burning thoughts by the millions
with every mind altering chemical
coming in the form of a convenient pill to swallow
one takes me to the Matrix, the other home
I’ve heard too much this and too much that,
squawking madness made up of opining thoughts lathered all across the floor by
colons misplaced and misspelled names written on police reports
that comprise the Composite Man’s desire
to see what’s left of an unexplored wilderness,
gone missing, or gone fishing,
it’s still unclear as to how it all adds up,
but we’re certain a psychic will be able to pick up on his presence somewhere
over the rainbow
I made a promise to myself that if I ever made it to eighty,
then I’d start using heroin,
not because I’ve ever tried it,
or even had the desire to,
but because I’ve always thought of myself as open to new experiences,
but I probably won’t tell my wife
Fred Aiken Writing 