Fred Aiken Writing

my hair smells, 

and I’m not in the mood to get out of bed,

or change my clothes,

but it would always be worse

like the one time my friend Pete,

from childhood,

the one I decided I never wanted to see again

when he started hanging out with his lacrosse friends

and never wanted to play Super Mario Bros.

anymore,

well, he once went an entire summer without

changing his underwear,

though I don’t think I ever got that bad

at times I think I’ve wanted to,

but maybe it’s time I go downstairs,

put my brain to work,

maybe try to invent something that never existed,

maybe teleportation,

maybe a way to communicate with quarks,

or possibly a pair of underwear that never

goes bad

sugar fountains bleeding up river

as the spike in blood pressure

comes from thousands of needles tapping

over dermis as a shouting match ensues,

creating havoc played out in strings

unmatched, by phalanges still in motion,

frozen to the touch, back into a corner

while the ultimate orchestra plays the last song

of a sugar high speeding through a small town’s

avenues, paved with potholes and children playing

as their parents turn, churn their

sweet tea on the front porch,

wishing it was lemonade,

wishing they were still young,

yet they’re still in their pajamas waiting for Christmas,

jolly folk comes the brand that knows nothing

of modesty,

a travesty,

of decency,

while flagrantly parallel parking in the mayor’s spot,

only to be told

the jukebox doesn’t play their song,

and they need to leave town,

leave town at night,

while it’s dark, or at least dusk

small specks on the sleeve of my jacket,

burlap, maybe,

from the warehouse,

and dust particles mixed in with grime

mixed in with whatever the hell else got stuck

under my nails,

a flickering light bulb,

always on the brink of going out,

but never taking the plunge,

like a needle that can’t find the vein

dripping, further, blending into the night,

a creak in the floor board,

another,

feeling the weight of nothing in particular

while knowing it couldn’t keep me tethered

as I drift off, skidding

and bumping my head on everything I come across

turning over, over, in a criss-cross pattern

knowing that I know no naught nothing