prophet on a burning shore

Except for a few sips off the apple pie shine  
I have only had Mondays fifth of whiskey  
and am finishing it on Saturday. These are  
the breathe easy days with ethanol. About to move  
to our Camelot, Northern California, next week.  
 
Arthur's been talking to mama plant  
and she needs to see me  
something along the lines  
of my ass needs to keep promises  
that I made a decade ago  
 
and I know it  
but didn't sense her open reception  
from the beat down by her brothers  
who rucked green off of horns  
into the porridge from which reality's made.  
 
This is the day that the dream came true  
while I was sleeping. The journal next to the bed  
must have worked. Been battling the semantics of karma  
too much to notice, but I cannot dispute the wind stinks  
of the sticky westerly, when the most subtle goddess  
plants spiraled fern sprouts, into my opened listening