I am a creature of freedom—
a creature of freedom.
is tricky.
Some days like—
mind beats, judgement calls, unsound spectacles
unsheathing my soul in sub rosa places
only I can see (but boy do I feel).
Some days, more like—
crawling away hand over hand
grubby knees scoot across dust.
All the esoteric giggles become
covert, stealthy, tainted by criminality.

Some days—
it’s less
(and more).
And by days
I mean moments—as in
this is what fills the container of life, as in
days are the secret sauce of the sun, anyhow, as in
what I experience is the rush of the train
which takes place in the time it takes
to tuck my hair behind one ear.

Some moments are
holy, like philanthropic cupids shooting arrows
willy-nilly silly grins, long-loving
chubby arms wielding arachnid blossoms.
Some moments are
just joy, joy in flight
like the albatross
like the happy child
joy in light form, like my granny’s smile
like her homemade peanut butter cookies.

I am a creature of freedom—
but do I know what freedom is?
I haven’t had my turn of tyranny
the spin of the wheel has not spiked me yet
that is.

But I am not relative:
I am a human
a being, the only experience
I experience is my own—
I invite you in, and you become
me, too.

Do we extinguish empathy
if we stop our relativity?
What if we’re all
holy experiences in salt shaker form
straight from the mines
just dashing around chasing
light bulb feelings.

What’s my problem? What’s my
Same as yours.
How tricky is that?

Maybe freedom—not relative
(nothing is relative,
too much is real)
starts, first,
That I am a creature.

I am a creature.

Freedom is my wildest form.


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my mine:



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