the shores of freedom’s water

Let breath become the ocean

each inhalation I do see

the shores of freedom’s water

are washing over me,

and with each exhalation

the ocean starts to breathe

I open my eyes gently

to gaze upon the sea.

freedom’s many son.

Whenever

I am here

I am freedom’s

many son.

I am open

and aware

now

of my choice.

Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen

Next

to the Bible

in the Dollar Store

I pick up

Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen

tuck it

under my arm

and proceed to the cashier,

handing her a buck

she looks at me warmly

and says,

this is a good one, but

young man, have you read the Holy Bible?

I’m wide awake, it’s haunting.

With
an
ear
to
the
ground

these
words
seem
futile,
consciousness
bludgeoned

by
the
American’s
perversion
of
freedom.

The Sincerity of Our Chains.

Unlocked.

A brief wave of empathy.

A surge of relief.

Icy cold goosebumps.

Cover to cover.

Nearly 600 pages like chains.

And now, Freedom?

I beg to differ, you see…

The shackles leave marks,

indeed.

Deep reddish grooves on ankles, on wrists.

So tender, the flesh.

They are much more cozy than I see elsewhere.

They are much more honest, you see…

I leave them off a short while.

To make a sandwich.  To use the loo.  To make chump change.

But know I must put them back on again.

Because freedom isn’t frolicking aimless as a loon.

Freedom is trusting the sincerity of our chains.

Knowingly, locked.