Fred Aiken Writing

sleep in a pool of gasoline while reading social theory being written with a pneumatic drill
skating across an asphalt prism containing the hopes and wishes
made final by the sinking whispers escaping through the porous clouds telling lies
made of lumber raining in a falling bliss as maple trees weep delicious tears
that sound better than they look on a breakfast made for champions
when delete buttons no longer work and the jumbled mess is all that’s left