balancing the odds by sitting on the chest of your opponent while
punching their nose in as they cry
out for some deus ex machina to come save them, please, for the love of all things holy and sanitary, come save the bloody nose mumblings of this stranger I met at a Starbucks and thought it might be a good idea to punch them in the face until
they no longer had one, though maybe I’m just overthinking it, and the odds are already stacked
against me
I’ve had the same food stuck in my teeth for the past ten years,
filled with enough preservatives to outlast the dinosaurs second go of things,
hopefully this time without the whole asteroid thing,
maybe they’ll even discover time travel,
so they can go back and find their ancestors
and maybe make some sense of this
babysitting a migraine at four a.m. as a drunk moon glimmers with little to no hope,
all while singing some gospel of blithering blistering bloat of a song that means nothing to a mother of four
crossing her legs for the first time,
despite not knowing the meaning of sans espoir, mon amour,
so please close the door
Fred Aiken Writing