the spoon thrown against the wall,

forced to carry out a facsimile of a drama written long ago,

without any intervention from the peanut gallery,

i stay out of whatever might be going on

and sip on celestial brews without a name,

so please don’t call my name

the river looks like a puddle of blood

flowing up north

towards the open valley extending out into a great big void,

like a pothole that needs to be filled,

but we don’t have the budget to do anything about

Fred Aiken Writing