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08/17/2026
Matthew Freeman
Green
I’ve had some intense experiences
which evidently appear to my critics
as merely banal and mundane.
There were lots of times I thought
I was dying, and on occasion
I even thought I was already dead.
That said, it’s Father’s Day and I thank my dad
for all the things he taught me,
even if a lot of it was on accident.
And I’m sad that he just couldn’t handle it
when he realized
that I was becoming
a damaged and corrupted instrument
of the spirit.
The Desire From the Other
I asked my dear sweet late elderly friend Pam
who’d been a wealthy businesswoman
before she got sick and would up here
at Parkview Place, “Hey, Pam, if a guy
texted you would you get right back to him?”
And Pam was like, “No. Of course not.
What do you think, I’m crazy?”
Oh, Sloopy, please get back to me!
Oh, I know they wanted me
to be a traveling salesman,
driving drunk on the highways of Nebraska
or somewhere like that,
picking up a paranoid hitchhiker
and then relating it later at the bar.
“That paranoid shit is wild, man!”
And I would’ve written
songs in my head as I drove,
sentimental songs that always rhymed.
And I would’ve been lost, lost
on the highways of Nebraska
or somewhere like that.
A Whole Roman
I’ve spent my whole life
fighting against a force
that would tell me
what I can or cannot say.
Instead of mentioning
the crack deals done in plain sight
on the patio at Parkview Place
I’ve mentioned lightning and electricity.
Instead of talking about
the severe beatdowns I’ve incurred
I’ve talked about the innuendo
under a friend’s breath
as they mention that I have no job.
Today as I was walking up to Schnucks
I went by all this grass
and passed under branches and leaves
and thought, you
used to really like all this stuff.
Oh, what fell drug
has rendered me useless
to nature!
Ars
I can stand any kind of pain,
any kind of disturbance,
any kind of dysfunction.
For me it’s all profit.
It brings on the prophecy.
What I can’t stand is a landscape bereft of lightning
where the phrases are dead and you have to wrestle
and wrangle, connive, you have to revise and revise
until you come up with contemporaneous nonsense.
In the Heat
I dreamt again
of Beatnik Bob last night.
He’s way up north now, where it’s cool.
And then smoking in front of Starbucks this morning
the Tortured Artist was like,
“I never knew it would be
this hard to be a CEO.” Well shit, I never knew
how hard it would be to be
an astronaut. After the sweet
home improvement guy pointed out
the crack deals going down here at Parkview Place
I’m noticing them all the time.
You think it’s a pleasure to see.
I’m telling you with little ambiguity:
sometimes it’s better
to remain in the dark.
Once I was so terribly besotted
I couldn’t see people
but only heard them muttering
brutal things under their breath
about my body odor.
Well damn. Glad we’re past that.
Time Being
The audacity
of a man who dares
to mention the crack deals
going down at Parkview Place.
He’s not only insulting
the poor crack addict,
he’s also insulting the dealer
who’s only trying to make a living.
He’d be better off complaining
about the backed-up garbage
and how the whole building
smells like garbage.
But alas,
when the government covers your rent
you really can’t say shit.
My only real consolation
is I’m still able to get
Ben & Jerry’s and Diet Dr Pepper
with my food stamps.
So you see we’re thriving.
Emerson in the Smoking Area
I’m inundated with dysfunction.
I’m trying not to be an asshole about it.
My hand nearly trembles
as I write this only to tell you
last night I went down to smoke
and one of the ladies who smoke crack
stared at me with the Evil Eye
and slowly shook her head.
I’ve heard all the rumors of course
but a couple of days ago as she fidgeted
on the set
a frail old lady handed her a newspaper
that not one person has ever read
and she opened it up
and took something small out of it
and turned to see that I had seen.
And the next day I saw her
rushing to a car, leaning into the window,
coming out with a small package.
It was like when I made my mom sit through
all of “Desolation Row” and she got confused.
