Fred Aiken Writing

burning in the moment of collision

with continuous motions playing out on a far-out rock passing through

and seasoned with too much salt on a plate too big to finish

with a fork too big to pick up and feel the growing

tensions playing out on a tight rope reeled in off the shore

of a private island meant for one and destined to hold the growing treasures of a centralized

moment of ideas and wealth until there’s nothing left, nothing there,

all we have,

all we are,

abstract aberrations floating amongst one another with the hope that we won’t crash our vehicles too

hard into each other and have to exchange insurance

only to find out that we’ve been duped to a mystical entity

cash for security with the obscure belief of sanity

tenuously grasping reality for a fraction of the cost of a latte through the drive-thru

going ninety in a twenty as we brake and hope and brake and hope

then brake some more,

at a stop sign painted orange for giggles,

past down and breathing,

so it’s all good