cold, wandering and toothless
without any liquids for miles around,
as meandering dilettantes and messiahs
pull and tug in discussions of who is best and who is greater,
when the answer to everything in life is Bo Jackson
writing poetry while driving is a lot easier
when you don’t pay attention to the road
and you use autocorrect for non-monosyllabic words,
and drafting edits are for red lights
and after that inevitable fender bender that comes
when trying to remember whether I need to turn right here
or come up with a clever metaphor
what does it mean when you eat twenty cookies after gulping down Mountain Dew
and sushi in the span of fifteen minutes and your stomach begins to feel queasy, in fact,
explosive, please excuse me, I think I might be sick,
but don’t blame my diet, it might be the only thing keeping me alive
Fred Aiken Writing 