all moments spent looking for something shiny while thinking about the dullness thumping at the corner of my cranium going sixty miles per hour, steaming off into a night made glorious by ingloriousness, jonesing forlorn looks at the ticking arms spread thin to embrace the all encompassing, head collision with a rock piled high and cemented in sterling aluminum spat out of the core of a planet too tired to say no anymore, won’t it look dazzling, siempre deslumbrante
edible dreams made too loud by mosquitoes fluttering through cartons of abandoned milk
filled to the hilt of some glass far too half-empty
yet still seen as too full, plastered from last nights barhopping shenanigans spelled backwards
and then left out in the sun to ferment from glowing, shiny metals
conducting airs of superiority and sophistry from high above and low, down low,
ivory chiseled to look like a god smoking cigarettes from a balcony, step back,
don’t jump,
plunge
the great moment of converging energy streaking through the self-checkout lane
as some woman pockmarked with a skin rash across her check
and who probably listens reminiscently to Bill Haley and His Comets and Buddy Holly to
remember a time when she was still loved unconditionally by someone, anyone, out there in the void
take a ticket, please, and don’t lose it, or you’ll lose your place in
an endless line, processing each item of yours and rashy woman’s body
to ensure the tone and timbre of your body tones
isn’t too loud, or offends too many people, less someone complains,
I kinda hope they complain,
so I can be taken out of here and pass the time with listening to Fleetwood Mac and
studying how many versions of the Sicilian can make me look like
I, you, and rashy woman knows what we’re doing
Fred Aiken Writing