turning your back on the waiting list
while doing pushups in a pushup
bra, as the relaxing sensation crushes
history into an entertaining
series of facts that don’t mix
well with reality
until an editor gets ahold of the
daguerreotype to make of it what they will
as they wish
secret drones made out of cardboard
fly through ochre clouds exploding in a metallic sky
while catching the eye of artificial puzzle people, playing
guitar with a not-all-too-original idea
the fumbling strum of adolescent, technological innovation
changing minds into time-traveling farces
but at least it’s not generic;
though one might say it’s slightly genetic
total darkness
makes lobsters happy as they boil in plasma
anxiously awaiting butter logs stacking
up along the edges of existence;
poured down the side until cleanliness
means something akin to tastiness
but miracles are for the blind
blistering in an enchanted quagmire planned out on a napkin and thrown out, with prejudice
Fred Aiken Writing 