Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: clouds

COOKED BACON

sinewy meat rots evenly on the sidewalk

as ambulatory flecks of consciousness with lambent

radiance sidestep

sidestep,

over, then under, and back again, avoiding eye contact while making 

sure to look up towards the clouds, head above, head in love,

feeling great to be alive,

feeling great to not be cooking

Cut Outs Meant to be Launched into Space, But Still Sharp

nausea turns to boredom
breaking aluminum cans as clouds become
sharp serrated points across the dusk
and every synapse becomes expendable, depending on who you ask