So you have freedom here
Here to do Nothing
My fingers thaw
The fifty year old china shines in a kitchen in a lost house in lost woods near a Hallowed body of frozen water
Passing in sods of ivory crushed ice, barged against the opposite side of Shore Road
So Freedom is what you might say or print on paper or say aloud in your hometown, but your hometown got you in chains and it will always be this way girl
So what is Freedom
Freedom to kill?
To take away?
To send to?
To Send away?
There. Your free, but still your hometown laughs at you.
Stuck. Alone with family all around.
Freedom to. . .
So you have your shackle selected in the 17 degree cold and Marianne Moon thinks
The rise of sin. All rights reserved. The chortled blow of your bouncy cookbooks and slurping ladle and crunching forevers.
The snorts ignore this. And vitamin A and D nestled in a warm glass of registered trademarks and oil cans.
Good to know
Freedom to. . .
Its not my heart you paddle with in bivouacked time
Harcourt isn't God, now a half tobacco taste I wish away
Brace is no Angel, now no taste
A company of mere words, no more smoky sin and winds and license plates pass. . .
And it will take six more months or a few more colder ones, to purge you clean and let you drown in your basil sludge. You have taken me to a darker side. More dark than I have ever tasted.
Because your belly rules you and you don't care. You don't care. You don't care. Munch munch. Mmmmmmmmmmh.
Murder. Forget. Forget is the only form of remembrance. If you remember than you are recalling what you have forgotten. When the poems get cleaner, than I know you have left me and I count the seconds and mini seconds and the seconds between those seconds til that day takes over and rids you.
So the breath of pines sing and awake and cleanse me and rush and bring in the only real thing in me
The certainty of death that I did haul away. And Miss Death left behind. And His father and son. And His freedom to. . .
December 29, 2011.