unplugged from a grid
off the road
in a little bungalow known only
to a handful of souls
that don’t want to be named
blurred faces
distorted voices
all to be anonymous in a forest leveled
by machinery tearing through anonymity
to build another grid
gripped by something else to enrapture
and ensare
I want to believe that there’s something out there on television
worth watching that won’t utterly bore me
or make me fall asleep
bright lights and sharp sounds speaking solely to me
while nudging further into stories
algorithmically chosen just for me
to blissfully blow my mind
so I don’t do it myself
whispering thoughts of how it gets much better
while desperately confounding me
with words of wisdom marquee across the screen
on wild nights of fictional synthesizing feats
from one world into reality
missed by one letter mistaken as a character
that dies this season
and the twist at the end is that I’m dead
or something like that
balanced on a lingering footstool while waiting outside for
some cosmic verdict to be announced to an uncaring audience
counting on chaos to breathe into diaphragmatic jigsaws
blistering out on the sidewalk while no one pays attention
to busking mimes painted metallic conduits of electricity
extending chords around vocal lights pulsating sorrow
from within till they are without and all over the place
waiting for the silence to indicate what comes next
as plastic men wade through fog and decay
in a single file as they practice dismay while upholding
empires drawn in comic books with inaccuracies
playing dictation through space on checkered boards
razed up in the sun on a divided lane leading to fields
anatomically nuanced on wasted sleep meant to mean
a reflection of coins bouncing off photos hanging on glass
to hold up memories neatly tucked away under bed sheets
weighed down by impulsive sounds bubbling in a meandering
pace fleeced by fleets marching without feet
on street corners painted by anonymous artists
finding voice in unknown voids by dislocating words
from their pinned down meaning crushed by rushing
ushers pounding through aisles looking for batons to
beat the ever-loving-snot out of what comes what may
until what was is made
Fred Aiken Writing 