Fred Aiken Writing

I received my empathy on loan from the bank,

took out a second mortgage and everything,

though I can’t pay it back

can’t seem to understand why creditors keep calling

to tell me I owe them my emotions,

I owe them the core of my self

plus interest,

so they say liquidate all my assets,

cleanse myself of all that holds me from my goals or dreams

or dreaming goals,

I’m not sure,

but remove the lien on my self, to selfish needs crossed out

of contracts typed in bland office chairs

with poor lumbar support as they squeak out

what I should do, who shall I be, determining what I can feel

from the midsummer mist to the ecstasy of an aubergrine kiss

peppered in light made on a spectrum missing

in the backwoods of another think tank made of aluminum

while sitting on the think hill of forests no one goes to

because it’s a forest and I no longer pay attention to what’s outside,

dripping,

leaking

moments as an escape from the impending doom of debt collection of the self

too soon