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  • Money was tidy, and money got clean.

    Money was happy, and money got mean.

    Money was quiet and then money got noisy and money got new, and new money was very noisy, indeed. The more noise it made, the less real it seemed.

    Money needed a home, and homes were called banks and banks were tidy and quiet and brick and soapstone and sandstone, and pink rhyolite.

    Then money got greedy and money wanted a home more plush. More plush, more lush, more bank-y, inside.

    And the people wanted homes like the bank money had, and the people emulated without even knowing it, the banks themselves. That happiness came from more living space and a face like a facade of marble, a Botoxed house.

    And the banks went down and they did it on the sneak, and they presented that all-good front and the people did agree, but they were dying inside.

    The green was greedy and the word green was a lie. And copper and silver and nickel and penny and peso and dinar and Euro, they did collide, collude, intrude, interrupt, inter the souls, the dreams, the economic ride.

    And down came the coyotes to the urban burgs. The coyotes became more common than mercy and mercy money and a human compassionate hide.

    The land had a concussion, the bank had a bad fall, the coyotes are on the rooftops, the people are breathing inside the cartons and crates.

    And all the kingdom's horses and all the kingdom's men cannot put the hump zombie coyote banks back together, again.

    (photo by Susan, at Rhyolite ghost town, Nevada, of the former Cook Bank.)
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