The Last

We ask what might necessarily be the last,
What last beer and last paranoia will paint
The Canvas Boulavards, who shall roll?
Toll: I have come to economics.

To ask if money is not a funciton of the soul,
Rather what stole me from factory death.
No Williams or Whitman could write in Bangledesh.
Art is porportional to money,
Units of power,
Will-reality, socio-mediators
That have risen from castles,
The alchemsits gold,
Federal Reserve madam,
Fort Knox,
Sit on the face of America,
That smelly old Sam.

Where is earth, that oiled planet?
Whose shit became moss, became fossil,
Fossil man,
Klu Klux Klan
Uncle Sam
Kansas City Acid.
Are such utterances trite?
New York Times trite,
Once in a while
Right.

Wrong,
That song
That bong
That line
That shirks responsibility,
Californians and Avacados
Beome conscious
Of will geared toward home.