Fred Aiken Writing

the discovery of body lotion was transformative,

relaxing,

orgasmic,

soothing,

as it became a part of my daily routine.

 

swollen, discolored calluses filled with

toughened leather scraping

by,

through, 

tensing in a feverish pain,

now moistened by stress relief lotion

with a lemongrass scent 

from a bottle with a blue striped pattern

that I found at a Bath & Body Works,

after a coworker gave me some

as my secret Santa.

 

yet once I realized how grossly

I maintained my skin,

the process of going all in,

buying candles, 

fancy deodorant with natural,

non-GMO ingredients,

fragrances that made me feel like royalty,

masked my olfactory indiscretions,

kept my dignity,

saved my marriage.

 

though once hopeless,

callused skin,

weathered from years of abuse,

cut, bruised, and stripped,

with strings of freckled veins

pock-marked throughout,

the body lotion heals what 

time,

chemicals,

bad diet,

stress,

depression,

the sun,

the moon,

cutting,

burning,

cooling,

all messed up,

or at the very least it makes me feel good.

 

Black coffee tastes bitter until you bite into it, 

and then the bitterness overcomes you,

and then it seems like that’s all you’ll ever know,

until the scent of lemongrass with citrus notes

floods through the murky water,

black,

bitter as could be,

with a thousand little beans chasing

yet with hints of jasmine and grapefruit,

roasted until it cracked to the heat

scorching its skin from existence

the caffeinated high from a sludge,

barely noticeable,

black,

still bitter,

jittery, pop, pop,

skin begins to move with tense lines

forming to the contours of the high 

created by the black coffee sipping,

hot, 

through a mist that settles fast,

then zips through a continuous string

of mildly entertaining thoughts

that seem profound,

fight,

fight the tiredness,

beat the overwhelming urge,

to sleep,

and not wake up,

to sleep, 

and not wake up