a back that breaks, made by papier-mache clapping together until soft bones
creak together on a hot summer night, filled with still breath lingering through the meadows
made of broken cartilage hanging on by a thread, sewn into the a pillow to lay down
and rest and be easy, don’t go yet,
play outside, just get me Tylenol before you leave
I’ve been pulling on a string that doesn’t seem to want to unravel,
but instead props up an unstable lie made out of whet dreams meant for no one in particular,
yet are replayed on a look in HD for an audience of none and none of your business
to watch as much as they like,
call it a fetish,
call it a waking nightmare,
but whatever it actually is, I don’t think you can bring it in with you,
no shirt, no laws, no convalescence, but ratty old shoes sitting on the porch
to be kicked off and splattered across the lawn
I will sometimes misspell words to see if my subconscious is paying attention,
though it usually lags, significantly,
until the third or fourth read-through,
at which point it’s too late, I can’t take it back, whatever it was that I said or wrote,
I have to live with the fact that my inner editorial spirit hates me and wants to see me fail,
or at least it’s getting back at me for not feeding it enough Goldfish growing up
Fred Aiken Writing 