02 | November | 2021 | Fred Aiken Writing

clarity defined by the worst moments stacking up one after the other,

in abandoned parking lots of shopping malls gone to ruin,

while paying dividends by absent gods sitting on marbled slabs to be presented with

preguntas nuevas, sparked by arsonists smoking joints lit by nitrous oxide ready to ignite

into a new stratosphere, a new benchmark

as no one counts on their fingers anymore because of all the buffalo sauce lathered all across their extremities,

after a night of chicken played against the toothless friend no one wants to talk about,

muttering expletives to the moon and expecting cheese

my wife threatened to leave me if I don’t stop blaming my mistakes on the cat,

mostly because we don’t have a cat,

though really I think it’s because she harbors a secret animosity towards me because she can’t read my thoughts,

but au contraire, mon amour,

just read my poems, but then that seems as unlikely as our imaginary cat being to blame

Sir Cyrious the Serious was made from a very serious cloth,

he wore serious clothes and walked with a serious gait,

but what made Sir Cyrious the Serious the most serious sort

was his constant bickering of the most serious matters with a stern comport

and not a lick of irony or alcohol on his breath,

but Sir Cyrious the Serious was born of a different age,

where such matters were sacrosanct,

and nothing was seen as a joke,

but if you ever meet Sir Cyrious the Serious out in the town,

make sure to observe him with either a nod or a wink, or maybe even a stiff handshake,

but whatever you do, just make sure not to laugh, lest he chop off your hands and make a serious moment out of your levity