Con-artist is my name; by the chain of DNA
hanged on old purple willow.
Escaped from freaks
bent, hunched, deformed, and with eyes clouded by tie-dye toxin.
Saved from persecutors, executors, and cops
wielding sharp resolve and shooting gas cans onto your back
leaving scars by which god heals with pills until your
drugged out and brain and memories leak out like crimson rain.
A rain that summons the storms of resolve and bring about
second birth of the dead minors
from a skid road cemetery; here I sing
“Welcome to the surface;
age drawn to close.
The heritics will be deprived
no more
and my soul will be ideally hallowed.”