dandruff keeps snowing off my shoulder

onto my computer screen while i try

writing meaningless poetry that looks

like awkward limb movements obfuscated

by weeping, anxious thoughts punctuated

in the dark; falling asleep to noiseless drones

looking down and wondering

when the perfect time to strike would be

podcast memories floating in a landscape of closed captions

blushing off mumbles winking in and out of existence

as clarity of what was said passes into memory

like mullets, new coke, old coke, gramophones, asteroids, ask jeeves,

and whatever else it is i’m thinking of that i can’t quite remember

Fred Aiken Writing