December 15, 2021

Pure




9 to 5, 3 to 11, graveyard shift
lunch with the moon and stars

and a few red skeletons 

dead to the world and themselves 

it’s all the same to me

lining up to punch a clock?

where’s any freedom in that rote by note?

I’d rather punch myself in the head

spend the day watching thunderstorms gloom & boom

from the sacred chamber of my room

or be beachside buzzed and listening 

waves crashing, tides coming and going 

or listening to forest- whistle crack howl

may not have much to my name

but I don’t have made-up deadlines to meet

fake camaraderie of the office jungle

working with the stab-in-the-backers

no mortgage to worry about either

just a ‘cozy’ next to a car lot

no car payments, no insurance

I find the odd job here and there

I get enough food to fill my stomach

with a little drink or two on the side

walking past the pines and the oaks

life can be simple

that’s freedom in my dictionary 

I walked away from the one world gone crazy entered another below the s.o.p.

I’ve been above and didn’t like the view

my home is where my feet are 

next to an ocean, mountain, or highway

that’s pure, baby


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