A Curse
by thomas p. hunterson
So we speak, so it is cursed.
By the rusted nails of greed,
by the hollow laughter of bankers’ gods,
we bind this scheme.
May every blueprint curl like burnt paper,
every profit projection sink in mud,
every marketing slogan choke on its own gloss.
Let the survey stakes inspire blight,
let the bulldozers dream of rust,
let the ground remember it is older than ownership.
We invoke the saints of red-taped permits,
the trickster spirits of zoning bylaws,
the phantom accountants who misplace decimal points.
May financing falter,
both clients and grapes sour,
and public opinion hiss like wind through broken windows.
Thus the land shall remain what it is:
a stubborn altar of earth and sky,
a place where a vineyard cannot take root,
and where any who try will know only loss.
So we speak, so it is cursed.
