Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021

A Bit of Sexy Confusion

Here I am somewhere
writing about somewhere else.
What is all of this
if not hardcore sublimation?

I didn’t know what a beatnik was
but my dad kept squealing
“Work! Work!”

And I tried to get into academia
but they wouldn’t let me near.

So I made my play,
I’m down here in Carbondale
waiting out the pandemic
and I guess I can say
anything I want.

I’m writing this on the painting
I use to fill my tobacco pouch
quite carefully, trying not
to get anything on the floor.
It’s a process, dummy,
and that’s gotta count for something.

This morning my laptop
was covered in vines and flowers.
I’ve been so passive,
offending the budding philosophers.

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