Some people want a house in the suburbs
down the culdesac next to the place
where they lost their virginity
behind the gas station
where their older brother bought them booze

Some people want a trailer in the desert
with low humidity

I want a marble palace in the mountains of Ecuador
With my own private art museum
And a family so proud they open a gift shop

Fault.
This is your fault.
Your lines shoot through
the fissures that grew
with all the chances you blew
that still you do
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
To halt.

You could have stopped this.
You had the momentum.
You had the will.
You could have stopped this.
When did you comply?
When did you fall still?
You could have stopped this.
When did you stop shaking with rage?
When did you take your sleeping pill?
You could have stopped this.
Now it’s just your kids
that have to foot the bill.

Quake.
You felt the quake.
The movement you started
that you left unguarded
became distorted
yet you harden
Settling
Settling
Settling
to take.

Die.
It’s time for you to die.
Leave us to clean up your mess
We have a disaster to address
It’s too late halt the process
But we are
trying
trying
trying
to survive.

#1
Dad slugs snowy rocks
Cold anger breaking the ice
“Who wants some ice cream?”

#2
Uncle John is gone
They marched him into the woods
Another secret kept

#3
Still waters run deep
Especially for Timmy
Strip mines need good fences

#4
Ten to life up north
A catered room with a view
Statutory rape

#5
An old mining town
Filled with pin oaks and brown deer
Burning from below

#6
Scores of old nanas
Stuffing cabbage in church halls
Food for the needy

#7
A fun fair with rides
With food, fun and families
That carnie is drunk

#8
Fresh maple syrup
Tapped into old groves of trees
Corn syrup’s cheaper

#9
Pennsylvania
Two cities with hicks between
Still not Ohio

#10
Steam trains to nowhere
Winding through old brick houses
All factories gone

Siddhartha, my brother of a different mother,
Nirvana’s road is paved with your sole intention.
Your ideas are conceived to strike like lightning,
Flashes of fruition that force isolation.

Siddhartha, you locked me up in a far cloister.
A cell built to foster my love’s abstention.
To teach me detachment through holy internment
You bade me choose love or face annihilation

Siddhartha, what did Janapada do to you?
She was my royal wife and my heart’s true attention
You made me compare her to your hand picked devas.
Who’d make any mortal seem rather simian.

Siddhartha, I was better off as a donkey
Chewing sweet hay rather than enduring transcendence
You brought me salvation through forced isolation
And left me bereft of my souls’ occupation.

Find your mountain if you want your tale told.
Climb toward the luminescence past the peak
Then your sunsets will be woven with gold.

Beware the ballads that are bought and sold.
Set fire to pianos whose keys do not speak,
“Find your mountain if you want your tale told.”

Do not tarry in the taverns of old.
Spurn their juniper spirits that leave you weak
then your sunsets will be woven with gold.

Resist cinnamon’s scent for her soft hold
will delay you while your instinct wants to shriek,
“Find your mountain if you want your tale told!”

Steel your mettle with your heart’s own code
by lifting your character beyond critique
then your sunsets will be woven with gold.

The great myths do not belong to the meek
But to heroes who thine own self shall seek.
Find your mountain if you want your tale told
then your sunsets will be woven with gold!