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"Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose

And nothin' don't mean nothin' if it ain't free –"



That's how the old song goes.  Is it true?  Is it possible to ever reach a point at which there is nothing nothing nothing left to lose?

I remember when Amy & I used to go driving on the outskirts of town, down country roads made of dirt & clay, farms & fields to either side of us – or woods perhaps, huge trees with heavy branches overhanging, gloomy shapes looming out of the dark – for it was nighttime always when we took these drives.  We were young – very young, just big kids really.  And out along the edge of some deserted stretch of country road we'd stop, get out of the car, stand beside some empty field under the stars & get stoned on grass.  Then we'd laugh hysterically over some ridiculous, improbable joke, a joke that struck as funny only because we were stoned; laugh at ourselves more than anything, at our own ridiculous, improbable selves; laugh & laugh until, suddenly, falling silent & having been spooked by the darkness, by the vastness of the nighttime sky & the distance of stars, spooked by shadows & our own superstitious sense of the inescapability of circumstance & fate, we'd scramble back into the car & drive, drive drive drive through the night.

But no matter how far or how long we drove, the road always seemed to lead us back into town.  We used to laugh about this, too:  Morgantown, we said, must be imbued with some inescapable gravitational force:  it would never let us go.  Having driven about for what seemed like half of eternity, we would find the dirt road turning back into blacktop, the houses drawing close; find that we were in fact on a street that was leading us into some town, & "What town is this?" we'd ask.  Then one or the other of us would recognize the street, the houses, & "Oh," we'd say.  "Oh.  It's Morgantown.  Still.  Again."



"Yes, but what's the fear about?" we'd ask each other, Amy & I.  This just before one or the other or both of us was going into work.  For we both felt, even if we'd been working at a job many months, a knot of fear in the pits of our stomachs just before going in.  "What have we got to be afraid of?" We tried to reason it out:  was it a fear of performing our jobs properly?  (But we knew we could.  Our jobs were simple:  she was a waitress, I a dishwasher.)  Dislike of the boss then?  Yes, there was that.  Dislike of having to work at all, of having to sacrifice our time doing something we hated to do?  Yes, there was that.  We were young, & we wanted to be free:  we wanted that more than anything.  We wanted to get into a car & drive & drive & never come back.  But – why this fear?

I know now.  The fear was fear of oppression, & of being trapped.  Of being forced to conform.  Of knowing that our destiny was an inescapable fact, & that what we had was nothing, but our nothing wasn't free.





*                         *                         *




black tears

_____________________


if you came back to town I suppose it's true

I wouldn't want to see you again

but I wanted you to know I still think about you

still remember with what I suppose must be fondness

or maybe it's hope?/you chain-smoking cigarettes & drinking a beer

your leonine eyes heavy with makeup/crying black tears

your long frizzy hair too brittle to touch

because of all the cheap gunk you loaded it with

your mouth drug down at the corners/the sorrow leaking out

& your pills your pills popping valiums & 'ludes

& recounting again for about the one millionth time

your cycle of woes your endless burden of misery

reverberating through the night like a bell toiling to be heard

about your current boyfriend whoever that might be

what he said what you said &/over & over again

whoever he was there was always one thing for certain

he was a jerk an asshole & the thing was it was true

he was he always was they always were you were right

remember that one guy when he stuck a gun in your face

you said you gave him a stare like you just didn't care

though knowing you your mouth was drug down at the corners

even if there was a defiant gleam in your eyes

you told him "go ahead, shoot me" but he didn't of course

except there's no "of course" about it he might have for real

yes he might have & you didn't give a shit too

that's how bad it could get for you

or the guy who gave you chlamydia & said it was you

or the guy whose dick was so small you couldn't feel him inside you

or the one whose dick was so big that fucking him was painful

or the one whose dick was just right whose fuck was so fine

you wore tiny sundresses no panties on so summer afternoons

he could give you a quick one before going to work

the man that you loved the one that got away

the one you could never forgive

for having the perfect dick & for being the biggest prick

of them all



thin & anxious in a small-town way typical small-town girl

chain-smoking cigarettes drinking a beer & popping your pills

I'd be so happy to see you ready to get high on the grass you'd bring

to placate me & it worked too

but by the end of the night I'd be like a deflated balloon

after listening to your cycles of misery again/again & again

too many men too many bad lovers too many drugs too much heartache

two abortions three DUIs dead-end jobs a dead-end life

god girl but you could bring me down/crying black tears

your vanity a perverse form of anxiety/leaking out of your mouth

"am I old?" you'd ask me & then sort of smile "I mean

do I look old?" you'd say & "yes" I would tell you "no really" you'd say

"do I?" & "yes" I would tell you "oh forget it" you'd say "if that's your mood"

me sitting there sagging like a deflated balloon

learning slow how to hate a small-town girl

her depression her fear her subverted pride

the victim who loved me because I was "real"

shit girl I wasn't real I just wanted to get high but you cried black tears

god what a mess the best I could feel was pity for you

but that was enough it was more than you got

from most of the men you knew

you were lost so lost & could never find a way to get found



until I told you to get lost/apparently that helped/you moved to another town

didn't tell no one just packed up your suitcase & drove till you stopped

in some other small town & so I heard got a new boyfriend/made a new life

well I hope it's a good one I hope he's decent to you/but knowing you

as I do I figure he's not & it's true if you ever came back to town

I wouldn't want to see you again/still I'd like you to know

I think of you sometimes & I hope you've found a way

to be happy or if not to be happy then at least to survive

to get through







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