I’m in the back of the ‘71 Toyota Hilux, she’s sputtering up a muddy road, we are sweating, all 21 of us crammed together in compressed open air body odor. The chicken has just escaped the brown withered hands of the woman across from me, as she desperately clutches six other cluckers. We are doing about 20 going uphill, the chicken is on the metal edge about to jump to certain freedom and probably certain death. Por favor, ayuda! She calls out. I’m her last chance. I haven’t held a bird since I was six when my parents bought me a parakeet that I named Tweety (yes, highly original), but I don’t hesitate, lunge out to grab the poor bird by the neck. One motion, quick swing, and before the bird knows it, she is back with the others. The woman shares a toothless grin with me, her gringo hero of the moment.
This is every day in Honduras. If I don’t get a ride, I walk, I sing Jimmy Cliff to myself, I wait at crossroads, I throw rocks, I eat peanut butter, I walk, I sweat, I get picked up, I work for my ride, move wood, move rocks, move tiles, rides aren’t always free, but I’m free. No one is forcing me to do any of this. I have a vague schedule checking up on public health volunteers. Sometimes I show up in the middle of the night, soaked from thunderstorms, not a soul ever knows where I am, not even me. My bed is on my back, a Go Kot, I can assemble it in 4 minutes, can sleep anywhere, and do, on floors, in sheds, with fleas, near dogs, under farting people in hammocks, all true. By the end of summer, I’ve lost twenty pounds, light, agile, free.
Tag: Freedom
Welcome to Freedom
Thinking About The Suburbs
just read bukowski’s poem hello, how are you? he deftly takes down suburbia, little green lawns, little homes, like the beat writers, everyone loves to hate the suburbs, this has become a truism for some, make fun of the burbs, but my question is: post-world war 2, what should have happened instead? cram hundreds of thousands of returning veterans back into cities, stack floors up to the sky, no grass, just concrete? or should they have joined some sort of back to land movement? corporal jackson returning from iwo jima can enjoy 10 acres in bartlett, nebraska (population 176 in 1940) 3 hours away from omaha? no, suburbs seemed inevitable, near enough to urban areas for work, close enough to golf courses for leisure, artists are against the sameness of suburbs, but conformity is baked into all cultures, that is how they have survived, but just because i’m typing on a macbook pro, doesn’t mean that i can’t write whatever i want to.
Free Bird
Conform
just do what i do
five words in a line
just do what i do
be like all the rest
it is just so easy
to lose that inner voice
four words in a line
do not do that
Artificial Intelligence
evolution, acorn becomes
the tree, caterpillar a
butterfly, soar into future
skies, on screens with
robotic machines choosing
videos that emerge to
distract us away from
here, the present day
always leaving the
past behind, and perhaps
this should be
until we finally
become like drawings
in the cave
look how those
humans used to be
so simple and so free
now we are all
just technology
Covid’s Harem
i chew mint gum
behind my mask at
whole foods, walk by the
organic cherries, putting
their shiny bulbs into
the cart
our eyes dart out
looking at one another, we’ve
gotten used to this
toothless, lipless existence
as if we are helplessly in
covid’s harem, all of us
unhappy wives
plucking up frozen pizzas
following aisle arrows
in the direction away
from looming sickness
that saturates everything
with its statistics and
endless news of how this
will continue unabated
but still we eat the
sweet cherries, hoping
to one day be free
Vanderbilt Rain
Freedom During Quarantine
these evenings I stay up
late, just to see what has
accumulated during quarantine
days, overabundant family
time, the same dog walks
over and over, this darkened
hour is the only quiet space
without Zoom, or TikTok,
Netflix, or email invading
every minute, here I am
again, pretending to write
poems, freedom disguised
as ink words on a page
Butterfly Effect
we used to race caterpillars
up old oak trees, caterpillar
jockeys we were, holding our
sticks, prodding the slow
legged insects to move skyward
sometimes they listened to us
yelling their new names
come on Stripey, faster Laser
tickling bark, up they went or
they’d stop, no telling how it would
end, because the bell always rang
recess done, but they’d keep
climbing higher and higher, or
we imagined they did, ignoring
grammar, staring out windows
gazing to the tallest branches
baby butterflies, blue sky
Daniel W. Polk 