pages of madness whispering into stones etched into mountains made of plexiglass
as piles of degenerate thoughts masquerade as sensible thought bubbles
well formatted in the formaldehyde of brain matter
scattered all over the wall
please don’t tell anyone, I’d hate to explain
leaning over, I can smell your breath
and I don’t want to be rude, though I must insist
on some holistic form of roborant,
mixed in with part ginger, maybe some tumeric, some clove cigarettes, you know,
the ones they banned back when we in college, so we bought out the store,
cause we thought we’d be smoking forever,
that we’d live forever,
that we’d be together forever,
and here we are, still attached after how many years,
I forgot,
no, genuinely, I can’t seem to recall,
though is that a bad or good thing,
to count down or up, lateral, then vertical,
go long, further out and jackknife into the pool until it’s crystal clear-clean up on
aisle whatsit or whathaveyou, just don’t say my name
until you brush your teeth
abstract art makes me want to tear off my clothes and scream maniacally
in the streets
as my wife yells at me to. come. back. inside
I’ll catch a cold, or even worse, embarrass her,
what will the neighbors think, how much will they jack up our HOA fees just so we’ll move out,
because I’m certain that there’s a bylaw somewhere that says they don’t like naked screaming over the excitement of
a (insert) Joan Miró painting
Fred Aiken Writing