Freedom, declares the philosophe,
tossing his square cap aloft,
is by nature undefinable,
a journey with no destination,
a place rising under your own weight,
futile revolt against the specter of fate –
as you well know, unhappy poet,
from your struggles with words,
the verb occurring where it must
despite your subversive thrust,
meaning marshalled in columns
on the parade ground of syntax.
Servility of the laureate,
paid to glorify quixote
while venerating panza;
else the levity of psychosis,
tosser of lurid salads,
gone after a single stanza.
Charged with fresh water
the pipe stands ready,
liberty haze (a choice strain
for sattiva fanciers)
already cut on the breadboard,
match box on the coffee table –
but tonight, apart from coffee
and red wine, I shall go without
stimuli, allowing pent verse
to carry me where it might,
the lines forming like a flight
of geese heading south
towards warmer climes,
the leader changing places
with the laggard one;
risking vertigo I crane
my neck to see how easily
birds inscribe a skywide vee.