Fred Aiken Writing

nostalgia posing as a venerated position masquerading for musicals playing

on repeat for festive scars

still held hard in hippocampus mutilated by gallons upon gallons of

hard liquor sounding just as the first date rotates in cryogenic stasis,

all limbs and no thumb,

if you catch the drift,

though if I did, then perhaps I wouldn’t be in the awkward state

of deciding which frozen dinner tastes better with pinot grigio,

as if that mattered,

since I’ll still eat whatever with whatever drink I have,

but it’s still nice to pretend I have taste

in the middle of my life,

though who’s to say when I’ll die,

perhaps tomorrow,

perhaps never,

but I’ll still have leftover memories

coughing up a lung after feeding another addiction

waiting for the other shoe to drop,

become stylized on blank paper with ball point

tipped at the edge in incongruous patterns

feeling for a tug,

a grasp, to hold onto what’s left of remnants

billowing out to a grand expanse,

contract,

expanding contracting differences making up a majority of what’s left

on the table

set for two,

both of whom forgot to pay the meter