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.
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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.
Whenever
I am here
I am freedom’s
many son.
I am open
and aware
now
of my choice.
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?
With
an
ear
to
the
ground
these
words
seem
futile,
consciousness
bludgeoned
by
the
American’s
perversion
of
freedom.
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.