The Boulevard of Broken Discourse ($11.95, 140 pp, ISBN: 978-1-60381-136-1), is a book of poems by St. Louis poet Matthew Freeman. Coffeetown published Freeman’s collection, Darkness Never Far, in 2010.
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Critics have high praise for Freeman’s poetry:
“Gritty and real, full of personality (and personalities), urban St. Louis scenery and experience”— J. Gordon, Nightimes.com
“Simultaneously hip, funny, and sad”—Dorothea Grossman, Poet
“A microscope into the world of an extraordinarily talented schizophrenic”—Suzanne Shenkman
Matthew Freeman’s poems explore the difficulty of navigating and making peace with an environment that is both mentally and physically confusing. For many years Matthew struggled with mental illness and his experiences have fed his unique perspective. Thanks to the newest treatments, he is able to give voice to subjects that in the past would have been consigned to silence. His home of St. Louis, Missouri provides the setting for many of his poems and is a constant source of inspiration.
Matthew Freeman discovered he was a poet in high school, at the outset of a tumultuous time that would eventually see him hospitalized and diagnosed with schizophrenia. After he began his recovery, he went on to graduate from Saint Louis University, where he was twice awarded The Montesi Prize for his poems. The Boulevard of Broken Discourse is his fourth published collection. He is Poet in Residence at Adapt, Missouri.
The Boulevard of Broken Discourse is available in Kindle ($4.95) and print editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, and Amazon Japan. Bookstores and libraries can purchase books wholesale through www.coffeetownpress.com or Ingram. Libraries may also contact Follett Library Resources and Midwest Library Services.
TYPICAL
We were riding toward the East Side
me and Hollander and Al—I was sitting
up front between them—Hollander was fuming
but Al was cool (which is another poem—
why Al is always so cool) and I felt that
hatred void coming from Hollander—hey
Hollander, I said, what is it, man, hey,
can you ever forgive me—I don’t think so,
he said, I don’t think I ever can—oh damn,
I was rollicking, what did I do wrong, Hollander—
he turns to me and explains—
you called me “avocado numb nuts!”
“Avocado numb nuts!” Oh, man, we were
just kids, Hollander, we were fucking with each other,
we were busting each other’s chops, and
plus I don’t even know what “avocado numb nuts” means!
Nonetheless, he posits, you called me it. So then
he went back silently fuming and all hope aside
I knew I would never get forgiven—I’d
crossed some symbolic chaotic line, I’d
accidentally given voice (when we were just kids)
to something that dove into the tight structure of reality and exploded—
Hollander would never speak to me again—Al was
cool and hadn’t said a thing—what would become of Al—
he’d go on to buy a mansion—
but this all arrested me terribly and I tell
you that night I was completely
unable to enjoy myself at the strip club.