Everything is a mystery in hushed tones,
as my words get turned around,
wanting just a private place to open up the purple bottle.
You are a boys’ game played by men,
appearing to wait in quiet anticipation,
we are confronted by our alienation with the past.
You live in your own circle of hell, a city of hustlers,
beggars and junkies and pimps and runaways,
before any sales pitch had been made.
You say that you are putting the finish on your training,
I know better than to believe in your lies,
you are still looking for your next warm, soft, and sentimental sacrifice.
You are gifted, needy, and quirky, creamily full-bodied spendiferousness,
as a particular tradition, embossed and emboldened,
reflecting a pervasive change in our culture and in us.
You are sacred because of your physical prowess and anatomical perfection,
you walk as if you carry the seed of life for the whole universe,
the fallen angel and the temptress moon together in you.
You raise questions about your ownership,
you want to know if you or I own your body,
when innocence and sin were both respected.
Suddenly, your body was lawless,
you could leave me and everyone else,
without permission, without crossing the Rubicon.
Your ethereal reach longer than your pin-wheeling skirt,
each a troubled cog in the collective,
all of us hurt and hopeful faces.
--Martin Leonard Freebase lives in Dubuque, Iowa with his wife, daughter, and a black and white cat named “Daisy.” Martin’s work is solidly based on the concept of poetry as a social construction. Through our interactions with others, we create and recreate meanings that allow us to make sense out of a chaotic world full of contradictions. Martin considers the art of writing poetry as one small way of collapsing the confusion of experience into more meaningful patterns of social thought. You can find more of Martin’s thoughts at: http://martinfreebase.