Fred Aiken Writing

fuck, they said I’m essential,

       so,

       I guess I should go in,

though it’s 2am,

I haven’t slept,

or at least not like I said I would,

instead I watched Fallon,

        and opened up a bottle

           of riesling,

        which gives me weird dreams,

like how I thought I had the body of a crab

with a strawberry fetish,

going around town

cutting off stranger’s hands with my pinchers,

while climbing mountains of kaleidoscopic geodes

        that unravel when stepped on

        into thousands upon thousands of 

           tiny particles

        made out of yarn,

        which is a vastly more interesting

place I’d like to be,

rather than rubbing rheum

out of my eyes,

and drinking stale, 

barely palatable coffee,

as some inflated talking head

       calls me      essential from the

       comfort of    their living room

       and paying me      minimum wage

       what their too       damn lazy

       to do       themselves.