it’s funny to run down the hill with the wind
to your back and genocide to your side,
legs break the trenches and bodies attempt to reach
a finish line that keeps getting pushed back;
someone once said we’re due for another great war
because those things don’t ever really get smaller,
not really, not when there’s nothing at stake
but blood, guts, and viscera
i wish i understood how the world went by,
but i can’t seem to sync up the music with
the rhythm of the tides
as they come crashing into the shore,
while a family of 2 adults and 2.5 children sing rap songs
a capella from paterfamilia’s childhood
charcoal flickering on and off,
as the night wears on,
the cervezas kick in
while sweat drips down every limb
to coat the night air in a salty elixir
that’s bound to end in regrets
Fred Aiken Writing 