By Matthew Freeman
The medical discourse offers up
a lingual cathexis, one word
instead of a thousand.
Hell can be so complicated.
You start with the fluttering leaves,
the autumn winds,
there’s someone out there you really
ought to miss. And there’s someone
at Starbucks
who wants to do you harm and make you think
that all you do is of no account.
An environment of some sort
is trying to get through
to you and give you a clear confirmation.
I’m not joking when I say I’d like to live
in the woods in Forest Park by the
art museum. I don’t need much—that’s
one of my other problems—just some books
and cigarettes, some food and coffee.
Maybe this is a nature gone too far.
What’s saving me in analysis
is my Grand Resistance.
Morrison didn’t live long enough to see
what he threw me into.
Sure, I was floating, my brain was burning.
Now I’m throwing out
all the trash from the basement in Dogtown
but more and more bags keep coming in.
There must be a list somewhere of things
you can know and I’m praying
it’s at least interminable. Any end to it
would surely be a literal death.
Matthew Freeman’s seventh collection of poems, ‘I Think I’d Rather Roar’, is soon to be published by Cerasus Poetry. He holds an MFA from the University of Missouri-St Louis. He can also be found on Twitter @FreemanPoet
