a thematic structure built entirely out of stale Cheerios stuck to the roof of my mouth
as I sing out moans of insomnia blurred by an ancient Sankrit etched into the side of my skull
allowing for small gold fishes to pass through on their way to school
to learn that they are not cows, nor do they grave,
yet they understand what day they’ll be let out of their cages to uncover
the great mystery of their life, that I suck at taking care of fishes, but I’m okay with eating them
I found a pack of Camel cigarettes on the sidewalk
with a note tacked onto it that read, ‘if u found these, then kep ’em, cause I gots no use four ’em’,
and when I looked inside I saw that there were no cigarettes,
which either meant the person that left the note either smoked them all and was playing a drawn-out farce
on strangers whose reactions they’d never see, or someone else found the Camels, smoked them, and promptly put the note and empty pack back where they found them,
or a secret community of nicotine-addicted forest animals scurried off with their newly discovered
cancer treasure to smoke gaily through the meadows, while feasting on a fleeting buzz
synthesizing through their nervous system in paralytic fashion,
as their bones become slave to an unnamed craving that wakes them up in the middle of the night
to hunt, the owl slicing through the sky, trapping, the scent of hypnotic musk alluring its prey
through thickets built to last millennia in swamps surrounding ecologically sound diaspora
found smoking behind the oak wood,
catching fire,
lighting up, right, down, to the endless step-in-step-out crossover fit,
burn it all down,
though maybe I’m reading too much into it and litter’s just litter to the common man’s mist
roiling through thick sediment
mixed with quick acrylic glances at a crusting encrusted buildup
found at the foot of a random neighbor’s doorstep
for future use
on glowing rocks made iridescent by the moon’s goodbye
from howling licks caught in a mixed array
of pockmarked mixers with coworkers that stay high and sedated
from the blows of antiquity knocking at the door
while sounding alarms of incoming, outgoing, smartflowing pontification
that forgot to mention its vacation was scheduled
for the third
unseen to thirst
or want
or glory mixed with shame
walking in the beachfront while smothered in chocolate milkshakes
head to toe
to and fro
Fred Aiken Writing 