The Drive was at the bottom
of the swimming pool
and I looked up
and saw me diving in

 

and then I was in a jail cell
with the door open
and I took
a Diet Coke
and put it on top of the
door outside and said
this one’s for tomorrow

 

and when they asked me
for desire and modernity
I produced a shoebox
and took off the lid
and inside
was some beautiful mud

Reader Beware, you are about to step into the dream, which is not a dream, or is it? Matthew Freeman seems, in this chapbook-length poem, to be mucking about inside our collective heads, and the results are both startling, and oddly familiar.

I have this therapist who follows
me around
in a golf cart
in order to make sure
I don’t do or say anything crazy

 

and we’re building a hearth together
and he wants to put up a sign that says
“All women are welcome”
and I want to put up a sign that says
“All therapists are the same”