Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: Poetry

not knowing where to hide

isn’t exactly the same as being transparent,

though sometimes it looks the same,

like holding onto a light bulb

while pretending to be luminescent

lonely brunches spent reading meandering

news stories that seem to all end in the same tragedy

while the horizon bleeds fresh air

and kids with crazy glue run around

the tables and play pranks by tying shoelaces

to utensils and calling it fun

harmless cuts running along paper skin,

zip-zagging down arteries composed of tiny whispers

telling secrets held in a body that breaks down

after continued use

until an electric spark surges through the enamel

and feeds