Fred Aiken Writing

Category: Poetry

THAT ONE SHIRT I HAVE//OR MAYBE MORE

when i wear my rick and morty t-shirt,
my dental hygienist smiles and says she also watches the show,

but it sucks that that guy, you know that guy,
the one that does the main voices, or maybe just rick’s voice,
did all those skeevy things,
though i guess it’s not too surprising,
she says,
since when you think about it, there are a lot of historical figures
that are considered geniuses even to this day,
like,
she says,
apparently, isaac newton liked to masturbate during lectures behind the podium
while talking about gravity,
though she doesn’t know if it was specifically about gravity, or just any ole topic would do,
then she tells me that she’s finished cleaning my teeth,
and she reminds me that i need to floss more,
and i’m confused as to whether she was comparing that guy that does the voices for
rick and morty to newton,
or vice versa,
but either way,
i told her i’d try to remember to floss more,
as i rubbed the contour of my upper gums with
the tip of my tongue, and tasted lead leaking out and down my throat

LAZY POET

i don’t like writing long poems,
because i’m a lazy poet
that doesn’t like going through every line,
every stanza, every metaphor, every simile,
again and again and again,
just to make sure it’s right,
ready and ripe,
for your viewing pleasure,
so please,
don’t judge this poem’s brevity too harshly,
it’s doing its best,
considering the effort i put in,
or not, 
i don’t really know

BIRTHMARK

there’s a friend that keeps pestering me to see
the birth mark i received when i was born anew,
on a crisp, purple morning,
while walking along the side of the road,
to nowhere in particular,
other than the rest of my life,
and a stray bullet from a gun i never saw,
from a person i never met, or saw, for that matter,
shot up in the air some several miles east, west, north, or south,
i don’t know,
and the bullet’s sway from gravity landed,
embedded itself like some sort of unwanted accessory,
into the side my right foot,
so now i walk with a slight limp, and
when i got for walks with friends,
as infrequent as that might be,
they will always ask if i’m okay,
what’s wrong,
why am i walking with a limb,
to which i retell the same story with differing amount of details,
depending on the friend,
depending on the day,
depending on my mood,
and i’m always met with the same curiosity,
to see the bullet resting in my foot