HOLY FREEDOM

\

In the midst of chopping onions 

and digging unnameable parts 

out of the chicken carcass, before

I'm almost late getting them to soccer practice

I scribble words - words that come from nowhere 

or from some mysterious

somewhere. Words that ask, no - demand 

to be written down

they are here in the shower as I reach dripping 

for my notebook, here

in the wanting kitchen when he 

tells me about his day. Here 

when I should be 

focused on driving 

rather than taking dictation 

I am a drunk driver swerving 

from too many
words, words that tumble

and spill and ask, no - beg

to be heard. 

Thankyouthankyouthankyou
I say to God
or whatever it is
that sends them

I pull over the first chance I get 
so that I don't become one of 
those people who kills
while intoxicated and write dizzily

urgently - I don't care 

that my hands smell like raw chicken, even this 
is a metaphor 
for something. I'm sure. After
they all come out
I exhale

saying out loud to the wind

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.

*Photo of me in Taos, New Mexico (where my writing journey really began).  Photo taken by Kevin Moul