Bad To Be Glad, But Only Parapsychologically So. (See?)

 
 
 
Dark confuses light  
                                  diffusing into gelatinous  
pieces of organic matter.  
                                   Maybe these colors don't belong together.  
Maybe, truth be known, is a mere  
                                     state of deluded ego'mind running for dear life  
across through evergreen and  
                                      permafrost to a loverly string of payment(s)  
for that cherished Flo'da beach  
                                      priority prospects parlayed through Jesus Christ's  
very own, most unique  
                                      vocal vibration.  
 
Each time the clinging ring  
                                       of  our right-to-offset any interfering grin  
is heard, that it's tyme to douse that  
                                       glow that glows it's own Way back to The  
Farm that grows jelly dough  
                                       nuts fresh on a tree, nourished by delta  
waters and a modest stash,  
                                       constantly renewed, recycled, transparent  
to it's own false echo,  
                                       soft, yet clear. We will smoke it as efficiently  
                             as The Law Allows.  
 
 
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