Prose can be clear, blog entries cogent and concise. Sometimes, nothing communicates as well as poetry, and Matt Freeman does that very, very well.
Here are some more poems he has sent me, so that I am able to feature them here.
I keep seeing this rich
therapist in Chesterfield
because I feel sorry for him.
We both pretend
that my Medicaid is
paying for it when we
both know it’s not.
He says, “Oh Matt, tell me
about the time you thought
St Louis was Athens. Tell me
why you buried your license
in Forest Park. Let me in
on the revisions and secrets!”
I have to point out to him
that when a girl
at the bar raises her finger
sometimes it means
and sometimes it means
that she hates her boyfriend.
After I told him what
was really going on in
the emergency room he
seemed to get a little
high. But then I brought
him down with the
inevitability of genuine angst.
Whenever he hears a slight
motion behind us at the
door I tell him it’s only
a blind dude passing by.
I’m always asserting
that a deflowering cannot
take place in a vacuum.
And all of this is because of SSI and
the time and repeat and dignity it
Whenever I have to go down
Euclid to Barnes-Jewish
I get off the 97
at Kingshighway right by
the sorrowful KFC instead
of having to walk by Left Bank
and suffer all the humiliation
that comes with it and have
to remember what I said in
the ruins of Duff’s when
I was in some prior state
like I was the Lizard King again
before everything got sinister and ugly
and even Now counts as a holy relic
and is the result
of a change of a disconcerted
consciousness and even now
I had to be the Other and belong
because of the quadruple metaphor
of the guy outside Coffee Cartel
saying “You have to pump it up”
and as I elegantly go forth
to be mistaken for a gnosis I know
they do not know this process down at Barnes.
It’s getting harder and harder
I am all done with experience,
in a raised finger,
of a rising and falling chest.
I saw the Greatest Mental Patient
of All Time and
time laid waste sitting
on the steps
of the Masonic Temple
with his busted feather and white lie
wearing a paisley tie
he got from the Salvation Army,
all he did was sit and smoke
until suddenly an Idea lit him up
and he got up and started walking
away, saying goodbye, only
the outer part of a beautiful dream,
sinless, still smoldering
just a little bit.
Quiet and Loud
I think I drank
too much coffee
(they took Lesbia’s
It’s disgusting in the waiting room.
Everyone’s having sex but they don’t
even know it. If they came
into that knowledge
they would cease
And being a doctor’s just
for being crazy.
I spot a pretty Catholic girl
in sneakers and beautifully
clean and rich workout clothes.
I walk up to her and whisper,
“Do you really feel like I do?”
A New Kind of Clean
Oh, I don’t think nobody’s
ever felt this way before.
I had finally reached The Impossible Thing—
in the shape of a beautiful heiress
wearing fur and walking her dog
down on Washington while Chief was
weeping at the bar and this release was
everything was so easy—so they
put me on three antipsychotics at once
and sent me home with a PRN of Haldol
and then the window wouldn’t open and the
TV beloved TV wouldn’t turn on and the CD
player was broke and I tried to put a little
wine and bread on the windowsill and the
air was dull and the phone did become a
little less paranoid but unfortunately I
was unable to talk at all and people were
like are you gonna get a job and I sat there
stiff and tears wouldn’t come and this big
environment which was once mine for
the taking had turned on me simply pulled
out and now I was too introverted to see.