There is a whole in the sky, it chips
slowly away, crumbling
piece by piece onto our skin.

There’s poison in the soil, it drips
from above, spreading
like smoke in the wind.

There is a ceiling being built, it reflects
the gamma rays that keep tumbling,
from ground to sky to ground again.

But someday soon its all going to change,
when we can’t afford the gas
to run our cars trucks and vans, when we run
out of coal, oil and gold
to buy some other lands.

Uncle Sam says it’ll work itself out,
looking down from his pulpit on the hill,
if we just embrace our glorious past
we can make this country great ( hey, I’m with you man,

Hemp for Victory, lets win the great war again),
we’ll just find us a new country to exploit,
rape pillage and burn. He’s putting his Lincolns
on Manifest Destiny, not the strength

of a weed that already taken root, running
across the land from Memphis to East Boise
and fulfilling the green promise:
Walk alone to the mountain,

walk across the Indian passage ground, ancient
as the dying land, give your life back
like a viper in the pines of Montana
and fields of Tennessee.
Heaven
is where you plant it
with your hands in the dirt
or raised to your lip:
Peace

in a backyard
or abandoned plot
of land, stripped of life
and crying to live again.