empty beds.

they say those who lie down with dogs
wake up with fleas.
which could be the basis for the seven-year itch?
ain't that a b!tch?
an unlucky septet of calamine-cursing canine calamity,
which, in human years,
would add up to just one very uncomfortable cycle around the sun.
duders,
i've GOT that jauns.
the sh!ttiest span of time along the ex/why? axis.
c'mon.
you like it.
luckily,
the fleabitten bubonic plague of chronic colic that's invaded
this bucolic idyllic woodsly goodsly northern mountain realm
probably leaves when the dogs do.
and the dog hasn't been cuddle-buddies up in my spot for a hot minute.
yuuuuuuuuup.
that's right, kids-
even olive the mutha-F*ing dog sleeps elsewhere now, y'all.
awwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
the last lazy companion has been bought off by better biscuits,
and the promise of lower expectations of beastly behavior.
yes indeed,
man's best friend has traded up for heavier blankets
and more space for all four legs to spread out on.
and so now i sleep alone,
only,
i can't sleep when i'm alone.
therefore,
in addition to the everlasting strength-sapping exhaustive loneliness,
i'm also wide awake and feeling every empty, skin-crawling,
pestilential nanosecond of it.
insomnia makes long nights seem longer,
and there have been so many, many nights.
enough to make up a whole year, neighbors.
now that's a hard style.
and i'm spanning hard time.
in fact,
each and every line i write is a compositional prison sentence,
adding up to prison paragraphs,
all unwilling and unable to be commuted for time served,
with a very bleak outlook on the likelihood for parole.
yuck.
there will be no stay of execution, either.
there's only death sentences and cold mattresses;
never quiet, never soft.....