poetry sounds better when you have the voice for it,
though sadly, i do not have the voice for it,
perhaps i can ask an ai program to harness
the voice of pablo neruda from the dead
and his ghost can read all of my poetry
to make it sound much better
than it is
the currents of space
the current of time
the currents of mind,
flowing and swirling and whirling
through free throw verses
on and on
till the circular rounds the corner
to find a sharp edge metastasizing
into a cancerous mole
that grows into a geometric pandemic
until the currents
are stopped by the fascism of numbers
wanting to know what it all
adds up to, and still not finding a summation
a spider came right up to me
while i walked down this path
in a park near my house,
and i asked the spider,
what kinda spider are you?
and the spider told me that it was rude of me to ask,
how dare i,
so i apologized and tried to get past the spider,
but the spider kept following me
until i was left with no other options
i stepped on the spider with my right foot,
and as the spider lay dying,
breathing with its small squashed spider lungs,
the spider asked,
why’d you do that?
i was just trying to get to class
Fred Aiken Writing 