my english teacher was right,
and i rely too heavily on spellcheck,
so know every third word,
i misspell,
sometimes by accident,
though sometimes just for fun,
and i let the computer’s spellcheck do the heavy lifting,
since i can’t be bothered,
and i guess when the world has ended,
computers and electricity are no more,
then i might sit down and learn to spell
each word correctly,
though i’m not quite sure what for
petrichor falls apart,
ripping the fabric off,
sheets fall to the ground,
covering feet not meant to
walk across this sacred ground
that doesn’t seem to be mapped out
yet,
though i’m sure that might change
quite soon
there’s a line i keep following,
though it’s not a line that i’m aware of,
nor is it particularly deterministic,
nor random,
but a loose thread being tugged at,
violently, and without remorse,
until the line and everything following it,
aka me,
is disastrously splayed out in the middle of the kitchen
in a crime scene that no one is responsible for,
because no one else
saw what happened,
and that’s the story they’re sticking to
Fred Aiken Writing 