Fred Aiken Writing

I sometimes wish the worst possible scenario would play out,

but not just for others, but for me as well,

like a giant meteoroid hitting this floating rock filled with combustible chemicals and people,

or a nuclear was would break out rather than being the awkward ornament every drunken developed nation brings to every UN xMas party,

and it all plays out in some grand fashion that creates massive amounts of casualties,

and I don’t survive, and neither do any of my loved ones,

yet somehow some Han Solo character shows up from outta nowhere,

I mean, no one could have predicted he would be the hero of humanity,

but he comes out with his best,

only to be foiled by the gravity of real life crushing every bone in his meat sack till he is riddled with the realization

that he was never meant for the hero business,

no one is, because it’s a made up industry filled with liars and thieves

that control a narrative that only they can interact with, and no one else plays role

blistering through smog made of unknown emulsifiers coagulating at the brink of destruction

meets mayhem, emboldened by blank checks cashed in shady areas around every corner

for untold sums amounting to paper trails leading a way, trip trop paddy wagons clops,

of fortunes written in sand and peril, then smoked through crack pipes to that pay dividends twice-fold,

and then triple, as the man mans the manifolds of civilization meets tarnation until exasperation takes hold

and someone is holding the bag filled with shiny shy rocks shaped to mimic gold

I hurt my back…

and my wrist…

I’m in constant pain,

stop reading this and call someone to come help me,

or don’t, it won’t matter either way,

just make sure the autopsy is done on my good side,

but don’t let anyone see me cry