In a Motel East of Memphis ​

In a Motel East of Memphis
They’re all the same.
The motel rooms.

Same print of a pastel
landscape, faded with age.
Same drapes. Same desk.
Same chair. Same sheets.

Same smell of jizz...
or loneliness. Same movies:
Twister
or soft porn.
Both suck. Same shit to read:
the Bible or a phonebook.
Both mean calling upon
a name that won’t answer.

Same loud neighbors.
Same bed creaks.

And now, how many lovers
are doing that very thing?
And how many poets
are out there writing?

Are they not the same?
The lovers. The poets.
Both laid bare through the art
of uninhibited creation.

Don’t they both give
of themselves?
Don’t they both take
from the other?

And don’t they both
spill the same honest
seeds in the process?

How thin it all seems—
the walls,
this paper,
these words:
the very fibers of being.