Fred Aiken Writing

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