It’s five-thirty-seven
in the evening
and per the clock
and arm, it’s become time
to get a little odd
just to stay even.
So when I get bored

I multiply two-by-four
to do figure-eights
and skate above
the once liquid lake, which is
fro-zen into a deep state.
Meditate, relax, and 
if you’re hungry:
vegetate on this

bowl full of goods.
Lately I’ve been penny-wise,
seldom ever solemn. But today
I put away that clown face,
I quit juggling all my problems.
Early hours fade from
sunrise, saving time
twice per year claiming

it’ll add up into a pile.
Where?
“Over here.”
There?
“Nowhere near.”
It’s far away, ran away,
gone astray like the
dreams that feed

my insomnia. Dreams
I only wish would stay.
Dreams that only
nightmares are afraid
of. Dreams of which
our lives are made of.
It seems as if it’s
all just made-up.

Fake, synthetic
Splenda tastes pathetic.
I used to think my
stock was low,
no food inside my cabinets.
I used to bake with sweet and low,
now my sugar is authentic.
Preheated, ready for ascension.

Hints of a distinct smell is
nostalgia waiting for the dinner bell
as I rummage the kitchen
for ingredients not yet in play.
How does one prepare a meal
with no love?
How does one prepare a life
with no knowledge?

Cultural norms and stereotypes
darken lights in need of wattage.
Colorful thorns and roses
weep with seeds in need
of water while they scream
beneath the silence of their bondage.
It’s always funny, ransom money
can free a mind in hostage.

No protection, “Where’s the condom?”
This fetish, so despondent.
I’ll never be demolished
by my wrecking ball, symbolic.
Dropped the ball, dropped out of college.
Bounced back just like hydraulics.
Found my rock, it kept me solid.
Took the time to mold and polish

every line, a workaholic.
Words are wine, I’m drunk with time,
I’m a functioning alcoholic.