Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: weed

October 7, 2021

Youth Camping Spent Smoking

incremental moments spent watching words stream by

on banners teasing the night

with promises of getting lighter;

darker, mixed with chocolate and vegan marshmallows so no one feels isolated

yet everyone feels a little disappointed

when it rains out plans of roughing it

in the neighbor’s backyard pool while they vacation in Istanbul,

smoking weed to pass life’s drug test so we don’t fail

at being narcs on the screen

binge watching Finding Nemo at twice its normal speed

stuck inside for the foreseeable future, while pretending we know German,

though probably speaking nonsense to a night not so unremarkable

yet memorable for being the first time we got to second base with the same girl

for different reasons,

at different times

and still feeling the same afterwards,

like substitute adults in bad costumes at

a Halloween party far off in the future,

now

wishing we still ate candy rather than burping suds

of yeast and malt fermenting within

while screaming to get out

for one more pool party as teens to feel

the thrill of getting to second base at the same time

for different reasons

when the pool party gets rained out arbitrarily in the middle of August

yet another time

as mermaids swim naked as we stroll by

casually, not too desperate, but in complete despair,

finding out that after school specials seem a lot cooler when it’s reality

missed

gliding through astroturf rubbing areas raw

that should never be touched, but there, on the horizon

we will find out soon enough

October 4, 2021

Emotional Bulimia

sitting in the back of a Ford Fiesta while telling my friend he needs to go faster,

no wait, slower, I don’t know, just not the speed you’re going now,

the contents of my post-siesta meal holding the entire car hostage,

blinkers throwing up gang signs as we settle into the side of the road,

fishing out change hidden beneath decapitated doll heads

that may indicate the people I associate with have larger

underlying

issues floating up from the muddy green lake

that everyone skinny dips in

while smoking weed and drinking over-the-counter cough medicine

without a sinus in sight,

made up of little pointillism paint strokes on imperfect canvas

that drunken dads in old Chevrolets belch over

while moms sit back and appreciates in the disappointment of her son/daughter/thing

passed out

and dreaming of a place to crash the night

before the car skids into the treehouse for one last time