your soul
will be patched, mended or filled or made whole
anytime soon
and sometimes it's just too hard to get out of bed
before noon
but still, you should try or I'll scratch you, deep in
my nails are like spears and you don't know where else
they have been*
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
It rained all day that Tuesday
When Link McCoo hit town.
He checked into a rooming house
And began to look around.
He found the most run-down dive
And pulled himself a chair.
He took one look around to see
Who else was drinking there.
Nobody much noticed him
Except for Esther Masterson,
And she walked right over to him.
She knew she’d found herself a good one.
She asked him to buy her a drink
And he shook his head slowly no.
He said he wasn’t in the renting mood
So she might just as well go.
Esther like the way he looked
That he wasn’t to be a pushover.
She moved her chair next to him
And slyly told him, “Move over.”
She said, “I’m not a working girl
I own this stink-hole of a place.
So, being seen with the likes of me
Is not some kind of a disgrace.
That started them as something hot
Flame hot enough to set fire.
Nobody looking at the two of them
Could miss the heat of that desire.
Then, about a month later on,
Johnny Wacklin came back to stay
He and Esther were once a thing
And he was here to have his way.
But Esther had moved on by then
And told Johnny right up front.
Johnny paid no attention, said
“It don’t matter what you want.”
He grabbed her hand and dragged
Nearly taking her off her feet.
Link came in right about then
Knocked Johnny into his seat.
Link tucked Esther behind himself
And he warned Johnny not to try
Or he would be leaving there
With no time to say goodbye.
Johnny was always long on mean
But pretty much short on bright.
He figured he could whip Link
In a short but brutal fight.
So, they squared off and circled
And scowled for a few feet.
Link punched Johnny in the throat
And knocked him back into his seat.
Choking Johnny still attacked
So link kicked him in the knee.
He said “I don’t play slap and cry.
I don’t fool with those who attack me.”
Link and Esther have stayed there
As two knitted into just the one.
The bar has cleaned up clientele
And is a place for having fun.
Johnny Wacklin went away and
Spent some time in a clinic.
I can say he deserved what he got
Without being branded a cynic.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
I’d rented out the basement of
A house I used to own,
I hated renting places
I preferred to live alone,
I wasn’t good at choosing all
The tenants I would get,
And this guy was a doozy
The most eccentric of them yet.
But I must admit, the money
Paid the mortgage, right on time,
And I looked toward the future
When the house, it would be mine,
So I put up with his foibles
And his funny little ways,
He would sit down in his basement
And would disappear for days.
He had a little doctors bag
He wouldn’t be without,
With signs both astrological
And Druid runes, no doubt,
He always took it with him
When he wandered down the street,
Come skulking back, and talk about
The weirdo’s that he’d meet.
I knew something was going on,
I heard both screams and moans,
Seep up from out the basement
With the creak of drying bones,
At night they used to wake me up
And I’d lie there in dread,
And wonder what that movement was
Beneath my poster bed.
One night I crept on down and stood
Outside the basement door,
And heard strange voices muttering
Not one, but three or four,
I heard him raise his voice and say
In tones both harsh and grim,
‘I didn’t say you’d have your way,
But you can enter him!’
A peal of ghoulish laughter then
Rang out behind that door,
I bounded up those steps, ran like
I’d never run before,
Then lowered down the steel trapdoor
That sealed off that stair,
And laid the carpet over it,
You’d not know it was there.
I put up with a week of thumps
And cries of ‘let me out!’
But put my face close to the floor
And whispered, ‘Hey, don’t shout!
You keep those demons that you raised
Locked in your doctor’s bag,
Or maybe they will enter you,
And then, if so, that’s sad!’
I waited for those sounds to die
For upwards of a year,
Then poured a ton of concrete in
To seal that basement stair,
The house has sold, a Mr. Bould
Paid not enough, no doubt,
But said, ‘there’s not a basement there,
I’ll have to dig one out!’
David Lewis Paget
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
"Happy Face Variety Store"
Has new owners,
From Punjab.
They are way friendly.
I was renting the movie
Far From the Madding Crowd.
Ben, the owner's son, said:
Many people are renting movies tonight!
Yeah, the dog day's of summer.
Explanations and examples ensued.
The change in season.
Replace old anxieties with new.
The surety of autumn expectations.
The heat swirling in the ceiling fans.
The setting sun on Lake Huron.
All the dog days.
And then Ashna said:
Like the dog curling up to sleep.
They are way welcome.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
The flowers of the dawn
Unfurled its petals
In pinks and reds
A solitary Venus stands
unblinking in the black sky
And with the dawn vanished and was gone.
Packing the pack
in the name of that
which held no more pain
It was time to hit the road again
Doubts linger with the rising sun
But the choices
They are few
The oceans
The mountains
The deserts
They hold the views
Chasing the dawn
Chasing the beginnings
It is time to begin again.
The pack holds the few essentials
For the journey's road
Long and arduous
Peaceful and calm
All moments are held
And pass on by
Time to go is all that is known
Laughter and glee
Loves and loses
Time a ribbon
Unfurls in the sky
Dragging all along
Down
To that endless highway.
