Fred Aiken Writing

October 5, 2021

Last Night in Shifts

paradigm shifts exploring praxis heritages

while high on molly and scooping random flotsam sitting

on the floor of a rave downtown,

spent fishing good parking

while crossing into uncharted identities

offering amazing mental headspaces to explore

what lying before and after

the afterbirth gets dragged out

for all the prying eyes to look upon

and wonder

why my testicles are so uneven,

or maybe that is just. a. private. thought.

I forgot to share with my therapist last week,

but no worries,

it all seems to come back into place

on a new moon turned purple at the sight

of a red market in October

October 5, 2021

When Textualization Meets Context

reading while driving

sounds a lot more dangerous than it is,

especially when treated like a bad game of

Grand Theft Auto meets Dostoevsky meets Catch Me If You Can,

trekking out in the express way

in the HOV lane because

books are people too,

lest some simple-minded cop say differently, with some lawyer and judge that agrees

it might not be a good idea to drive while reading,

yet, I shall defend, with my last breath, your right to say differently,

please differently,

pick another channel

lower the volume

less rez

more rez

what the hell is rez?

out back around the house sitting by the fire

to let the world burn

to see a small concentrated chiminea made of clay

no, nevermind, I’m still in bed watching Bones while piles of books stack up around me

October 5, 2021

Ode to the Coffee Roaster

coffee dropping from the drum smells

like grape jelly hitting wet cement while being poured over cat litter

from waves of mycotoxinic bliss frothing through the musk of decaf

flavored from beetles scrounging for any

last drop, drip, stop of caffeine molecules

being pulled out of pores of anaerobic maceration

left at the door. coffee salesperson. at risk. caffeine dealer to the youth

in foreign hostels drinking flavored mud juice from the teat of porcelain cups

broken out to test the water, gone sour by the minute

fleeting fledglings foresting out of robusta bushes

growing in regions south of the equator

north of the stars

found far and wide

yet concentrated into pockets of seeds

ripped from the shells

to burn, let it burn; exothermic entropy deliciously

smothering rate of rise to return on investment,

crash and burn at first crack until it spikes

to desired temperature, then rinse repeat dry feed drink mixture of the heavens

set to a setting meant to cause havoc,

let it burn, let it repeat, let it spin out on the highway and it bounces from the tips of the feet to the front of the lobe;

roasting in the cup the world over for one brief moment of relief