Fred Aiken Writing

the gauntlet rests between a broken thermocouple

and an effervescent blinking light

meant to distract the eye from mundanity

as everything explodes,

everything explodes,

it is all gone in the mess of scattered hydrogen

bashing against the weighty phosphorus pores bursting

in ringlets of constant grooves producing

strings,

growing, expanding, curving through the infinite nothing

frogs eat piano wire

while playing banjos and

waiting for death,

a death that will not come,

because it doesn’t exist, 

unless the insurance premiums cover the down payment

that looks new,

and that looks new,

oh, and so does that,

that looks incredibly new,

maybe I can buy it,

or put it on my wish list,

then other people will know I want to buy it,

or they’ll buy it for me for my birthday,

or Christmas,

or the Fourth of July,

or perhaps if I’m having a bad day

and need a pick-me up,

they’ll look at my list of things that I want,

and they’ll get it for me,

but then I’ll need friends,

so then they’ll be on my wish list too