whoever is a professional, i am your enemy: a confessional

walden freeman

not gifted
but ribbon-wrapped
alongside each streetsign
gambling fortunes away
colder than a wall
with one coat
i've painted skin
blue, with your blood
and continued breathing
under six hundred oceans of stars
next to blinking bright lampposts
on ten trillion boulevards
i am learning native language
textbook terrorism
at my finest, i bring knives
to nuclear wars
and drive my bulletproof car
with the windows down
and a blindfold on