“Dollar”
Can you smell it? The crips cotton stuffed bill spills its history and past adventures with the truth in both of your nostrils. Smells of food, gas, cigarettes, and more paint the floating image in your mind of the people and places who have left their dog like marker on the face. Bent edges and old creases make the imagination move forward as the glitter, blood, sharpie and other random stains cast a shadow of doubt in whether or not you want touch the face of the president with your exposed epidermis. How can something so small, meaningless, and strangely dirty hold the power of humanity in its grasp. The fragility of homosapiens can be twisted further than the bill I now hold on my loosely gripped palm. The smell and sight of my dollar is immediately replaced with the sense that even more lies on the face than the bill than an old dead white man covered by the puddle water that now pigments his face. Murder. Treachery. Fear. Happiness. Heroism. Healing. Scars. Destruction. This is the true oz like grin of the dollar behind the curtain and the crafted tapestry we have painted over it. So the only real question is, “how much does a dollar really cost?”
My answer.
US.
Ironic.