there is no freedom (and I hate the fucking title, but)

Yeah,
There is no freedom.
Not for me at least. 
Bottles of pills, the three for months,
the ones I need and sometimes skip,
in a paper bag from Kaiser crunched up 
in the glove compartment of my pick-up truck. 

Driving from the Sunsets I used to seek
the dog is sitting next to me,
Lucinda and Sharon’s strumming all for me.

Searching for my farm in Nebraska unknown,
where the job awaits 

and my man slow-dances at the bar on Tuesdays.

He forgets my name but not my drink, 
his denim’s stained, his toothpick
soaked, 
looking like he’ll hit you with his eyes, 

that’s when he cries, 

when a strong man dies, 

it’s what his daddy used to say, 

Daddy’s something he likes to say. 

He promises he’s never satisfied, 
promises he’ll fade away, 

it’s what he wants

His only want, 
the power of his certainty, 
the tears on his cowboy cheeks over the stars outside the club, 
the muffled sounds of neon crust his skin with dirt and 
the tilted hat masks his pain. 

He sets the five AM alarm to work it out, 
always working, never thinking, handiwork, 
the medicine of using hands, 
sweating blindly, parched for water so he lights a fag and drinks his milk, 
has a rocking chair that overlooks the oaks
but,
prefers the wooden steps instead, 

The ones that lead him to his farm and to his work where he works to pass the days 
and gaze 
at the nautical sky as the Sun dips beneath the plains behind him, 
in his Nebraska unknown, 
the one I found for him, 
the one that’s far from what he used to know. 

The Tuesday’s rolls around, 
those tumbleweed days into nights, 
slow-dancing at the bar like the ladies we are, 
lassoed and roped from whiskey to groped 
Daddy this and daddy that, 
safeword’s the whispers mother never shared with you 
the secrets of what you are, 
the maps of where you’re going, 
where they wanted you to go, 

And boy
were you going. 

But where you going now? 

The bottle’s running low. 
The other two are shot to hell. 
Too broke to have the farm 
but broke enough for handouts.

The ones that

That keep you in California. 
Bring you back to California. 
Trap you lost in California. 
For that 

crinkled bag, 
the three bottles for months, 

the pills you need but sometimes want to skip. 
Sure to die, but sure to ignore,
to flee with Ruffy in that pick-up truck 
and daydream of slow-dancing at the bar with what you are, 
no, what you wanted, 
knowing what you wanted but you’ll never be. 

Wanted the Nebraska unknown and tumbleweed dreams, 
blackened journal lines, line-dancing too
Something else that’s more for me,

Driving back to L.A.,
prescription filled,
every day and every time,
wanting to be free.