a gentle push into the night
that never darkens, while perfumed silhouettes
dance along the edge of a cliff made to look more dangerous than it is,
but really, someone will catch them if they fall,
or not, i didn’t stick around to see the ending
some wicked song will be sung on an unimportant eve,
before the clashing of thimbles come crashing down,
banging from wall to wall,
while eye sockets bulge out of their cages,
and the wicked song gets synthesized and sampled over and over
until it is unrecognizable,
until it is popping through the roof and into the stratosphere
where no one can touch its sound,
because the sound is not real; it crashes down without a sound,
and disappears without a trace, as the saying goes
i sometimes like to go to the public library,
and crack open all the books on the shelf that rarely get touched,
you know, as something of a public service,
but i’m not sure if it’s really helping the community all that much
Fred Aiken Writing 