Under oaks I pick roses
always getting the short end
of the stem. I suppose It's
clever these clovers aren't
four leafed, or my luck would
be underoath before I could
pluck the buttons from white
clouds wearing genes; bare feet
reaching toward blue skies.
It's imposed in my mayhem,
concealed to show the worth
that backwoods will still speak
to the mystics and talk back
in splintered words with no
concern for the atrocity split
across foreign countries.
I turned stones into Marijuana
and sent it to five thousand
starving children in Ghana.
Only a quarter of the world was
attentive when I bagged black magic
to make a River out of Styx.
I was taught by trees to intercede
with boondock prophets
treading logs untill it was said
I could walk on fire.
The saints were all marching
in stride, when the rope came
to tie their hopeless stains to the
train tracks; waiting to collide
with the messiah as self-
sacrifice came steam-rolling in...
Such a sight for suicide to pay
back it's debtor. We higher free
men to mason each red desire.
Praying in acoustics, these
grown folk lure sin to use us.
But we chagrin and bare it all
cause we're drugged on miracles.