You mean Armand's eprom, for slot machines.
I didn't know that then, Marguerite.
I knew only that the two looked the same,
So I pried the one out of its socket,
And, one-handed, stuck the other in.
I replaced the panel and looked around,
Looking for something easy to copy.
Then I remembered my wad of banknotes.
I smoothed a crumpled fifty down on the glass,
And clamped down the lid, and hit the button.
But nothing happened, no copy was made.
Of course not, parrot, said Marguerite.
You can't do that, and even I know
That eproms are not interchangeable
Simply on the basis of like appearance.
Just because two things fit together
Doesn't they're meant for one another.
But under the sheets all nature is one,
All things connect and fit into place
For ecstatic dance-masters, mystagogues,
Love-sotted bards and soft-spoken saints
Whose overenlarged hearts will only beat
For anal intercourse with cornered sheep.
I beg your pardon? replied Marguerite.
You reckon without my fish-given gift.
The idea just popped up, entire,
Fully formed, springing out of nowhere,
And I enacted it without further thought.
I gently but firmly addressed the machine:
How much time is left to change your ways?
September, month nine, hath thirty days,
And thirty days hath the Ninevites yet
For Godhead's terms are thirty days net.
The machine recoiled like a wounded seal,
Roared outrage at unexpected pain.
Under the clamped lid a light flashed twice,
Cylinders rolled, and a crisp new fifty
Briskly dropped into the collection tray.
But counterfeiting is a serious crime,
Said Marguerite. And you could go to prison
If anyone ever observed your deed.
Alchemy, Marguerite, is not a crime.
Here in Nineveh all law is designed
To safeguard and maintain the craft,
To regulate its work and keep it pure,
To keep making money a praise to God
And not the destitute profanation
We've seen elsewhere, in Egypt or in Tyre.
We're idolators, yes, to worship gold,
But singleminded, but monophysites.
It matters not the shape your idol wears,
Mammon, Caesar, Yahweh or Aaron's calf,
It matters only it be made of pure gold.
And there is no gold without the Art,
Either that long one that nature does
Or that briefer one that humans perform,
To hasten creation of value from dross.
Such an endeavour yields no counterfeit;
The gold it makes is authentic stuff.
Even the most acerbic test assayed
Can't distinguish a manufactured gold
From gold that God has matured underground,
Made from mud with lavished revelations
Until purified and consubstantial
With his own incandescent, molten core.
All matter, whatever its current stage,
Neither speaks nor conceals its truth,
Only signifies its final intent.
All creation, its every particle,
From seven heavens stacked up in levels
Down to the dust motes that hang midair,
Is polarized, pointed toward the Lord.
And we see only the world's hindquarters
As it turns, bends, tips in genuflection.
We see only the dark side of the moon;
The face, sun-gladdened, is turned inward.
This is praise, glorification itself,
And nothing raises praise, extols the Lord,
And sacrifices self to the greater mass
Like good, old-fashioned loot, like cash.
And it can get self-congratulatory,
It's true, from time to time, place to place,
But never false to its own guiding light.
Money is always true, never betrays,
Always follows paths to greater power,
Always serves the master who calls its name.
The feast, the bread and wine, may gladden life,
But money answers all, the Preacher said.
This is the clearest, the greatest of signs
That makes God manifest to mankind,
The divine tithe that ties all together.
If you've failed to take the payment proffered,
You've rejected communion, flesh as loaf,
Multiplied two to the aleph null,
Duplicated, doubled and redoubled,
Transubstantiated by little yeasts.
Call it fake or counterfeit if you like,
I call it a manifestation of God,
A revelation of the hidden treasure.
Liber Jonae Contents