eyelashes pickled in tears made
from swimming in dreams shut down and outsourced
to developing countries that can dream cheaper
by the hour
by far
ending a game of musical chairs for the purpose
of stepping out into the hallway to have a very, serious, conversation
with our kids’ future teacher who doesn’t
believe in math
but keeps adding the slumbering numbers to
find the answer to abstract equations
left in fields
of grass
of blood
I forgot I wrote that
I forgot I started that war
killed that kid
stabbed that priest
made those inmates kiss for no good reason
or at least the reason doesn’t seem relevant or at least the reason in my head at the time doesn’t match with what’s in my head now
I forgot to take a shower shave buy new shoes
I forgot what day it is but thankfully I have a phone to remind me
I forgot to go to sleep
I forgot to go to work
or maybe I didn’t forget but rather just didn’t want to go because I don’t like working or maybe I forgot to write it in
or maybe I just don’t like working on other people’s dreams
which don’t really seem like dreams
they just seem like repetitive nightmares of producing green paper to float around
I forgot how pretentious I sound sometimes when writing or thinking or speaking or sounding
but I guess none of it should be all that surprising
since I live within the confines of an asphalt jungle-gym stretching out into the ether forever wandering wondering wanderlusting
for a sick moment to be alone
and then gone
I’ve been pulling on a string that doesn’t seem to want to unravel,
but instead props up an unstable lie made out of whet dreams meant for no one in particular,
yet are replayed on a look in HD for an audience of none and none of your business
to watch as much as they like,
call it a fetish,
call it a waking nightmare,
but whatever it actually is, I don’t think you can bring it in with you,
no shirt, no laws, no convalescence, but ratty old shoes sitting on the porch
to be kicked off and splattered across the lawn
Fred Aiken Writing 