whenever i try imaging making breakfastfor someone else,it looks like mannequins playing the trombone as hyper-pop plays from some unknown sourceor stereo system that no one paid for yet,but it’s on credit, so there’s still plenty to be worried about,and a random chess player plays e5,so i have no idea what to do next
broken necks contemplating
meanings made out of faberge
as drunk people pass out in the attic
of my head, while using language
that looks abstract as protonation
liquefies memories of people
i once thought were friends
dandruff keeps snowing off my shoulder
onto my computer screen while i try
writing meaningless poetry that looks
like awkward limb movements obfuscated
by weeping, anxious thoughts punctuated
in the dark; falling asleep to noiseless drones
looking down and wondering
when the perfect time to strike would be
Fred Aiken Writing 