Money

He says I could have money. But money is like an out of control skateboard. Falling over in patches. Slamming on my fingers. He says to eat enough plastic bags. Or else some ghost will steal my computer. Chatting with soft jackets in a pile. Sick with a feeling of leather. I told him… Tonight, I have enough hair to fall asleep. I could see moonlight, if feathers could laugh. Give me money, I’m tired. He says I could have money. With coins and wishes too. He says money is weird like that. Like a rambling frog on a bog. He has money. Not in his pockets, or bank account. Just give him the magic pencil. Just give it to him. Just give it to him. My car drove without me in it. I hate having money. I hate it. Just give him the money. I don’t remember having money. So I reach into my pocket. There’s a little blood, not much. I can’t remember who has the money. A heist going back and forth. Money is weird like that. We started with one thousand dollars each. I have his money. So he follows me.