Just a visitor
renting space
along the way
A pause to watch
This very dawn
Then heading on down the way
again
The road
It begins in the dark
It ends there too.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
I feel the urge to disappoint myself again.
Like conjuring up the dead.
There is a willfulness to open the box,
to play with the bones,
to say the words in the right order and make the right incantations.
I don't want to off myself.
I want to set to motion a series of events that spells out my own doom.
To be responsible for the end of my own world.
To set my own house on fire and warm myself, homeless, in the ashes caused by my own hands.
It's a sickness. An allure. Damage.
An unquenchable curiosity of what happens if I push the glass heirloom off the shelf.
No one is ever able to stop the teenagers from renting the beach house.
Let's get this horror show started.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 2:33 AM UTC
The sounds of the Grandchildren
forever touch my heart.
Running and playing tag
playing hide and seek in the dark.
Ball games and checkers
Board games and riding bikes.
Giggling and laughter
float to my ears at night.
A smile on my lips
as I listen to them so dear.
What joy their innocent
voices bring.
Who would have thought
so long ago.
That they would bring happiness
not grief or woe.
As my children grew
and drew my nerves tight .
Too many friends over
on Friday and Saturday nights.
Renting movies
scarey ones at that.
Eating all that was in the kitchen
and wanting to grow fat.
Making me wish
I could run everyone home.
But the days have changed
and I have grew.
A Grandmother now
with a heart of one too.
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 2:13 PM UTC
I don't have it in me to be your friend
because losing a friend is worse than just someone in the back seat of a cab or sprawled out on a towel on the beach at night
besides, why wouldn't you leave? Go to London with her, with him, with her, with them
You and him and her and they and they tell me to have goals. You ask about dreams.
I seldom get asked questions
"Im paralyzed by everything that I touch or that touches me."
I tell everyone else I want to be in the "non-profit sector"
I think about renting a small room.
Working a night shift or not working.
Watching sun pour in the window with a saffron glow
Watering the plants on my small sill(s) to help them grow.
I rarely think much at all
I wasn't wrong the other night, to say, that you always **** me over.
You weren't off-base to say I'll never be happy
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
Dear self,
I'm sorry your spirit is broken
A firefly trapped in a jar yearning to be set free
I'm sorry for your sorrows
They're starting to get to thee
You were meant to shine for everyone
But they are selfish and want you all to themselves
I'm sorry no one understands the dreams you want to achieve
I'm sorry you can't get anyone to believe
Can't they see you drowning?
Drowning in your own tears
Dying in this hell your living is one of your biggest fears
I'm sorry your poetry is full of sadness and venting
I'm sorry your destroying this body you're renting
Deep on the cell of your heart, your memories you keep
Remincing on the easy years tends to make you weep
Why can't you get out of this hole
Apparently your wellbeing its supposed to save
But you may as well be standing in your own grave
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
When did your home stop feeling like a home? Was it when the clocks stopped ticking? Or when the lights started flickering and you were too tired to change the bulbs? Was it when the flowers leading up the drive way wilted? Or when the windows became too hard to open because they were stuck? Did you realize it when the shower was always a touch too cold and your sink wouldn't drain completely? Was it when your favorite foods didn't taste the same way and your fridge was always empty? Was it when the candles you've always burned didn't have a wick to light anymore? Maybe home was never really home. A home doesn't take more than it gives. A home is what protects you, not makes you feel vulnerable. A home keeps you warm, not allows you to shiver until your muscles ache. A home is what keeps the light inside your eyes lit and keeps the flame in your heart burning. A home would never blow that flame out. Maybe your home wasn't your real home. You were just renting it until you could settle into your permanent one.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
An unsuspecting, little, field mouse
committed a simple mistake one day;
it unwittingly entered my rented house,
not knowing my cats wanted to play.
My feline buddies, Hijinx and Mischief,
decided to live up to their spirited names;
sadly, the field mouse was offered no relief –
for the boys had a live prize to claim.
By its tail, my cats had live entertainment;
although they’re allowed to have their fun,
from this one deed, my cats will never repent;
for they again had disobeyed - rule number one.
Since their English is not very good,
their one restriction they tend to forget;
so it’s not surprising they misunderstood,
my rule of: “Pets are not allowed to have pets!”
So now it was time for me to intervene;
performing an unexpected “Animal Rescue”,
I now became a mouse catching machine
and watched him scamper away from my view.
A new retrieval approach, I had to posit;
with the boys closely monitoring my work,
I quickly chased him into a nearby closet,
hoping my cats wouldn’t impatiently go berserk.
Removing items from the closet’s floor,
and contending with this fuzzy foreigner,
I eyed the boys – to keep him from being gored.
Eventually, I trapped him in the corner.
By the time I reached him, he had died –
traumatized until his last heart’s rush.
Unlike my curious pets, I became teary eyed,
as this escapade ended… with a toilet’s flush.
Author Notes:
P.S. This based on a real event, that occurred when I was renting a small home in New Jersey.
-Joe Breunig
January/February 2012
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC