abstract art makes me want to tear off my clothes and scream maniacally
in the streets
as my wife yells at me to. come. back. inside
I’ll catch a cold, or even worse, embarrass her,
what will the neighbors think, how much will they jack up our HOA fees just so we’ll move out,
because I’m certain that there’s a bylaw somewhere that says they don’t like naked screaming over the excitement of
a (insert) Joan Miró painting
time is the girlfriend that keeps racking up one large bill after another
always telling me she’ll slow down, that this is the last Gucci whatever she will buy,
all the while I know she’s getting ready for another coke-fueled night of spending me dry,
curled over on the couch hoping that one day it will stop
while also being too afraid to leave myself,
hoping, against hope, against sanity, with some sort of masochistic delight,
that the torture continues into the night into the morning into the year into the decade,
until one day I wake up, completely spent, decrepit, in horrible credit card debt,
but still grateful that time keeps kicking me over and over, begging her not to stop
Fred Aiken Writing