“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
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
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
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.