little ticks go up, then down,
sometimes stay static,
but never for too long,
always someone to buy,
someone to sell,
ticks turn into candles that change color
as the seconds collapse into one another,
more buyers,
more sellers,
all following random patterns
that sometimes go up, sometimes go down,
all with a click,
one tick, tick, tick at a time
on occasion i will read a book or poem pre-20th century,
but often times i find their style to be bland,
droning on and on, despite knowing that their language is quite beautiful,
though for some reason i can’t help but think that writers before the 1950’s
weren’t all that honest,
but maybe i’m just being paranoid because the disembodied head of shakespeare
lied to me as a child
i used madlibs to complete this poem,
but because i couldn’t think of the usual nouns and adjectives,
i just wrote something really quick and dumb,
or maybe quirky and fun
Fred Aiken Writing 