Fred Aiken Writing

fancy cellulite flopping in syncopated rhythms,

as we try to find an orgasm in a void,

despite no maps,

trails leading the way,

or clues as to what I’m doing,

what either of us are doing is a mystery

that not even Scooby and the gang could decipher,

yet we muscle through it,

touching,

sweating,

bodies counting each other’s molecules for lice

sitting far below the surface,

under a needle prick,

we find a way to become transcendently naked,

as life postpones itself in a circular motion,

and we heave,

and we hoe,

down through a mystic grove,

until we reach it,

until we grab for it,

until we make it up and call it a day,

wait,

is that your cat?

why is she looking at me like that?