Fred Aiken Writing

blistering through smog made of unknown emulsifiers coagulating at the brink of destruction

meets mayhem, emboldened by blank checks cashed in shady areas around every corner

for untold sums amounting to paper trails leading a way, trip trop paddy wagons clops,

of fortunes written in sand and peril, then smoked through crack pipes to that pay dividends twice-fold,

and then triple, as the man mans the manifolds of civilization meets tarnation until exasperation takes hold

and someone is holding the bag filled with shiny shy rocks shaped to mimic gold