Skip to content

 Do what you love, they said. The money

will follow, they said. They didn’t say what

the money should follow, or who. Poor money, lost

money: money must have been so much confuse!

One money, twice, eleven monies, four: money trying

to keep it together, ragged flock of non-native stragglers,

lollygaggers, each losing their buddy, special follow-time

friend. Money talks, but not like I do. Poor monies, mute

ESL-speaking lost souls. Do what you love and the money

will follow. Until it gets distracted, follows somebody else!

Until love doubles back, shrugs money off its trail. Money

follows love like good money after bad. Bad money!

Mad money, bad habits, dying hard. Do what you love,

they said, but what if what you love is watching Die Hard

for the dozenth time? When maybe you can’t sleep?

Look at poor Bruce Willis’s poor bloody feet: pause

it there, make popcorn with nutritional yeast,

talk about how there must be some sneakers

somewhere in that building. But no. Alas! There wasn’t

any time. No time for shoes? Baby needs a new pair

of shoes; mama don’t work for free, Sandra says. Time

is money, they said, and you are profligate, spendthrift,

a lazy-ass wastrel, leaning in doorways, on bars, leaning back

on Wright’s hammock, again and again. Again. Lolling,

lollygagging, shrugging when they I know you must be

very busy, grinning when they sigh how busy they are.

Busy! Not so much! Because you do you, baby; keep

doing what you love: nothing. Nothing that is not there

and the nothing that is oh, nothing. Nothing much.