Matthew Freeman Poetry |Modern American poets

Matthew Freeman

What Experience Gives You

We’ve been in terrible accidents,
our dearest buddy survived cancer,
several others did not.
Now when Diana whispers
something suggestive under her breath
we don’t really care.
 
It’s funny how you used to get
so stressed out
about the guitar playing
of Page and Van Halen.
Now you can hardly make it out,
that particular influence is dead,
it all sounds like a bunch of noise.
 

Be Philosophical

Oh, so evidently
I’ve got some deep serious depression.
My favorite barista at Starbucks
turned on this new little light for me
right where I sit and read
but I never even noticed it
until Big Game pointed it out.
Whatever. When I pop
a few Ativan and get forty ounces of coffee in me
I almost feel normal.
My therapist revealed that she cares about me!
How shall I put this. Let’s just say
that every day I’m dealing
with some very urgent cases.
 
Such distress can bring to mind
truly horrible language, awful images.
No one knows
how to represent violence
being done to the soul.
You’ve just got to try and chill
at the bus stop
after therapy. Just sit there and take it.
 

So, Not Classic

Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. Today
I was able to smoke two cigarettes
out in front of Parkview Place
while listening to Max Richter
and drinking a Diet Pepsi
and no one interrupted me.
It was a consummation of the highest order.
 
Having been called out
to tell you how it is
to be paranoid and sad, he had to deal
with the fact that nothing
he wrote rose to the level of scripture.
And what’s worse
is he had to conclude
that everything he was feeling was
his own fault.
If only old Bruckner could return
and restore him, make him
ecstatic and hyperbolic again.
There is such a thing as being
too sane. Just ask Apollo.
 

Naming Names

You might be surprised to know
how often I think
about Jerry Seinfeld. Or Jakob Dylan.
Probably lots more than I think of Keats.
But I still want to write
a severe poem, something to influence
the people who are influenced
by Bloom, by Butler, by Derrida.
 
My dad could be difficult. For years and years
I couldn’t bring myself
to talk about it. It came out
as a horrible pain in my left foot.
Now that I’ve opened up
I’m so afraid
that all my revelations, these astonishing
abominations, are going to send me
straight to hell. It’s like
I’ve got Lennon and McCartney
duking it out in my brain.
The sad truth is all along I was warned.

Nothing for Nothing

I walked out into the bitter cold and snow
and through the empty parking lot
to go from Parkview Place to the library
in order to print up
my Christmas bus ticket to Knoxville
and some forms for a poetry award
but when I got there
the library was closed.
So it’s true, I thought, everything
ends in desolation.
But I picked myself up
and walked down to the Emporium
and bought some papers
and walked out and with great difficulty
rolled a cigarette. And as I passed
through the middle of the dorms
I saw a young couple kissing each other goodbye
before they left for break.
 
Every time I think I’m ready I freeze up.
I’m frozen unto death. And then
there’s one more pissed off social worker.
I’m not sure whether Ativan works
if you’ve forgotten you’ve taken it.
Like there’s a reverse placebo effect.
Like everything goes both ways.