hiding out in the confines

of paralyzed thoughts while waiting out

an imaginary storm with thick balls of hail

crashing down all around me

and humming various songs from west side story

there must be something in the water

or sanitation department,

because my breath always seems to look

rancid under the microscope,

but that could be indicative of

a larger issue that i should attend to;

but i probably won’t,

i definitely won’t

slow diving into a pool of

amoebas trying to squirm out of existence,

and practicing duality in the mirror,

despite looking like a singularity missing the

bus; shooting out towards infinity

and beyond, or so the toy says

Fred Aiken Writing