the automaton of matching two pieces together to create a whole,
defining characteristics known to only a few,
but speculated by many,
as an unknown slut under the cypress
supine
and ready for a good time
subconscious thoughts are so hard to keep inoffensive,
I’ll be minding my business, watching television or attempting to read a book,
and then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, without warning, a complete surprise I’d say,
but I get this overwhelming urge to yell out expletives in an empty room
while no one watches or hears or pays attention,
nunca escuchando,
while I become mold on the wall, spreading
I think my cat is hoping that I fail,
though I can’t figure out why
since my success or failure determines if I’m able to feed her Friskies or some fancy Martha Stewart branded shit,
but she might not eat any of it either way,
since she just wants to see me squirm through life until I admit defeat
Fred Aiken Writing 