there’s something wrong happening in the back of my throat,
but i can’t seem to talk about it,
you know,
because it kinda hurts,
i’d call it a talking disease,
but it hasn’t affected my ability to type out how i’m feeling,
so there’s that
unsustainable practices keep pushing towards
a thrilling ending of writhing on the ground
with no one to call and unable to find
my footing, stumbling down the stairs while calling
out
to no one in particular
and no one,
in particular,
answering
stubbed toe collapsed onto itself,
while nails made of thick polymer suffer the gravity of
a mahogany bookcase poorly constructed coming down upon them,
left to wiggle around bruised in their sweaty prison of synthetic rubber
glued together by time and the screeching hum of old sewing machine
made to look like they’re from the future
Fred Aiken Writing 