“It will flame out, like shining from shook foil…” ~ G.M. Hopkins
Land, as we’ve come to learn, translates into paper:
its measure taken, its ownership assigned, transferable
to another for a price or the mark of a digit dipped
in ink. What is your dream of home? What do you see
at the end of a lane or a mountain road, curtains drawn,
porch posts leaning under the weight of vines? What’s left
when it’s gone? Do the debts disappear too, do they vapor
into the atmosphere along with the ghost of the man
who came knocking before breakfast time? —one hand poised
on his holster, the other waving a list of building materials
and how much they cost. When I close my eyes I can see
neat rows of figures and the IOU: I owe you, obligate you,
obliterate you, obelisk you, ostracize you, oubliette you:
a series of trap doors, channels in coin-sorting machines.
In response to Via Negativa: Money rap.