Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: poet

September 25, 2022

Unread Goals

I hope to one day become the most premier unread writer/poet. Seems like an achievable goal. All I need to keep doing is not be read by anyone…or at least not by many people.

It’s quite a simple process, too. All I do it write continuously, post it online, and no one reads it. I don’t have to do anything to the writing either. No social media promotion (not that I have any social media). No random list. No promises of making people rich, or beautiful, or whatever else people envy after.

It might seem like a dumb idea, but I was always told to set myself apart to get noticed. Though if I do ever get noticed and people start paying attention to me, then ultimately I’ve failed and I was never really good at achieving my goals.

Though being a poet, being unread and unheard of is par for the course.

January 12, 2022

The Taxed Poet

it’s best to tell people you’re poet to explain why you’re bank account

has so many zeros in it,

rather than tell them you’re a full-time, fiat-mining machine that works on autopilot

contributing minimum to zilch to an imaginary 401(k)

while listening to floating talking heads of the television that say buy,buy,buy,buy

into the reams of madness stacked high and overflowing from the binder

of some poor fellow’s portfolio that nets him millions, maybe billions,

once you account for inflation,

deep breath,

and deflation,

just don’t forget that being a poet is a tax write-off,

or at least that’s what my tax attorney that lives under the bridge told me

November 11, 2021

Flagrant Misuse of Poetry

if I knew what I was doing, then I don’t think I’d be a poet,

I might be a physicist or a pirate,

or maybe something else that doesn’t start with a ‘p’,

like a beekeeper that writes bad detective novels that no one reads because they’re about beekeeping related crimes,

and they go over everyone’s head,

or maybe below it, I don’t know,

either way, I certainly would never choose to not know what the hell I’m doing,

yet here and hear I am for want and waning hands,

tis nobler to raise steeds,

but cheaper to burn seeds