Fred Aiken Writing

clarity defined by the worst moments stacking up one after the other,

in abandoned parking lots of shopping malls gone to ruin,

while paying dividends by absent gods sitting on marbled slabs to be presented with

preguntas nuevas, sparked by arsonists smoking joints lit by nitrous oxide ready to ignite

into a new stratosphere, a new benchmark

as no one counts on their fingers anymore because of all the buffalo sauce lathered all across their extremities,

after a night of chicken played against the toothless friend no one wants to talk about,

muttering expletives to the moon and expecting cheese