eyelashes pickled in tears made
from swimming in dreams shut down and outsourced
to developing countries that can dream cheaper
by the hour
by far
ending a game of musical chairs for the purpose
of stepping out into the hallway to have a very, serious, conversation
with our kids’ future teacher who doesn’t
believe in math
but keeps adding the slumbering numbers to
find the answer to abstract equations
left in fields
of grass
of blood
the room grows quiet,
a melancholy song skips on the record player
that you bought me for my thirtieth birthday last year
when i was going through a hipster phase,
which i’ve said i’m sorry about,
but i still like the music playing in the background,
even when it sounds discordant and lacks melody
i think dmx and i would be friends,
if he wasn’t dead,
or addicted to cocaine, i believe it was,
but i could be wrong,
since i didn’t follow up on my assumptions about dmx
by googling his name,
but not because i didn’t try,
but rather because i accidentally hit a z instead of an x
and went down an internet rabbit hole of
korean history and how the current geopolitical state of affairs came to be,
which only confused me more about life and history and the human condition,
so next time i’ll just stick to internet searches about dmx,
or at least try to relate the search
back to him
Fred Aiken Writing 