bad business ideas look like
poetry
written in the form of a legal form
made to look official by clerical errors
made out of papier-mache blocks in an endless
road
leading nowhere, because it’s not the road
to be taken, but rather the diversion necessary
one day, i think you’re going to die,
but don’t think i’m getting out of this alive either,
because i’m not,
though maybe if we keep writing about death and the end and the inevitable and truth and power and sex and rage and happiness and fear and anxieties, then
perhaps,
though i’m not certain,
but perhaps,
there might be sour skittles left at the end of this trail,
and our last breaths can be the puckering astringency of artificially colored sugar
journeying down our digestive tracks,
as we die,
as i die,
but i’m almost certain that it was all deserved
THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, one friend says to another.
I THINK THAT’S A GROSS MISCLASSIFICATION. I THINK WE’RE BOTH AT FAULT.
OF COURSE YOU’D SAY THAT. IT’S YOUR FAULT, AND SO YOU WANT TO SPREAD THE FAULT AROUND LIKE IT’S NUTELLA OR SOME SHIT.
WHAT? DO YOU LISTEN TO YOURSELF? YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE.
One of the friends shoved the other. Not a hard shove. But forceful, nonetheless. Neither of them would claim responsibility for who initiated the physicality of the dispute. When the police arrived, they each pointed the finger at the other.
The officer did not care.
ARE YOU TWO GOING TO BE ABLE TO RESOLVE YOUR ISSUES OR AM I GOING TO HAVE TO ARREST YOU BOTH FOR DISTURBING THE PEACE?
WHAT PEACE? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT OFFICER?
I, TOO, AM A BIT CONFUSED AS TO WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT.
I’M TALKING ABOUT PUTTING THE BOTH OF YOUSE INTO MY SHOP AND CARRYING YOU BACK TO THE STATION IN A BRAND NEW PAIR OF JEWELRY, AKA MY HANDCUFFS.
Predictably, though without much pause, a fist connected with a cheekbone, and the friends’ fight brought them to a police station at 3am on a weekday, slightly tipsy, though the effects of the alcohol wore off quicker with the smell of urine and antiseptic cleaner that engulfed their cell.
The officer told them each, repeatedly, that they were to remain in their cells until they learned to act civilly, at which point one of the friends spat at the other, though neither would admit who did it.
When the sun peaked over the covers of the horizon, painting a sickly orange and pink sky, they were both fast asleep snoring and the officer briefly thought about their unborn child and whether or not they would inherit the traits of their mother’s side of the family. But then the officer figured it probably didn’t matter one way or the other.
Fred Aiken Writing 