Most people want to be shiny quarters
Just punched out of the mint
Jingling in cattle-like surety
Marveling at the cleverness of their security.
Stick a pen in their hands
Paper under their digits
And watch the ink make potty
Pooling on the paper like a child
Losing their sobriety.
Its panic plain and simple
See, there is nothing
In George Washington’s head except a wafer
Of lead and the prospect of heated exchange.
I did not want to be a writer.
I wanted to daydream, unzip my head
And play with my brain.
But the future was not going to wait for me
To wake up. It made me break my fingers
And add an inch to each
To find the keys and type the words for
The quarters to see and reach.
They take down a magazine
They take down a book
Open the pages and read the scattered
Verbs and nouns, open mouthed to pronounce
Complete heresies and cryptic conflagrations
A million quarters (if in decimal) from all nations
Spent upon the cleft of soft paperbacks.
I’ll even sign them afterwards!