Fred Aiken Writing

edible dreams made too loud by mosquitoes fluttering through cartons of abandoned milk

filled to the hilt of some glass far too half-empty

yet still seen as too full, plastered from last nights barhopping shenanigans spelled backwards

and then left out in the sun to ferment from glowing, shiny metals

conducting airs of superiority and sophistry from high above and low, down low,

ivory chiseled to look like a god smoking cigarettes from a balcony, step back,

don’t jump,

plunge