Fred Aiken Writing

roiling through thick sediment

mixed with quick acrylic glances at a crusting encrusted buildup

found at the foot of a random neighbor’s doorstep

for future use

on glowing rocks made iridescent by the moon’s goodbye

from howling licks caught in a mixed array

of pockmarked mixers with coworkers that stay high and sedated

from the blows of antiquity knocking at the door

while sounding alarms of incoming, outgoing, smartflowing pontification

that forgot to mention its vacation was scheduled

for the third

unseen to thirst

or want

or glory mixed with shame

walking in the beachfront while smothered in chocolate milkshakes

head to toe

to and fro