tender sweat

or so it felt,
the grime changed
in hand, a
serious
of meaningless
exchanges,
the waste men 
marker  on a
Six PM bus
seat.   

and he was beside me,
trim, young, with eyes
bleached like a map
of frenzied funeral carriages,
talking about the Illuminati
and writing on money.

"This is the way you get them."
"If you write on money,
and everyone wants money,
no one can ignore what you write."

and wouldn't that be so nice;
the fetid green paper,
not unlike some odiferous
toxic dump made slim,
excrement in our pockets,
that it would communicate.

"How long have I been with you that you have learned nothing?"