Fred Aiken Writing

boxers or briefs, the pang of consistently feeling inadequate

to the flow of inexistence that ebbs 

        through a stranger’s dream web, and caught on the line

by a cruel universe that reels everything in with its gravity

that plunges into subatomic nakedness

        that squanders the meaning of the question,

boxers or briefs, a tightened noose waving to and fro

with the anticipation of a participant willing,

        forced or cajoled into sticking their head

through a hole that pulls and squeezes, until there’s nothing but suffocation,

flailing through the summer in nothing but 

        what God gave them, and the stilts of time defining what amounts to

boxers or briefs, on a questionnaire asking the difference between one cancer

or another that anyone would like to have for the rest of their life,

         so long as they stay planted

in their quagmire as they attempt to navigate their ignorance

at the edge of a pond while skipping rocks across the surface,

         though they never seem to go far,

boxers or briefs, is all any marketer or universe ever wants to know,

so that any answer about the great questions of life can be condensed,

        propagated, and sold off at a discount

and without any permission, though that’s never been the issue,

not so long as anyone customer could tell,

        standing in the aisle comparing one pair to another,

boxer or briefs, weighing the option with the possibility of going nude,

while wondering what that might feel like,

        would it be more liberating,

flaunting around town with a sense of superiority, trying

to mask the eventual, insubordinate thoughts of

        how inadequate the self is while standing in front of the mirror wondering,

boxer or briefs, late for work, late for school, late to pick up the kids,

all because of one of the dumbest questions in the world,

        yet despite the fact that no one will see them,

it makes all the difference whether or not there’s

boxer or briefs.

fuck, they said I’m essential,

       so,

       I guess I should go in,

though it’s 2am,

I haven’t slept,

or at least not like I said I would,

instead I watched Fallon,

        and opened up a bottle

           of riesling,

        which gives me weird dreams,

like how I thought I had the body of a crab

with a strawberry fetish,

going around town

cutting off stranger’s hands with my pinchers,

while climbing mountains of kaleidoscopic geodes

        that unravel when stepped on

        into thousands upon thousands of 

           tiny particles

        made out of yarn,

        which is a vastly more interesting

place I’d like to be,

rather than rubbing rheum

out of my eyes,

and drinking stale, 

barely palatable coffee,

as some inflated talking head

       calls me      essential from the

       comfort of    their living room

       and paying me      minimum wage

       what their too       damn lazy

       to do       themselves.

I can’t keep up,

I can’t keep up,

I have no clue as to who you are,

what the fuck do you want,

I don’t follow, I shall not subscribe, unless I know you

        stand for non-GMO content with ethically sourced thoughts

meant to create, bend, and destroy the normal,

monetized high fever pitches wallowing in the sunken

quagmire known as fee, foe, fem-fatale capitalistic free standing

algorithmic absurdities marketed to the impressionable,

young, indebted, and broke,

flat out,

I can’t keep up,

I don’t know what the next trend is, where it came from,

where it will lead, in a sea of a trillion voices masquerading as truth,

power, struggle, masses, populating at the speed of light,

and then some,

how the fuck should I know,

but I was hoping that you might be able to leave me alone,

all ye that markets,

please scrape my sanity from the jar on your way out,

you know, so long as it’s not too much trouble