Fred Aiken Writing

the contours of consciousness

         look fuzzy when looking outside

           a drive-thru window,

staring out into the strip mall abyss, 

serving the nth customer their

quad, 

nonfat,

⅓ decaf,

six splenda,

no foam,

no hugs,

no kisses,

with a small dot that represents nirvana,

while standing on one leg,

praying to the Dalai Lama

         to bring forth all the sins

         of mankind,

to sit around the fireplace,

wonder who’s up next,

while several thousand

         comets shoot past,

            whiz,

         through the milk,

splatter on the counter, 

sanitized by brand recognition,

coughed into a paper cup that’s been beaten,

with fingerprints smeared all along its side,

for a high that might be worth it,

         I mean,

         I certainly wouldn’t know,

but I hope you have a great day.