Your Acceptance Letter


You have been accepted
(ignore the tricks that tell you otherwise)
into a creative collective,
with no editors, word counts, guidelines,
meetings, buy-lines, or minutes not your own.
You always were;
I’m reminding you.

I have no authority, title, or position,
and therefore every right,
to issue this invitation,
to dance with me in public domains,
cut capers in the commons,
as a bard of broken copyrights,
to carry poems through fire-walls, safely,
proving some things can’t be bought or sold.

This is your acceptance letter,
for an unscripted speaking role,
on a hidden, cosmic stage:
a part that otherwise
would not be played.
An unimperial message,
from just another expectant peasant growing too old
in waiting for imaginary kings.

Turning instead to unsolicited sendings,
protocols of street performing
without even a hat
to collect the coins
that no one has.

You have been accepted
for a limitless term at
a jobless, classless university,
where the market can’t be cornered,
because outside of markets,
there are no corners.

This is your acceptance letter,
the one that grants you
the fundamental right
to write endlessly
without any grants or funding
on all the surfaces you can find.

To scrawl letters without forms,
forming living lines instead of dead,
to post and post the unpostponed:
Folded paper, balanced stones,
whatever is your thing;
I’m listening, I am here.

This is your letter of acceptance,
for every page
you can’t be stopped from publishing,
shared with an unsecret society,
wanting only
to whistle softly in the dark,
saying yes to everything as art,
rejecting all rejections,
dismissing all dismissals,
listing lists, ranks, submissions, rules,
among damaging, diminishing, unnecessary constructions.

You’ve been given the chance
to stop watching television,
to battle monsters more worthwhile,
to not be fooled by gate-keepers, goblins,
or false accountings.

You’ve been awarded,
along with everyone else,
a lifetime supply of life and time.

These words are yours
to copy, change, evolve, or carry,
to set to noise or music,
annotate, illustrate,
or simply to spill as they do into silence,
to leave them
as you found them,

I hereby place the above poem in the public domain (Ecological Humanist, September 23rd, 2013).


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