play a simple song
that doesn’t have a rhyme,
but for some reason has a reason,
that keeps the light strobes going,
while sweaty bodies groove
to a harmonic trance under a purple moon
blinking in and out of existence,
wondering what’s coming next,
wondering why life’s such a mess
when you plead insane
to all the accusations thrown at you for just living
your darndest, then sometimes it’s easy
to wobble across a broken stage
and pretend that the lights aren’t on,
and no one paid the gas bill,
so it’s cold as hell, and not a damn eye is watching,
not even a glimpse
i spent the afternoon listening to indie folk songs,
and played a drinking game where every time
the singer, with a mid-western accent,
sung about staring into the abyss,
then i’d take a swig of my stella artois,
which got me stone drunk, and laughing
on my ass
Fred Aiken Writing 