not all minds are made up when they hit the pavement,
sometimes they need convincing
and a nice cognac to smooth out any trouble areas
digging through the trash to find something
worth putting down,
bereft of thought,
stolen creativity,
masquerading moments of clarity bound and gagged
in the trunk
to be taken out to the woods
and executed,
where all shit thoughts go
if I say something profound
and it sounds really great
then who cares who fucking said it
if it gets lots of likes and makes you influential
stamp, sent and subscribe on the right or left,
I always forget where that damn button goes
though maybe it doesn’t matter
because we’re all dumb ghosts smoking meth
in a trailer park without
a destination
Fred Aiken Writing 