I will call this what it is: nonsense.
You have no concept of money, she remarked.
It doesn't grow on trees or fall from heaven.
It's hourly wage, the fruit of hard work.

Mission accomplished, machine fixed, I thought,
Until movement drew my eye to the bill
In the photocopy output tray.
I picked it up and examined it closely.
Along the left-profiled face of Ninus
There ran a thin fissure, top to bottom.
I now trained my attention on the portrait.
Was this the nucleus of a banknote,
The dark place where its genetics reside,
The yolk in which its ancestors are clumped?
I looked closer and Ninus grew larger
And then dissolved into pixels and dots.
Now the face by which his peers perceived him
Had been replaced by mobs of dancing motes
And these motes quivered, stirred, milled around,
And staggered about, colliding like drunks.
Can they, one asks, rearrange themselves?
But this is the market, as seen from above,
Positioned, guided by an unseen hand
Into the best of all possible worlds,
The one most economical to run,
Singularity, the tail-engorged worm,
Golden age goose egg risk-free bond,
Mankind's mass-produced hand-made keepsake,
Jack's magical motion bean machine.
And I'd observed this very dance before
Performed with greater skill upon a pin.
I crossed my eyes to get an overview
And Ninus reappeared, but now doubled,
His fissure grown, with left parting from right.
Before I knew just what I beheld
I was holding two identical banknotes.
This, I surmised, myself newly neutered,
Was that asexual reproduction
With which, by some unhappy happenstance,
Luckless protozoa must make do.
It's that sorry state without blind dates,
The timeless sight that draws a lone voyeur
And realigns his wide, astonished mouth.
And this fission, I knew, once ignited,
Would never stop, never reach full growth
Until it crossed beyond the bottom line,
Until its food, the universe itself,
Was eaten, broken down, turned to profit,
And stashed in bodily tissues as fat.

But this account doesn't quite ring true.
What I'm hearing here, this deed you did,
Was just sabotage, said Marguerite.

That charge I will most certainly deny.
But I can't pretend, as things turned out,
That I took away no satisfaction
At doing my part to bring about flood.
This is part of prophetic follow-through,
What God looks for in jobs well-done.
If doom doesn't come you help it along.
Threats without force will carry no weight.
If Nineveh won't yield you soak the place
So that, gone soft, it flops down and sobs.

[Lacuna in text]

I quickly walked back up the hallway
And addressed again the receptionist.
I have a job interview with the King.
My name is Jonah, son of Amitay,
God bathe me in glory, drench me with peace.

She looked up the hall toward the machine.

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