Fred Aiken Writing

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