Too many people stomping around—
fractured herds mucking the rivers,
killing the grass.
They think they know when they don’t.
They rode lame in a hot race and wept when their HellCat lost.
Now they cry from twit-faces in their concrete castles filled with Eisenhower plastic,
drowning their DTs in anger
and lamenting that their cultivated habits didn’t make them rich.
Money for the populace is the reason Owners obsess over property and selfhood.
They muck the rivers,
kill the grass,
and count their dollars made of starvation, suicide, failure, death—
Dusty professors moan that I speak Ginsberg—
a tragedy as big as the smallest positive real number,
while the world riots to muck the rivers…
eating the life from their own butchered bodies
and lamenting that their cultivated habits still don’t make them rich.