Fred Aiken Writing

October 5, 2021

Ode to the Coffee Roaster

coffee dropping from the drum smells

like grape jelly hitting wet cement while being poured over cat litter

from waves of mycotoxinic bliss frothing through the musk of decaf

flavored from beetles scrounging for any

last drop, drip, stop of caffeine molecules

being pulled out of pores of anaerobic maceration

left at the door. coffee salesperson. at risk. caffeine dealer to the youth

in foreign hostels drinking flavored mud juice from the teat of porcelain cups

broken out to test the water, gone sour by the minute

fleeting fledglings foresting out of robusta bushes

growing in regions south of the equator

north of the stars

found far and wide

yet concentrated into pockets of seeds

ripped from the shells

to burn, let it burn; exothermic entropy deliciously

smothering rate of rise to return on investment,

crash and burn at first crack until it spikes

to desired temperature, then rinse repeat dry feed drink mixture of the heavens

set to a setting meant to cause havoc,

let it burn, let it repeat, let it spin out on the highway and it bounces from the tips of the feet to the front of the lobe;

roasting in the cup the world over for one brief moment of relief

October 5, 2021

Mystic Thought Prince

I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be here,

listening to my thoughts, stealing the sound of my keyboard as it contemplates

another compulsion to be heard in a void thundering in the blue floating orb

yet to feel the full force of gravity, as countless prayers pass through the ozone

to suffocate from no oxygen, blinking out, passing through,

let it be known that I know what you’re doing here,

but I don’t know why

October 4, 2021

Defensive Caretaker

paternal instincts squeezed into psychosis manifested in the form

of telling my daughter the meaning of the Sicilian defense

and how it relates to staving off other men’s advances later in life,

while she contemplates drawing our dog Snickers in purple crayon

after spending the afternoon playing soccer with her friends,

creating memories that never stay in place

for too long, then stretched out to a brink yet determined

as one crisis spans into the next,

and before it’s too late, I’m regaling the entire family about the ghost of my dead wife

visiting me at night,

yelling out obscenities of how I’m not raising our daughter right

while reminding me I still have laundry to do the next morning;

make sure to not wash the clothes without drying right after

less the clothes get all moldy

and I become the crusty ole dad with a moldy daughter sinking into

the wrong crowd of peers that smoke marijuana and listen to bad pop music

while getting full on processed snacks from the vending machine,

ruining dinner,

and causing my wife to chew me out,

rightfully so,

for not intervening, careening into a daughter destined to not know the Sicilian defense