Fred Aiken Writing

holistically confused by the entirety of moving parts

slapped together half-hazardly and called a day or night,

smacked pink by glints of future goo gone amok and stuck to some poor back meant to carry the weight of all that was tossed

into the river and expected to be forgotten,

and distilled into meandering meaning meant to look like fastidious flotsam

passing through the eye of a needle and back again,

but just so long as the place has heating, otherwise I’m out