Fred Aiken Writing

November 3, 2022

Controlling the Delete Button

every ctrl-alt-delete contains the possibility of what could have been

and maybe that scenario is playing out in another dimension

so there’s the possibility, however slight,

that i might be talented and successful

or that i might have followed thru

and learned Korean and become some sort of ambassador for Pepsi or Redbull in Seoul

but i guess we’ll never know

since the current version of me hit those

three conveniently placed buttons dangling like a participle pleasantly fighting through the Halloween decorations that weren’t taken down from two years ago

and the call to action went to voicemail

November 2, 2022

Genius Heroin; Genuflecting Organisms

i don’t feel like i’ve done enough heroin to be considered smart or a genius

though i often wonder why there are so many people considered genius even after doing, getting hooked on, and dying of heroin…

or other sorts of dumb ways to die

and i wonder if anyone has ever written a book on the history of geniuses that have shaped modern civilization while being high as a kite without the sail beneath their wings

though maybe that’s just a projection

and people are all watching HDTV while attempting DIY projects and failing and going to the emergency room for

decapitated limbs and cuts and hurt feelings

while coming home with anticipation

that there will be someone there inside the evenly numbered amount of walls that contain their sense of security and wonder

to listen to their every wanton supercilious dawdling doodle thoughts haphazardly sketched out

in minds too poor to afford the paper to continue on

before chasing some new adolescent high

feeling

high

minded

scope of inquiry pushed past the rushing throttle of piano keys turning over from gasoline being poured over them

and lit afire

while the volunteer firefighters stand outside and watch as the music dies and sizzles

to the perfect temperature before rushing in to save the day by splashing puddles of philosophical theories

of adjusted moral epistemology on a dispersed crowd crawling under the cloud

of high

high

minded

simple discussions wondering what day what time and what’s the weather like outside

of the heroin den because i haven’t been out in a while and i feel as if i might poke out

but only if the weather has cleared

November 1, 2022

Posthumous

The light flickered.

I noticed my dirty fingernails.

I noticed my stance.

I noticed I lack grace.

I noticed there’s nothing I could do at that point. I’m committed.

A silhouette cast in penumbra snaked across the floor. There is no sound. The walls vibrate. Every muscle in my body tightens until it hurts. I’m reeled over in pain.

I’m certain I’m bleeding. I need to be taken to the hospital, I tell no one. I don’t say a word. I can’t say a word. At one point in my life I could speak five languages, but none of them come to mind at that very moment.

No one could hear me, either way.

The silhouette reaches out. It grabs, and I can feel its tendrils tighten. I can feel a squeeze pulsating through my veins.

I shout.

But I don’t. 

Small cuts erase the pieces of my body I thought would always be protected.

I stood up for the first time since I could remember. I become painfully aware. I collapsed. I stepped over the body and walked out into the night.