Yes, I confess I figured I knew
how it felt to have to dig
your own grave. My mistake had
been reading up on Crowley and alchemy.
And this was back when stoners would
say twelve trips would leave you legally insane.
I was so freaked out I could only sneak out at
night to buy cookies at Walgreens.
Then one morning as I lay stiff and prone
Lesbia came in looking so sad and
said I should come to breakfast.
My father was somewhere way far off
and the dining hall was gravid
with origins. The kids were so colorful.
My brain was burning and I stared
so hard at this blond girl in the corner
that her syringe actually burst.
Later I had to impress my professor.
I paced confidently around my room
and held on tight to the phone but I gasped
when a crow flew in. My professor said I
should come see her. Then I threw up.
I had the overwhelming guilt of the seer.
My God is Not a Platonic God, Though
I was walking up Delmar out of lockdown
to get my beautifully meaningful
soda when I saw
a pretty girl coming out
of the light and into the shadow
and I passed her by
and when I came into
the soft light I stopped
and knelt and prayed for mercy
and I was not quite actually
a part of the real world
and talk about the failure
to reach the impossible thing
like catching a catnap on my
ex-girlfriend’s grave and an evil
spirit coming in and out of me
and body language and the CIA
and the mirror and trying not
to be a loser and gone beyond girls
and I said this to the mirror
I said Father Good when Lesbia
comes back I promise to
love her just like an angel would.
Matthew Scott Freeman holds an MFA from the University of Missouri--St Louis, where he was given the graduate poetry prize. His fifth book, Everything I Love Restored, was recently published by Coffeetown Press. contact