Freedom is a cupcake

(the one that started it all; the one that keeps it going)

*ahem*

Freedom is a cupcake

Freedom is a cupcake, liberty a bagel, I don’t put up with adults except if they are able. I loathe butter, cringe at bitter herbs, televised blurbs and curds and whey, apple betty and John Getty, obscure reference, like to the screenwriter of Deliverance.

Myopic and despotic, let’s get off this topic, as I waddle hobbled into middle age, subscribe to PermaLase, remove unwanted hair and shake my head free of dandruff. Sniffing at my armpits, popping adolescent zits, I want big fat tips and sticky tack and painted red toenails. Oh there we go, I don’t slow, I don’t show, you don’t own me you know. I say hey you and hi and oh and we can go now. I rake leaves a little while, ‘til it goes out of style; I fight roosters in the barnyard, cocking fists, baring wrists to force the fowl down onto a plateful of noodles: cock-a-doodle-don’t! I won’t, I can’t, I mean I shouldn’t at least, rest in peace, poor beast, man’s feathered friend—please, Elise, go, leave this place and fetch the priest.

Let’s talk shop, about five-beat hip-hop, the dropping of rocks off bridges, and how you slept through college; I’ll blackmail you to mom--admit it son, you set off that bomb. We listen in on CBC, metro morning, Andy B, a clear voice, stern warning, never hoarse, inspiring us to make that choice. I relax, naked, in the tub, aching for a back rub; you shrug, I’m thinking you’re unblinking (it goes without saying that recourse to praying is time we are wasting).

Mop the tiles, shovel the drive, thrive when you have life, a pregnant wife, blessed lack of marital strife. “I never needed anybody” I heard Julian croon; in mid June you clung to me like men on the moon, never knowing my dark side, the far side, the comical aspects shrouded with whisper, going crackers, cashing in his chips—‘crispy lips’ is what they quip. Don’t flip out, I’ve figured it out: you go out, buy socks that match your shoes; remain thin and rake it in while I stay in and sing the blues.

My brother talks conspiracies, irrelevance and theory. I nod, smile; it takes just a while to humour madmen, but it takes all day to greet the postman. Finally arrives, packages cash on delivery, he’s like Garibaldi in Sicily, red shirts and blue movies, chasing skirts, chewing certs to make his breath smell fresh. I realize when I claim my prize: he was wise to my recent trial, my love of boysenberry pies on the Royal Mile, my casual heil, the unicycle fair with rodeo stares and white hot flares, where I tossed half a dozen midgets into a well, wishing for heaven but deserving hell.

When I was in Florence by the Duomo, and Ethiopia where they found Homo sapiens in the lava, like Java man in Indonesia, under my boots were the roots of humanity, archaeological ambrosia. And Formosa is Taiwan, remember, Myanmar is Burma: we change names after a while, giddily hiding our guile; this nomenclature restyling really riles the cartographers, and kids who spend a lifetime learning maps, converting kilometres to miles, knowing Sweden versus Switzerland (home of the Von Trapps).

Typing by the Thames, in London dairy air, licking the milk shake too thick to suck, I gawked at the overtime puck drop, quick and pathetic like a mercy fuck, a dead buck tied up on a pickup truck, knowing big-breasted blondes have most of the luck.

I don’t stay long, meander home, getting to bed before the light goes dead, asking God to bless my friends: Fred and Ted Jennings, Ernie Laurel--the three Irish lemmings I call them. Sunset ends it all every night, so why put up a fight? I sigh, put on my pjs, sewing a knee patch needing mending--I am Zorro with a thimble--ending one more day of thought upon the pale blue dot.