I wonder how checkbooks got their name because I guess when you're writing this promissory note of cash, this ticket of delivery of monies from one account to another, or from one account to cash, there are really a lot of things that need to be checked. Always in some protective sleeve so that it may be easily spotted, so that the checks themselves are closer to a ledger. But as time has gone on in this cursed information age, we find ourselves straying away from checkbooks and gearing ourselves more toward internet transactions like PayPal and Venmo and CashApp. It's the way of these personal financial waters and how they have flowed, first as a trickle, then as a deluge, until now. Money brings comfort, but also perhaps simultaneous aggravation. We can't take the money with us when we die, we can't take the money with us when we die: Over and over and over in my head like a sleepy mantra. Like I'm in a cave and I can hear it echoing sometimes in times of uncertainty, great anxiety, and discomfort. The margins are wide enough to write it or draw a picture or play MASH. Classroom games before the enhanced capability of cell phones. Smooth paper, rectangularly printed account number, save the date, 2nd rate, coffee stained output. Smeared ink, a check voided out. Proof of payment, certificate of deposit, cash on delivery, cash and carry, pickup only, cash out, pickup, take away, take out. Chinese food and Pizza Hut and other indulgences when our bodies where a little purer of spirit. Sea ocean, heavy waves crest upon my hungover body and it's almost as if I am dragged away into some Neverland Peter Pan distance daydream, hung up on phone lines, past conversations where I have spoken both aloud and to myself and to pages that don't even know what's coming. The deluge of those verbal waves coming at you now. Hurricane season when I run out of ink from pens and break pencil points in my sincerity of getting it all down. When I lose my voice looping through talking points and wondering if you truly think if this is our reality. Reliable way of somehow swinging monkey-like from vine to vine, branch to branch, true God from true God, begotten not made. Look how deep this Catholic upbringing runs through my veins and mind and heart and soul. My mom may be against tattoos but these are soul tattoos, "indelible on the hippocampus". Brainwave, Voyager Doctor, check the clock. Buzzer beater three-point score and I know I have done well. Writing it off on my account. Tax deductible watercress salad. Easily fit into the breast pocket this checkbook. Interior designed Brooks Brothers, that pocket square that costs at least $100. I am not carrying the world on my back, I will not carry the world on my back, I should not carry the world on my back: Say over and over again, like some painstaking mantra. Backpocket slips up, slips out. 

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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