foraging in quicksand while baritones sing out
for comfort in the widening expanse of space
traveling at incalculable speeds toward doom, or chaos,
or, if we’re lucky, a bit of both,
but hopefully the school bell telling us
to put our pencils down,
go home,
take a nap,
sounds relatively soon,
so soon
aching bones,
arteries filled with plasm leftover from the last guy,
or girl, i don’t suppose that matter all that much,
but then again,
i’m not a doctor,
and this isn’t medical advice
elliott smith plays in the background,
and all my feelings of puberty and insecurity
come rushing from some forgotten, hidden, secret place i hoped would never resurface again,
but here we are, again,
shoplifting cheap cuts of steak and lipstick
to make it seem like we have a plan
Fred Aiken Writing 