follow the cracks in the pavement
to reach an endless destination worth the price
of destiny being written in chalk and called priceless
by auction houses filled with cigar smoke
suffocating in the miasma wallowing
on the felt green table before disappearing
forever
the sound of unraveling thoughts
blinking from one hemisphere of the brain to the next,
as maroon colored nails slice through a green apple
to watch the dead fruit bleed into the
wicker basket, before being devoured
in some unknown, unspeakable manner,
with all that’s salvaged slowly draining out the side
of my head as applesauce becomes brain matter
becomes something i wish i thought of earlier
Fred Aiken Writing 