I tell you now: I’m no writer. This is dictation.
The Basis
Analytic philosophy has seen to give me
almost zero ideas.
Logic is cool and everything, I know
it’s responsible for microwaves
and nuclear bombs,
but it can’t help with my paranoid landscape.
I need something way more fragmented.
And I’m so dumb any way
as I walk to the park and in an instant
lose my vision. I’m singing a song
that has no words.
I’m not afraid of knowledge. But all I’ve heard
about the soul I really like
is that it’s pure concept. That seems
suitably severe, sad, loud.
I’d like to fade away like a nightingale
and let all my corporal demands loose,
let them cry in the rain.
So I’m totally built
around a bunch of absences.
It’s hard to read anything today,
to get any sense of it,
as everyone in front of Starbucks
is yelling and smoking dope.
I am glad that I made my appearance.
When I do leave
I will be filled with nausea,
too put upon to make
any accurate distinctions.
But do I love everybody? Sure.
Chronicles
In a rare sane moment
on St. Mark’s Place
out in front of the seediest hotel
you’d ever seen in your life
you told the dealer in the light rain
that you were a poet
and then suddenly he started
spitting out some verse
which sounded to you
like some beatnik bullshit
but which you later found out
was on Blonde on Blonde.
I repent! No, I don’t repent.
Well, maybe I repent. I don’t know.
It’s like I think that it’s obvious that they think
I’m somehow corrupted at church.
I can’t figure how to make it right.
I battle my unconscious all day long
as it gives me unwanted phrases.
But I can’t completely regret blowing
open the door to my mind and the language
that resulted. You’d think they wanted me
to work for Anheuser-Busch. Oh when I critiqued
my dad’s economics to my history professor uncle
I figure he’d be sympathetic. But no. He went off
on how hard it is to work and raise a family.
Well, what about documenting
a chronic condition
for thirty years or so?
In a Foreign Land
You can say what you want
but I did my whole thing
while under water,
my hands tied behind my back,
my wings broken.
I’ve had to fight some literal floods.
I’ve had to be struck
by lightning.
I know I’ve made outrageous claims
but now I’m here
at the liminal limit,
and I’m still pulsing on.
A very long time ago
someone tried to teach me
how to write.
It didn’t take. I didn’t really listen.
I didn’t have any interest, any investment
in what they were telling me.
And when I came across
their own writing it seemed to be
boring and stupid. I couldn’t understand
why they had so many readers. Actually, no,
I understood completely. And you would’ve too.
It’s just that it’s unmentionable.
As for me and my house:
we shall write what’s inevitable.
Where I’m Calling From
I’ve been blind for so long
to what a shithole
Parkview Place has become.
But I’ve got friends in very high places
and justice will be done.
The cute little crack dealer
who struck fear into my heart
and rendered me silent
will run far away.
And then they’ll clean up the garbage
in the smoking area
and power wash the stains
my poor ashes have left.
So I’m slowly starting to read
people again. I can see that
they definitely can see.
They can tell who’s vulnerable,
who’s got a low self-esteem, who’s an empath.
Then they fit their language
and bum accordingly.
What We Mean by Mean
My sister’s trying to move me
into this sweet retirement home
up in the north part of the county
and I haven’t said a word
but since Red has my phone bugged
he knows all about it
and he told this lady who does all kinds of drugs
so she got on the elevator
and showed me a bunch of pictures of the place
and said she’s moving there.
You see this torture. All I could do
was slightly nod my head and say, “cool.”
And I don’t know any other way to say this
so I’ll just say it:
the Tortured Artist burst in on us
at Starbucks today and was like,
“Well, I just filled out the LLC papers
for my new corporation. It won’t be long now!”
And I was like,
“That’s great. But can I ask you a favor?
When you take all the garbage
out of the bucket on the patio
to dig for butts
could you please put the garbage back in
when you’re done?”
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