Born a lunatic to disillusioned, semi-sweet folktale farmers,
I grew up among the swaying pine giants
Kicking up clouds of dust,
Hunting for fairies between the ferns,
Catching glimpses of rats running in the back alley,
In one ear and out the other.
I learned to listen to Carhartt-clad monks when they appear,
Stepping out of clouds, the closest my hometown gets to the Buddha's lips.
Listen to paint-stained priests when they share their sermons on walking the world.
I'm talking to you, everybody lean in.
Bicycle wheels spin mud, spin a flurry of tall tales where and when the sidewalk ends,
Draw treasure maps in the dust,
Draw sweet water from the well.
Winter storm warnings answer the phone,
Summer downpours hang your hopes up to dry.
We were dizzy and drunk on the milky way every night,
Taking shelter in wet grass and crackling campfires.
Warned of witchcraft and the devil's black shadow,
I ran full speed ahead into their fiery arms,
Spun moonlight into thread, and wove whispered tales from the silver coils.
Deeper we sank, into the muddied lake,
Terrifying the fish and terrified by green slimy nightmarish tendrils yanking at our toes.
In time I realized, this land does not belong to us or our pencil scratches.
I never found the legend I was looking for until the door was ripped from its hinges.
My house was not built for an anxiety-twisted ghost to feel at home.
Who would choose to settle down in a stacked grid of bones?
Lobbing this shovel into the air,
I'm giving it a break.
I'm quitting my day life.
We're creating our own culture, building our own stairway to heaven.
The time to trek is upon us.
The curtain is rising.