metaphor | Fred Aiken Writing

take inventory of all the words

compiled into a list pushed off

into the great void

while jumping off a cliff to experience the thrill of dying and not dying

squished in between and expected to wake up

Monday and push pens into folded pieces

of paper spelling out dichotomies

blissfully bellowing a blistering bolster of

made-for-television moments cropped and readjusted

cropped and arranged

cropped and told exactly the right angle with the right lighting will reach the right trajectory to make

and vanish into thin air,

like the rabbit in the hat,

like the shoe falling off the mountain,

like the phone call waiting to connect

time trouble is perhaps one of the worst things that can happen to you in life,

when you’re confronted by the crackling of springs and clicks

composed in such a manner,

taunt, spinning, in that repetitive manner that makes everything look exactly alike,

while telling yourself it’s all different,

your making something unique,

but time makes everyone repetitive and droning,

because nothing has never come from nothing,

unless you’re talking about that knight fork that came outta nowhere

wasted gigabytes of data delayed in some made-up hole created out of memory foam

and rattlesnake skins that doesn’t feel comfortable, but at least looks damn fine,

describing destitute dilettantes and dalliances with foreign officials with

official titles in official looking clothing with attaches and, I dunno, some pen that shoots bubbles made of cyanide

while planning for a picnic in winter so they can have privacy,

while they share gossip about which chancellor or prime minister is hotter,

for love of country, for the love of God, please just don’t say my name

Fred Aiken Writing