Because let’s face it: Free Range Just Tastes Better. You know you want it.
Poetry deserves to be free. Words, like information, like porn, want to run free across the flat grassy prairie of your mind and cluck as they did in the old days, when chickens were scrawny and dinner was a tasty adventure. Words don’t believe in supermarkets, in pre-wrapped bacon or the easy availability of a dozen exotic fruits. Free Range Poetry doesn’t need steroids to bulk up, and it doesn’t get antibiotics. It’s not antiseptic, and it’s not all nice. Recipes for chicken used to start with “kill and feather a chicken.”
If you can’t bear the thought of killing it yourself, you probably shouldn’t eat it.
And you’re probably in the wrong place.
Because Free Range Poetry isn’t about microwaved bubblegum that’s nice to people and easy to swallow. It’s about being alive, and sometimes about what came before that and what happens afterward – but mostly about what you’re doing here, how you’re doing it, and with whom. Or to whom. It’s about hunger, not just that “zest for life” that you hear commercials for, but the deep hungers that motivate people to get up and do things.
Free Range. What have you done today?
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