Set in Bedstone

Spending money I don’t have

on drinks I’ve already owned

paperless diamonds

etched in pillow stone.




The Teen Finally Sleeps

D.A.R.E. was weird, right? We can all agree that was strange and jarring.

I thought I would never smoke marijuana until I was 16 at my friend’s birthday party. They were right about one thing–that peer pressure tho!

I kept smoking through the rest of high school. You might think that messed me up. Made me worse, slowed me down.

Man…all I know is, I could finally…finally sleep.

It was so great. I was a bit high sometimes, which can make you feel like you aren’t yourself. But Christ on a damn crutch, I felt more like myself than ever before. I slept about 4 hours on average each night as a kid. From sophomore year on, whatever bullshit weed did to my brain…it was worth it. I was finally able to sleep.


Hot Pockets were a lot better, too. I legitimately got a boner eating a Four Cheese, once.

Slumber (Prose Poetry)

I dream of colors who know each other by name. They leap upon one another, establishing a dominance only known to the kingdom outside civilization. The reactant rocks and emblems of walks combine into a singular emotion, and it does not rest. The body lies in slumber while the mind sits in a corner to wait, a corner of itself, watching the proceedings of its own uncertainty. Warmth is present, but fails to pierce the skin. Lacking any oceans, the heat folds instead of holding, lapping at a flesh inconsiderate of what it houses.

Singular stretching reaches a goal. Symbolic wishes push away action. If one is to wish upon a star, they should seek the dust within. Fairness is only present in the binding, everlasting battle between the blanketing Sun and the stripping space that surrounds. Greet the cacophony of yellow to red as you would the white space between the blues of rest. These words are easy to consume, yet altogether difficult to digest.

I am the first to know when light should linger.

Treading the Night Needle (Poem)

A symphony in dream minor

parallels the grin

treading the line between etching and drawing

a singular distance can always bring one closer

to where they had always been in the first place.

Scorch the darkness with

a torch of

burgundy sundust

brushing off the sighs of stars

until it becomes song.

Veered to the left,

you increase the transparency of the little drippings finding

their way in between the cracks of your fortitude

the wax is lacking any substance beyond

what the flame tells it to possess.

Clever, the brick lies

streets and turning towards one another

whispering of your chosen path but

the only lines painted atop them are

those purchased by whoever decided

it was good to have side, and you

crankily try to decipher

how a map ever permits directions

to contradict one another.

Never sleep.

Nitpick and note

dial and soap

the suds are drowning at the base.

Losing a single locke of hair

cannot be so bad


encountering the pile of forgotten threads

you needled without a second glance.

This terrifies me.

A Lengthy Slumber

Well, it got late rather quickly didn’t it? Especially if you were a dope like me and decided to nap without the much needed supervision of an alarm.

That’s how to do Friday evening. I can hear the paparazzi now, rushing towards my messed up hair and droopy eyes. I wonder if they’ll want a one-on-one interview with my pillow. Learn the secret to my snoring technique.

I knocked out a couple posts today much earlier than usual. That was really fun. I did “Bus Rain” on the way to work, and “Dawn Blade” a couple hours after that. I felt very rebellious, using my time on the clock to bust out some creative content. At least if I get fired, I have this place to back me up. I have what, like, nine amazing and beautiful followers now? I’m sure a check is in the mail for me as we speak. Well, as I type, and as you read. But pretend I’m still being succinct and clever.

It is quite strange to have a job where you are constantly interacting with inanimate objects. I have yelled, or rather, whisper-yelled, at so many books in my career that I almost believe I am actually nuts. They just won’t stay upright, and when they fall against the metal shelving, that unforgiving clang makes me feel like a cartoon character with a vibrating outline and pupils constantly growing and shrinking. I can’t handle it.

Today was leg day at the gym. Always a fun time. For all of you blessed with wonderful calves that just won’t quit; I get it. You look amazing in shorts. Stop flexing your natural beauty in front of me; you’re sure to make my pathetic little drumsticks cry one of these days.

I always have to be careful with leg day placement. I can’t just go and work them whenever I feel like it. Will I be walking a lot the next day? How intensive will my workday be? Did I make any plans for the afternoon or evening that involve a lot of time off of the couch? There’s a very real and analytical process that must be taken into account before any and all leg days. I feel like I should be allowed to put that on a resume.

I wonder why there isn’t yet some sleep supplement that radically increases the speed of the entire process. Eight to nine hours seems like a lot of time for the modern human to be spending in bed. Hell, sometimes I feel best after staying in my sweet soft palace of blankets and dreams for eleven hours. I feel bad directly afterwards, thinking of all the shenanigans I may have missed out on. The satisfying yawn argues against these thoughts, but we always come to an impasse in our argument.

I guess that means I should get to work on lucid dreaming. That way I can have my cake, as well as devour it whole if I so choose.

Cake is really the most inferior of all dessert items. Why would you not have ice cream, or pie?

This of course excludes chocolate lava cake. Still, most of the credit there goes towards the hot fudge. Credit where credit is due, and all that. Then if you pair that with some simple vanilla ice cream…

I should stop. It is far too late to satisfy any sort of craving.

I cannot believe two days is considered a standard weekend. Who feels refreshed after two days? Deities? Vampires? Whoever made the rule on five day work weeks is surely in cahoots with the actual devil. There’s no possible way a sane person came up with that. I guess by “sane”, I probably mean “working class”. Which, y’know, why let them come up with the rules? They just push dirt around or whatever, right?…What business are we running again? Staples? Is that all we sell?

Sigh. Oh, fake business man of the italic persuasion…why must you torment us so?