dandruff keeps snowing off my shoulder
onto my computer screen while i try
writing meaningless poetry that looks
like awkward limb movements obfuscated
by weeping, anxious thoughts punctuated
in the dark; falling asleep to noiseless drones
looking down and wondering
when the perfect time to strike would be
podcast memories floating in a landscape of closed captions
blushing off mumbles winking in and out of existence
as clarity of what was said passes into memory
like mullets, new coke, old coke, gramophones, asteroids, ask jeeves,
and whatever else it is i’m thinking of that i can’t quite remember
i put newspapers up to
cover the window,
and hide from the alien cephalopods that patrol the streets and highways,
taking down the billboards
because alien lifeforms don’t understand what they’re
being sold;
and i can’t fault them
Fred Aiken Writing 