Bradbury Makes Pulp into Paper

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!

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