in a moment of childish insurrection,
i folded a coin in half.
using the godly, hulking, still-sitting vice,
i placed the quarter into its cold palms
with each turn of the rod,
the coin bent.
it rotated, the crushing iron force,
the vice had no emotion, only strength
the coin warped, fighting, a steel bone structure
pushing up against the silent jaws.
i kept turning, changing that reflection of george washington
into an irregular, uneven, foul little thing.
it had lost its value, the quarter
going from the 'almost half a dollar' state
a strange, bent, dismembered corpse
a serial ******, with the body sent to the state
this coin, bent. it had no value
a few cents in nickel or copper, (at most)
but it didn't have any value before;
before it lost its sole purpose,
its existence taken in (george washington's) its eye.
other than the fact that we gave it what it held important
its 'purpose', its 'value'
so much for that
nihilistic (unlike critical theory) abt a coin i crushed. true story, ooh gory, too boring