Fred Aiken Writing

sugar fountains bleeding up river

as the spike in blood pressure

comes from thousands of needles tapping

over dermis as a shouting match ensues,

creating havoc played out in strings

unmatched, by phalanges still in motion,

frozen to the touch, back into a corner

while the ultimate orchestra plays the last song

of a sugar high speeding through a small town’s

avenues, paved with potholes and children playing

as their parents turn, churn their

sweet tea on the front porch,

wishing it was lemonade,

wishing they were still young,

yet they’re still in their pajamas waiting for Christmas,

jolly folk comes the brand that knows nothing

of modesty,

a travesty,

of decency,

while flagrantly parallel parking in the mayor’s spot,

only to be told

the jukebox doesn’t play their song,

and they need to leave town,

leave town at night,

while it’s dark, or at least dusk

small specks on the sleeve of my jacket,

burlap, maybe,

from the warehouse,

and dust particles mixed in with grime

mixed in with whatever the hell else got stuck

under my nails,

a flickering light bulb,

always on the brink of going out,

but never taking the plunge,

like a needle that can’t find the vein

dripping, further, blending into the night,

a creak in the floor board,

another,

feeling the weight of nothing in particular

while knowing it couldn’t keep me tethered

as I drift off, skidding

and bumping my head on everything I come across

turning over, over, in a criss-cross pattern

knowing that I know no naught nothing

Oh golly, jeez, no,

I don’t think I’ve heard of that band,

not to say I don’t like music,

because gosh do I enjoy a good tune or two,

preferably one to tap my toes to,

but the one you’re talking about,

that plays all those loud chords,

screams till their lungs are hoarse,

and only seem to play at one speed,

yeah, no, I guess I’m not familiar with their work,

golly gosh darnish,

but if you think I would enjoy it,

then I’d be willing to give them a listen