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.