broken necks contemplating
meanings made out of faberge
as drunk people pass out in the attic
of my head, while using language
that looks abstract as protonation
liquefies memories of people
i once thought were friends
dandruff keeps snowing off my shoulder
onto my computer screen while i try
writing meaningless poetry that looks
like awkward limb movements obfuscated
by weeping, anxious thoughts punctuated
in the dark; falling asleep to noiseless drones
looking down and wondering
when the perfect time to strike would be
podcast memories floating in a landscape of closed captions
blushing off mumbles winking in and out of existence
as clarity of what was said passes into memory
like mullets, new coke, old coke, gramophones, asteroids, ask jeeves,
and whatever else it is i’m thinking of that i can’t quite remember
Fred Aiken Writing 