Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021


Hell, I’m going to bleed
all the way back home
and my sister is going to drive us
by the empty lot
where I hung out my window
and handed down a Hendrix CD
to a Wash. U. kid
who’d picked me up on a deserted
West County road
in the middle of the night after
I’d been kicked out of a party
for crying over an INXS song.

I mean, there’s just no time.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen the arch.
I’m all fried and freaked out,
forlorn, something’s
terribly wrong with my perception
as I pick up on Sartre with my unstopped ear
and tangle with the concurrency
of Cupid and Lesbia and Christ
and my blood is so real it’s there
but I think
it might have stopped moving
but I can’t meet with my doctor in person
so I’m telling myself I’m a new creation and
I’ve come out the other side, I’m homeward bound.

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