Poetry by Jack M. Freedman

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​Game-Set-Match

Love came to me, proof was on the bottle and that was all
I was 15 and got drunk for the first time in a tool shed
Now that I am in my 30s, it no longer serves as a fond memory
My first drink was a 40 oz Budweiser consumed without struggle
Saying deuces to sobriety, reality didn't matter
Drinking 5 shots of tequila in one sitting and no hangover incurred seemed like an advantage
A game of Kings once left me without footing, unloading urine underneath the university underpass
Set myself up for failure when I nearly met my match in front of a train

Lobbing back and forth between moods and asylums
Smashing through backhanded compliments and condescension
Acing the final exam of hiding my habit beforehand
Volleying any sense of responsibility or fault
Rage ensuing when I was out of booze
Caught in the net of inebriation
Until the racket ended in my brain
And the ball came back into my court
Appreciating the beauty of grass
The stability of asphalt
And the regression of pleasantries derived from burying hands in clay





​Broken (The World May Never Know)

Transitions through time have made hearts harder, darker, and frail. One may never know when circumstances are unbeknown to he whose heart has not budged toward a sense of compassion. He wants to share, but doesn't know how. He is broken. He is a man who never was in combat, but felt like an army of one (as a whole and not part of a unit). One may never know when the soul next to him on a train is one who has a damaged heart. The bystander may never understand that the pain they share is similar.

Areas can be congested sometimes. It is the type of congestion this man may only wish upon noses caring about his information without giving a shit about him. Some hear screams in the middle of an otherwise tranquil night. Sometimes they are screams only he senses: a lost relative, a lost friend, or a way back to security when a blanket is replaced by a gun. He may never know if it will ever be used or know the purpose of even owning one. He may never know if a bullet can replace a damaged valve and potentially attach itself to a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Sometimes blood lines need transfusions. He needs a sign that he is not alone. He needs a potential to let go of grief. He desires to cry on a shoulder that is not attached to a highway. Sometimes stories are morose. Sometimes stories are a morass. One may never give a damn about a temporary glance. A light needs to be borrowed, whether it burns a cigarette or brightens an outlook. He may never quit his addictions. He may never abandon the habits until the day he dies. He may never realize he metaphorically died years ago.

Some may never know if the person next to him attends mass and needs more than a handshake. He could see it as a superficial gesture and would never think to share his true nature when clammy skin encases mammoths of mediocrity. The desire for happiness in his world in some senses is a dream in which cracks are inflicted on the metal pipe rather than through the esophagus. Like the pipe, he is fragile. He is a loner who hates being alone. But truth be told, some streets need attention. Some avenues of conversation are valued more than gold. Some boulevards are difficult to maneuver and sometimes a fender feels like a fist.

He has hesitated to reach out under the guise of never knowing the sense of sadness he might convey. He fears his heart may get arrested, as sometimes we face a crime when the heart is neglected. Sometimes, the crime is punishable by death. He wants his heart to stay open without needing a scalpel or clamps. The exact same pain threshold is exceeded and proverbial morphine through veins is the only fix.

I may never know. You may never know. He may never know. She may never know. It may never know. We may never know. They may never know. Who the fuck knows? Knowing why is half of the battle. Knowing how a broken man can heal is different. He can be fixed, but the cracks in his soul are still visible. They will always remain and in this respect, he is not alone. Lonely people need to find one another. Perhaps they too experience excruciating anathemas and perhaps one of them is the person sitting next to him and perhaps the entire fucking population of a given train is like blood scattering within a cardiac membrane and perhaps the line between the aorta and the jugular has been derailed. We suffer in silence, only to realize sooner rather than later that the feeling of loneliness is something we will always know. When the world eventually ends, the documentation of loneliness will outlive the roaches. At least the roaches know how to form a community.

Bio: Jack M. Freedman is a poet and spoken word artist from Staten island, NY. He penned three chapbooks: Never Lick the Spoon, Tobias, and Art Therapy 101. In the US, his poetry was previously published in New York, Massachusetts, Texas, Oregon, Vermont, and Florida. Abroad, his work was published in France, Canada, and the UK.http://www.facebook.com/jackmfreedman

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