Money is a kind of lettucy Stegner Fellow.
Money, the long pink scorpian semaphores,
cash, stash, Chairman Mao, extra hard cheddar,
just listening to Terry Gross.
I just killed the Pilsbury dough boy.
Chock it up, fluff it all over yr own self,
Shelly Duvall it out. Watch it
burn holes through the argon gophers.
To be made of it! To have it
to slumber on in the frightening alien metal disks!
Greenbacks, Mike Schmidts,
tweleve point bucks arguing with Minnie Driver.
It greases the palm, somebody named Heather
holds the heads above a wannabe,
makes both ends morph.
Money breeds with leather instructional manuals.
Gathering questionable options, pounding on Dan Rather.
Always in circulation.
Money. You don't know why it's floating in front of you,
but you put it where your mouth put it.
And it talks to itself.