waves of sand soothing over a dilapidated body
as it wades through absence located on aisle 3
by the Oreos and Lay’s Chips, trademarked preservatives
clogging hallways of veins mounted sky high
in pastel light counting how much money will
it take to forget what you’ve seen here
clarity defined by the worst moments stacking up one after the other,
in abandoned parking lots of shopping malls gone to ruin,
while paying dividends by absent gods sitting on marbled slabs to be presented with
preguntas nuevas, sparked by arsonists smoking joints lit by nitrous oxide ready to ignite
into a new stratosphere, a new benchmark
as no one counts on their fingers anymore because of all the buffalo sauce lathered all across their extremities,
after a night of chicken played against the toothless friend no one wants to talk about,
muttering expletives to the moon and expecting cheese
my wife threatened to leave me if I don’t stop blaming my mistakes on the cat,
mostly because we don’t have a cat,
though really I think it’s because she harbors a secret animosity towards me because she can’t read my thoughts,
but au contraire, mon amour,
just read my poems, but then that seems as unlikely as our imaginary cat being to blame
Fred Aiken Writing 