complicated speech patterns

reaching high-pitched screeches

diagnosing unkind megalomania

that hopefully won’t be

held against me

sinewy meat rots evenly on the sidewalk

as ambulatory flecks of consciousness with lambent

radiance sidestep

sidestep,

over, then under, and back again, avoiding eye contact while making

sure to look up towards the clouds, head above, head in love,

feeling great to be alive,

feeling great to not be cooking

there’s something wrong happening in the back of my throat,

but i can’t seem to talk about it,

you know,

because it kinda hurts,

i’d call it a talking disease,

but it hasn’t affected my ability to type out how i’m feeling,

so there’s that

Fred Aiken Writing