Poetry | Fred Aiken Writing

blistering through smog made of unknown emulsifiers coagulating at the brink of destruction

meets mayhem, emboldened by blank checks cashed in shady areas around every corner

for untold sums amounting to paper trails leading a way, trip trop paddy wagons clops,

of fortunes written in sand and peril, then smoked through crack pipes to that pay dividends twice-fold,

and then triple, as the man mans the manifolds of civilization meets tarnation until exasperation takes hold

and someone is holding the bag filled with shiny shy rocks shaped to mimic gold

I hurt my back…

and my wrist…

I’m in constant pain,

stop reading this and call someone to come help me,

or don’t, it won’t matter either way,

just make sure the autopsy is done on my good side,

but don’t let anyone see me cry

I really, really, really hope I’m right,

I just don’t know what about at the moment,

but when I figure it out, though I probably won’t, but if I do,

then I hope, I really, really, really do, hope that I’m right on the dot,

maybe an inch or two to the right or left,

but either way,

it’d be fucking awesome if I could be right about whatever it is I need to be right about

Fred Aiken Writing