Fred Aiken Writing

balanced on a lingering footstool while waiting outside for 

some cosmic verdict to be announced to an uncaring audience

counting on chaos to breathe into diaphragmatic jigsaws 

blistering out on the sidewalk while no one pays attention

to busking mimes painted metallic conduits of electricity

extending chords around vocal lights pulsating sorrow

from within till they are without and all over the place

waiting for the silence to indicate what comes next

as plastic men wade through fog and decay

in a single file as they practice dismay while upholding

empires drawn in comic books with inaccuracies

playing dictation through space on checkered boards

razed up in the sun on a divided lane leading to fields

anatomically nuanced on wasted sleep meant to mean

a reflection of coins bouncing off photos hanging on glass

to hold up memories neatly tucked away under bed sheets

weighed down by impulsive sounds bubbling in a meandering

pace fleeced by fleets marching without feet

on street corners painted by anonymous artists

finding voice in unknown voids by dislocating words

from their pinned down meaning crushed by rushing

ushers pounding through aisles looking for batons to

beat the ever-loving-snot out of what comes what may

until what was is made