The same, it's the same

Chutes and Ladders // 1904 Artwalk

Blue ribbon swirling, sweating,
Stowed by a broke millennial,
awarded to the hands of creative energy.

“Free-B-R! It’s free PBR!”

Creation warms, beckons,
calls me to his side to thank me silently
with jagged black agate eyes.

“I need you to sing to me.”

The world is humming,
I am humming at the feet of the ancients,
unspooling lengths of yarn.

I am humming
into a Samsung smart phone
at 4 in the morning with the spins coming for me
while you play guitar.

What can’t we do?
Where can’t we spend our energy?

Idle hands and all
so we keep ourselves so busy,
generously generating.

A man is whatever room he is in
but every room we enter becomes eternal and whole;
the center of sacred profanity.

“No one has written about me,” 
he says, to the girl with words to spare,
as he paints yellow birds into his hair.

I file away that sentence for future use. You think no one’s written about you?
Bard of academic disregard, mountain man in flatlands,
I know what you mean but I laugh at you anyway.
My notebooks have something else to say.

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