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(cuz ma life iz such a drag...
this **** kin “FAKE” hemp  
pyre aye roll out to you dear reader).

As a double jointed mathematical abbot
and amateur chemist
   specializing in cannabinoids
   my favorite delta-9-tetra
   hydrocannabinol (THC),

   isolated and synthesized in 1964
weeding thru bathroom rag
   while athwart the *****
   i.e. measuring adequate perforated
   square roto root er, sans
   regular toilet tissue paper
   prior to completing important

   private business matter
   on the sacred porcelain chamber ***
Mary Jane made a token appearance,
   and boy she looked smoke kin hot
asking if I wanna marry (Jane) her attired
   in drag at a joint where Billy ****  

   banged on by the hands of
   a phenomenal drummer
   taut as a hemp knot
with music in his blood
   while blowing  fractal rings – holy Scott
the immediate utterance,

   and rather creative bon mot
found me stock still like stone wall Jackson,
   who unfortunately got deprived a hit,
   nonetheless got shot
unwittingly by his own (confederate troops),
   whose demise an awful blot

per southern cause during
   the Civil War and if anachronism
   to receive medicinal aide available
   instead of primitive treatment he got
(as well other wounded soldiers
   of misfortune on the battlefield),

   whose faith the any almighty power
   could do little to save their roach invested lot
yet availing my imagination
   to twist time like that Mobius strip
mortally wounded rebels and Yankees
   free from facing death on a cot
might be successful hemp

   entrepreneurs cultivating a little spot
of land hemp would outstrip cotton
   as king as export to trot
orange you glad I avoided
   the analogy with a kumquat?
Kris Fireheart Feb 2018
In dryest desert
Lay hidden jewels,
The monuments of days gone by,
Beneath the holy
Sands of Time,
Where altars to the Old Gods lie,

I found myself
Without my faith,
And could not pray, for I would die,
When I awoke,
Beneath the palms,
At the temple of the Ceruni.

To see their Gods,
Such power and fear!
For I've felt no presence as I have felt here,
So strong,  so pure,
So rich; Alive!
The Gods have felt so near this night.

I wandered in,
Through sacred gardens,
Which no other man had yet seemed defy,
And came upon her,
Her robes as the snow,
The Goddess of the Ceruni.

She beckoned me
From silvered dome,
Where she was seated,  upon silver throne,
I passed the great hemp
And red poppies which shone,
To lay my eyes upon her.

"O Dear Goddess," did i cry,
"Have the heart to tell me why,
When I have spent my days and nights,
Not quite dead, Yet not alive,
Am I shrouded in your Holy Light? "

She gave no words,
But simply smiled,
I, gripped by silence all the while,
Could find no speech
Nor pause for thought,
As she whispered lessons which one time, were taught.

You may think me mad;
I swear I am not!
I'll point out the towers if we find the spot,
Such silver and gold,
Such wonderful shine!
To be in a place where the Gods would recline.

I've witnessed the spires
Of fallen empires,
So proudly they stand in desert dry!
But I've no recollection,
Upon sudden reflection,
Of where the Holy Temple lies.

But when I die,
O, take me there!
Where hemp and poppy kiss the sky!
And on my slate,
Let them write,
"Here lies the last of the Ceruni!"
I love Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and I've always thought about experimenting with the extremely visual and often ***** tinted Romantic style.  I think it came out pretty well.

— The End —