stopping being afraid of the ghost
that follows each footstep you make
into the soft sand intestines lined with glass
that reflects the radiation of the beginning
of, well, everything,
but it’s hard to be bothered by any of that nonsense
when enjoying a nice bibimbap on
a weekday with no one in particular except for
distracting thoughts and that
ghost that kinda scares you
follow the cracks in the pavement
to reach an endless destination worth the price
of destiny being written in chalk and called priceless
by auction houses filled with cigar smoke
suffocating in the miasma wallowing
on the felt green table before disappearing
forever
the sound of unraveling thoughts
blinking from one hemisphere of the brain to the next,
as maroon colored nails slice through a green apple
to watch the dead fruit bleed into the
wicker basket, before being devoured
in some unknown, unspeakable manner,
with all that’s salvaged slowly draining out the side
of my head as applesauce becomes brain matter
becomes something i wish i thought of earlier
Fred Aiken Writing 