SpectreLand

I keep the horror in my bedside table drawer
turn it on high when I need a blood transfusion
and a bad dream
the hinges scream
wake up the neighbors
they cover their ears
knowing it's happening again
who is that raven haired ghost?
they know I'm haunting the rooms
moving the walls
tossing the furniture
ripping up the floor boards
and in the morning
it will all be back in place
just like no one was ever there
the quiet
will be frightening
stillness
becomes a horror of its own
I own it
parade it around
like a rotting gown
all laced Victorian will
mourning enamel etched into the crowns
little skulls
with grinning faces
a flowing of eyes
drifting in on gossamer mist
the staircase breathes
shifts and creaks
the walls rupture
the yellow paper covering it
runs about the room
in skittering little patterns
around the edge
that woman chases it
never leaves it
I watch her struggle
float to the ceiling
drip blood onto the heads
of craning necks
and tourists
there's a severed limb
in the hallway
it makes a nice decoration
you can plant flowers
in the empty sockets
we got trapped here
when we tried to leave
violence pinned us down
like butterflies
on felt backgrounds
we are the edge
the living fear
and move as vapor
through these timeless scenes
unrelenting in our recollections
always fearful of what we knew
we have no end
we are the reflection
we have no way
even the greatest exorcist
can not clear us out
we are the denizens
of this house
and I know above all else
there is nothing better
on the other side

Born Wrong (Hillbilly)

I was born on the wrong side of the tracks
to the wrong sort of people
in that wrong countryside

our fertile feilds
only housed herds of wild black sheep
turning our souls over
to family absorbed from all points

a big white dog
chained in the front yard
barking at strangers

half a dozen junked trucks
up on the flattened road
the old trailers out back
wild roses enclosing the property

the house full of books
stacked in great big cases up to the ceiling

the tourists stopping to take pictures
on the long back road down to the ferry
asking why anyone would live like this

"but isn't that garden pretty!
oh how quaint!"

us silently pissed at every one of them
breaking the calm hot day
with their gawking
'we live here to get away from you fuckers'
we mumble out loud

an old rich man
looking in the door to say
"oh how cozy!"

to that small cabin
kept warm by my great grandmother's cookstove
and decorated with my grandmother's paintings

the ghost standing at the window
frowning at guests
my mom chasing trigger happy
American hunters from the 400 acres of grasslands and hills

"Can't you fuckin' read the 'NO HUNTING' signs!"

attentive dog close to her heals
letting out a loud bark
warning the bears to stay away

up in our fruit trees
stealing big fat pears
ripping the branches down

"Goddamn it!" my mother yelled
setting the dog on them

they say we were born wrong
no wealth
no health
no city streets
no shopping districts
no fast cars
no big buildings
no theatres
no banks
no convenience stores

only miles upon miles of land
treacherous in its beauty
stretching out to the horizon

the careful wind blowing down the valley
bring the heady scent of alfalfa blooms
and baking grass in the sunlight

only the constant rush of the creek by the house
clear water over coloured worn rocks
with green grass snakes fishing at the edge

fat crickets singing love songs
and orange-bummed bees buzzing
in my mom's catnip bush

we were born all wrong
we live all wrong
at just the right time
in just the right place
on ancestral homestead
down the slopes of this never ending country

curse your cities
curse your highways
curse your speed
and curse your inability to understand

the simple joy of fresh baked bread
and a fire in the camp pit
out back
starring at a million billion stars
stretching on the cusp of forever