Currency

Losing is my winning edge let me explain how the time I waste the cage I choose to bound my body is bait and bounty loss the promise of beauty the kernel of care the mother echoing in the bones of a poem

Money speaks in a little voice metallic, metronome, minimalist. It counts beads fingered by pensioners makes the yogurt bowl vibrate with tears. Sometimes it gains a mocking click a tiny laughter rippling on empty dish. Appetite? scarcity. We cantankerously acquire dirt. Paltry petrodollars leaked relief to Caribbean basins on the brink. Swap tricks parade—cesium sands an anonymity addressed in coded. Facing this endless inconsistency: bullet holes in banknotes. I think of the phrase of Baudelaire— "the real has begun at last" and yes: this moment of stopping where everything turns to liquid.