It is a dead tree
that whispers it
rotting secrets to me
in a cemetery
called the bone orchard.

While lies drip
from the vinegar lips
of tea leaf reading mystics,
those snow globe,
pay as you go
telephone,
spiritualistic
con artists
who feed fear’s
favorite addicts,

I am left laughing
at the bombastic
******* rodents
who need to ***
farther then gone.

Let them lick
the lemons scented
candlestick,
tasting the tiny flame
that burns their mouth.

I plan to ******
the whole flock
of crowing gods,

take those frantic frauds
and make them start wishing
for some real redemption,

cause reading your sun signs
ain’t gonna help you find
true inner peace

and praying to your
man-made gods
won’t make the
white washed
republican Jesus
appear here
before us.