Fred Aiken Writing

molecular tidal tantrums catching visuals of 8mm

paintings playing back thousands of memories that should have been forgotten

in the ember liquid in aged oak on a fermented plank known

to hold the world’s greatest mysteries within its mist and vapor,

as the clutch to all that is known

gets broadcasted to the backdrop of an audio-visual conundrum 

in a vacuum where there is no audience, no one to see the violent

creation of a world meant to explore a meaning out of nothing

that’s yet to be understood,

or yet to be conveyed in a satisfactory manner,

so that everything, everyone, in their stick forms, melodramatic theatre,

can be laid to rest 

with the comfort that it will all be okay,

it’ll be okay,

it’ll be okay,

I will be okay,

as the circular motions of billions, turned to trillions, turned to whatever comes after,

years of going in the same circle manifest into the wickedest hatred

being played back by a million different synchronized rhythms 

zipping through space in a slow manner so it can still observe and enjoy the sights,

well, look at that, a comet’s tail writing French in cursive

across the sky, but it will never last, nor be understood

if my life was a Word document, then I’m pretty sure it would be pretty short,

have a whole bunch of run on sentences, with fragmented thoughts yet to be completed,

and a crap-load of spelling errors,

         so there would all those red and blue squiggly lines all throughout the document

as it went on and on about how my life did this, or maybe didn’t do this, or perhaps should

have done this, but I got too distracted and ended up doing something entirely different

for decades when I should have been focusing on something more important,

and it would feel incomplete and disjointed,

and by the end of the document I could imagine myself going through it once again, and trying to edit 

the parts I didn’t like about my life, but the document was programmed as Read Only

so I had no ability to change any of it,

          yet somehow it keeps going for a prolonged period of time, almost to the extent

that I begin to wonder, when the hell is my story going to end, though I guess I shouldn’t complain,

it’s just hard not to read something that you have no control over its content before

wondering where the point is and how can I just skip ahead to the good parts,

instead of reading all the times I thought about killing myself,

or was rejected from universities and publishers and a variety of different jobs,

because I wasn’t qualified, or smart enough, or talented,

but I keep reading all the parts where I get hopeful and start imagining

that maybe everything will be okay for the main character in my Word document,

it might be a bumpy road, but inevitably I guess I need to think that it will all lead somewhere good,

until it doesn’t,

it ends…finally