A Beat Poet Attends the Super Bowl

I hit the road like a wandering mind,

sun on vinyl highway,

heart plugged to the rhythm of asphalt,

seeking the big spectacle in the desert of winter Sundays,

where legends and commercials bloom into holy madness.

Super Bowl LX?

Super Bowl LX!

Not a number but an incantation,

a neon oracle that whispers,

6:30 p.m. ET

at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara,

where the Patriots and Seahawks

dance the ancient dance of pigskin destiny.

I see the tassels of antennas rising like prophets,

fans in jerseys like sacred robes,

each face a drumbeat, each chant a verse

in the great American liturgy.

Oh, I have come for the kickoff,

for the sacred coin toss and the crowd roar,

for the hallelujah of Bad Bunny’s halftime soul

echoing across the Bay,

music spilling like jazz over a gridiron groove.

The highway hums beneath my Converse shoes,

civilization flickering in taillights and fuel signs,

each billboard a stanza in the poem of America—

and I, barefoot pilgrim of the Super Sunday,

drink in the energy like a holy elixir.

I wander the fan experience like a monk on peyote,

touch the foam fingers, kiss the nachos—

there’s a sizzle in the air you can taste,

like heat lightning in the nodes of your brain.

We are all here for the glory,

for the sparkle of helmets under cold California sky,

for the chant of crowds colliding as one voice—

the collective heartbeat of the hopeful,

the restless, the seekers and the sold-out.

Football is a trance, brother,

a sermon in motion,

and I stand in the aisles of Levi’s Stadium

feeling that ancient drumming in the distance—

a strange beat of leather and applause,

as if Kerouac and Kolffner had once intoned,

Go forth, wanderer, into the holy huddle.

Go forth and chant the sacred chant:

First Down! First Down!

And when that pigskin spirals,

when the crowd roars like a tidal mantra,

I laugh into the wide-eyed cosmos—

for I have seen the great game played at its throne,

and it was beautiful and loud and utterly Beat.