Poetry | Fred Aiken Writing

artsy cafes in a concrete town,

sipping anaerobic coffee in anaerobic bubbles,

the streets loud with arts and crass

yet finding moments of poise amidst losing syllables dribbling across traffic lines;

amidst the chaos, seek some peace in the music that makes hearts release signs of logic taped up and shipped

to the nearest dream with a PO box

controlled by pieces of a puzzle handled by shadowy figures

laundering misdeeds through art spreading out into the city like viruses without a mend;

but mintable

the resounding hum of the (neoplasm) world outside,

amalgamations honking; voices amplified,

the (once great, but never for long) metropolis that never sleeps nor ceases to inspire, power and rhythm, sucking,

energy-in, carbon-out

brilliant lights twinkle like constellations in the sky,

not that they can be seen in the glow of the city lights,

ignited by photons,

surging through the unknown lattice of steel and concrete

structures of wonder,

structures of impediment,

structures of progress,

unique thunder, hue stricken, every shade, and every guise,

holding a story that never dies, but certainly never lived

in the bloody, beating, exposed heart of downtown,

a neon sign for a greasy, never closed, never quite open (emotionally speaking) diner flickers on and off,

a single streetlamp illuminates the cracked sidewalk for late-night joggers, of which there are none

a distant sound of dub-step echoes from a nearby club,

a gentle breeze carries the sweet fragrance of cherry blossom cologne in full bloom,

and amidst the urban chaos, fleeting moments of beauty give solace to inner LED lights flashing/strobe/break dancing

Fred Aiken Writing