Back behind the ten steps 
and a door of rotting pine.
Within a chromium zip lock
with drawn and quartered blinds.

Beneath red sockets draining
to a face of graying ash. 
Sits the last son of the sixties 
toking on some hash. 

It's not a love of past tradition
or a burning for his youth. 
It's just the only way he knows 
to keep away the truth. 

The sit ins and the love ins 
the parties on the lawn. 
The smell of burning draft cards 
like John Lennon have all gone. 

And acid popping Captain Trips 
has vanished with his times. 
The dead no longer grateful 
the years a passing crime. 

The last son sits confused 
everything has changed but him. 
Televisions in color now 
his room is always dim. 

He could laugh in sheer frustration 
or rage but what's the point. 
So he just picks out the twigs and seeds
and rolls another joint. 

He's the last son, no relations 
a man within himself. 
His life as such is in a jar 
he keeps up on the shelf.

He lives alone a hermit
behind white picket stones
within the woodstock cemetary
he smokes his pot in bones

cosmic debris