Fred Aiken Writing

given a second wind

I might learn how to fly,

or perhaps how to cook properly so I didn’t end up so fat on processed foods,

I would appreciate my wife rather than playing hours of chess,

I might learn a different language rather than assume everyone speaks English,

I would go back and get my masters, and possibly PhD,

rather than assume academic life was not for me

and spend countless years making people coffee,

I’d stop procrastinating on yet another poem,

yet another book,

because I got too caught up thinking it needed to be the next greatest thing,

I’d learn how to get over my social anxiety and various personality disorders

that prevent me from getting to know anyone,

including myself,

I’d brush my teeth more often,

stop sneaking snickers when my wife wasn’t looking,

and maybe even stop watching so much reality television,

but because there’s no second wind,

and I’m tired out,

I guess I’ll wriggle out of self-improvement

with another dumb riddle

rather than look for another handout

balanced on a lingering footstool while waiting outside for 

some cosmic verdict to be announced to an uncaring audience

counting on chaos to breathe into diaphragmatic jigsaws 

blistering out on the sidewalk while no one pays attention

to busking mimes painted metallic conduits of electricity

extending chords around vocal lights pulsating sorrow

from within till they are without and all over the place

waiting for the silence to indicate what comes next

as plastic men wade through fog and decay

in a single file as they practice dismay while upholding

empires drawn in comic books with inaccuracies

playing dictation through space on checkered boards

razed up in the sun on a divided lane leading to fields

anatomically nuanced on wasted sleep meant to mean

a reflection of coins bouncing off photos hanging on glass

to hold up memories neatly tucked away under bed sheets

weighed down by impulsive sounds bubbling in a meandering

pace fleeced by fleets marching without feet

on street corners painted by anonymous artists

finding voice in unknown voids by dislocating words

from their pinned down meaning crushed by rushing

ushers pounding through aisles looking for batons to

beat the ever-loving-snot out of what comes what may

until what was is made