sinewy meat rots evenly on the sidewalk
as ambulatory flecks of consciousness with lambent
radiance sidestep
sidestep,
over, then under, and back again, avoiding eye contact while making
sure to look up towards the clouds, head above, head in love,
feeling great to be alive,
feeling great to not be cooking
there’s something wrong happening in the back of my throat,
but i can’t seem to talk about it,
you know,
because it kinda hurts,
i’d call it a talking disease,
but it hasn’t affected my ability to type out how i’m feeling,
so there’s that
unsustainable practices keep pushing towards
a thrilling ending of writhing on the ground
with no one to call and unable to find
my footing, stumbling down the stairs while calling
out
to no one in particular
and no one,
in particular,
answering
Fred Aiken Writing 