Fred Aiken Writing

insipid moments crushed up into tiny powder

laid out on the table, perhaps one made out of mahogany, or real oak,

maybe some new-age marble made in a lap

under the thumbprint of artificial intelligence glowing like an ember

flowering into jasmine-scented massacres of a future too dumb or realistic

to imagine, over a cup of tea,

perhaps Earl Grey

made simply insipid with little noises,

or perhaps not