the intimate inchoate form, formless, nascent names
ripping, violent jerks, through the hurricane’s grip,
while bouncing off a balancing pole across two buildings,
risk falling from the sky as the mother, a mother,
mother nature takes the city by the hand
and leads it to the precipice, right to the edge,
then push,
a quiet trip down the gravity well that ends in not such an unexpected way,
but we’ll say was, anyway,
a way
when i’m gone,
don’t let no one profit from my death,
when i’m gone,
dump me off the side of the road,
let the buzzards eat me
cold or hot, i’m not picky
when i’m gone,
i don’t want none of that fanfare howdy-do-ya,
i’d like to be gone,
and rest
i’ve been trying to meet myself
for the longest time,
but i keep missing myself,
and always forget to leave a message,
though that’s not entirely true,
i don’t like leaving messages because, well,
it seems too desperate,
and i don’t want to come on too strong to myself
Fred Aiken Writing 