“Money had no name, of course. And if it did have a name, it would no longer be money. What gave money its true meaning was its dark-night namelessness, its breath-taking interchangeability (Haruki Murakami, The Wind-up Bird Chronicle)

 

There is no traffic, when it comes to

the sheaf of paper, orange, red, violet

green, blue.

One arrives as another leaves

The same is true of copper, and silver, and nickel,

perfectly round, dead heroes

emblazoned on them.

 

They interchange, with

one another, with fried chicken, or a Blackberry,

or an escort service, or a pair of socks.

a continuous flow –

unbridled unlike the usual traffic in the

metro’s busiest streets.

 

The absence of traffic makes one

pay no attention.

Pass them on, to the cashier,

to the minimum wage worker, to the

Yosi vendor, to the business partner

in coat and tie

to manong driver.

They have value, some worth,

but no names.

 

In perfect, smooth circulation,

someone pays, someone takes her change.

Names, they don’t have them.

One works to find them, and find

ways to spend them.

Usually swifter than when they

were earned.

The seeming harmonious flow of

nameless objects, central to everyday

Economics of eating, commuting,

dressing up, shopping, living.

 

Coming and going, naturally,

From one palm to another.

Precisely, the namelessness of

money.

The absence of traffic.

The smoothness of circulation.

 

There are no names, nor traffic

Only feigned smoothness

And an overarching pathway

Where the flow of what I earn

And what you can spend

is owned by someone –

who has a name.

 

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