ceiling fans speak volumes as they thrash
through the continuum of space ad infinitum,
as the walls break down and all that is left,
a foundation made of paper
and a fan that doesn’t seem to want to work with
electricity
a logo in the middle of nowhere
attracting the business of nothing
as a series of decisions are made to
profit from the viscera of remains
piled into a makeshift graveyard
that can be seen from the sky
as a bumblebee buzzes overhead
searching for a petal to perch
in the middle of nowhere,
lest it take its business elsewhere,
to see a thorough examination of a fascinating artform
torn asunder
from its market
melatonin stopped working a few months ago,
so I thought it might be best to drink a lot of beer each night,
but that only made me burp,
after feeling bloated for several hours,
and wishing I could just be asleep,
though I suppose lots of trazodone will help me sleep,
too much and I won’t ever have to wake
Fred Aiken Writing 