Fred Aiken Writing

absurd dental work postponed in a moment of weakness, fantasy
creeping through the crevices of molars sprung a leak and fussing
over the mundane cyclical sickness feigning health

among the leprous lecherously leeching onto literary meandering
called a mammoth, in the eviscerated moments shrinking inward
to the cold and unforgiving or the cold and not quite conscious or the frigid, placid

plaques held plague feasting on enamel as tongue meets tooth
meets moment of realizing pain and breath and spoken word
come together to exist; and flex, and rave, and criticize

from the brief refrain from collapsing atoms masticating in a a moment of
absolute silence, bear in mind, barely holding on to what happens from one
day to the next; though thankfully I think there’s a drug for that