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

The Blood of the Morning

the pool deepened under me
as the sun
fractured the water
into dark depths of filmy
rakish shadows

I saw gleaming
to the edge of dawn
the blood of the morning
splitting the sky in two
and the water slipped
up my neck and into my mouth

clear coldness crept
shivering fingers
to the outline of my bones
and little ripples
waved around me
with my name slowly ebbing away

I shook my legs heavy
splashed my face
frigid to the rays
of golden headed raptures
down the all too clear skies
to the droplets glistening
in my floating nest of dark hair

silence
all mine
to tree lined shores

not a whisper
to corrupt
a break in the tidal flow
of purple star fish
and chirping shatter bird
high above the cliffs
and far from clattering
pebbled beaches

the waves reached
and flung their little rounded bodies
back
and I could hear the sound
as if a hundred little stone fingers
scrapping the sandy floor

only watered downed wood
will know my passing
a gentle slipping
through the water
my languid eyes open
to a polished depths

where they are
acrobats
of bug catchers
with glistening rainbow scales in the new day sun
flung to the heavens
like an arcing glitter to velvet dappled wings

and when skin is a fleshed pink
to the violet hue
of lapping
with tongue and gentle limb
though fluid in touch
and sliding between waves

I will find that rocky shore
with barest of foot
and nakedest of skin
dripping
a blushing shade of
my innocence
to the tilting sentience of emerald trees
akin to this my pastoral place of home
soaked with water-smoothed body and bone
in the long sandy line of the crystaled shimmering dawn

The Thickening Wood

I ran through wet tree branches
and felt the recoiling sting shock me
back to my own disheveled mind.

With little droplets of sap in my hair
and deep red welts blooming on my skin
I ran, feet pounding against the needled floor.

I ran, even as the rain pelted me pink
against the dark green hands
reaching for me.

I ran, sloshed through the creek,
upon smooth coloured pebbles worn flat
and perfect for skipping.

I ran through tall grass, with the alfalfa in bloom,
scraping at my thighs;
little purple flowers caught up in my dress.

I ran and startled big black birds to air
a great rush of wings
past my ears, all frightened.

I slid down the hill once dust
now turned to mud in the rain,
splashing up my knees with wet dirt.

I pounded down the road, a muddy rut,
my breath coming in rattling gasps,
my legs aching fire sinking into the damp ground.

At the end of the trail,
I dove back into the thickening wood
as the sticker bushes clung to me, pulling me from my path.

The canopy closed over my head,
lushed green deepening the further I fled
into those flats of wild roses and bull pines stretching for the sky.

The black berries brambled in my way
and ripped at my skin with swaying thorns;
sweet juice staining the souls of my feet black; berries crushed under foot.

I ran, not once looking behind me but frantically sprinting faster;
I outran my slicked thoughts of you to the crumbling river bank,
and when I got there I dove straight in and let the flood waters pull me away.

A Rust Coloured Season

when our skin met in the summer
you let your jitters get the best of you
laughing nervously in my ear

but your hands rested on my hips
as you followed my swaying rump
up the stairs
to a room that only existed outside
under a canopy of green needles
and sun dappled cheeks

I spent those summer nights
sitting nakedly on my deck
uncaring about my spying neighbors
drawing on my pipe
watching the smoke swirl into dim images
in the moonlight

I watched the deep green ivies creeping up the wall
listened to the little tippy tapping of the water
down smooth rocks
letting myself drift back to that white beach
watching the sun touch your skin with a deep brown
as I lay in the sand
and cursed the silence

the surf took my heart
and sent it to sea
on a boat built of drift wood
and floating seaweed
it is still drifting out there
bobbing up and down with the fishing birds
sitting on the tide
diving after
little fish swarming around the rocks
looking to nibble at your pink toes

our skin shining in the dripping wetness
as we stood on the beach and watched the sun set
listened to the waves lap at our souls
someone had to say something
but the words did not come
the silence grew up
and covered over my mouth
my tongue
wanting to gently touch your lips
stuck firmly inside my head
and sealed with the heat

the ocean called my name
as the moon rose
told me to go home
where I could dream of your arms
your trembling lips
your velvet skin under my fingers
in a haze of gentle drugs
and creativity set lose
on an unsuspecting world

Fire on the Mount

and the preachers preached

'the world;
she is ending.
See there,
fire in the trees, in the trees;
Fire.
Revelation.
God.
God's tongue.
Christ off the cross and looking to hammer some nails.'

bright orange flames licked the sky
off bough and branch
black smoke choked and chimed
and whirled into the horizon
like fingers reaching for the blotted out sun.
Son of God.
God's fingers.
Son of God, hair all fire.
A crown of burning thorns.

and the preachers sang

father are they coming for us?
do I hear angel's horns
or the sirens of ancient fire trucks?
Maybe salvation in the water
drowning in the river,
Baptize me in the name of nails,
Fire jump!
Fire jump the fire break,
Drop your gear and run, boy
drop your gear and run.

and the preachers cringe

they are burning knaves on the wooded edge
they are burning
and we are running
out running ash
falling from grace
falling from the fence line
and grace called our name
screamed
Fire!
Fire!
Look now,
Fire in my hands
in my eyes
all fire
Christ, but did it sting
tears streaming down my face
evaporating in the heated air
sand to glass and my feet bled
howling behind me
all flame with my name on its lips
Fiery lips with my name
my name
Firestorm
my name

standing in the pond
I saw them running
Preachers
hair on fire
God's wrath tasting their backs
nail in my hands
nails in my palms
soot painted on my eyelids

and the flames said
'I am Fire
and you are Wood.
I am the tongue of God.'

the sound deafened and flew over us
the world now orange
licking
underwater I saw it all
and know the name
inscribed on the sky
until the end of days
the black tracts of land
my home
my home now
in
Fire.

Christ,
just
say my name
and burn.

Drowning Days

You have that slow-drowning feeling to you.
I can feel your fingers around my ankles,
and you are pulling me down under perfectly calm blue-green waters.
Wrapping yourself around me like seaweed;
A slow wet hug squeezing the air out of my lungs.

You can breathe down here.
You can open your mouth and let the water flood in.
You live on the tiny microbes filling your belly.
Feed on their brief lives and snuff them out with your constant hunger.
Your eyes illuminate from the inside out so you can see in the darkest depths.
Your skin has turned to scales in these ebbing tides.

I, however, am drowning in your sweetness.
You are whispering "Ophelia" in my ear;
over and over and over again.
I can feel petticoats growing heavy around me;
these delicate chains of blue flowers twisting in my fingers.
I stare at the too clear sky and feel the water lapping at my cheeks.

"Ophelia... Ophelia...
He is crushing your heart;
pulling you down.
Can you not see his insanity,
bringing you to sandy ocean floors and rocky river bottoms?
Your body will flow over miles of sunken civilizations,
forever immortalized in sailors' hoarse-throated songs.
Ophelia... Ophelia...
You can not breathe water like air, girl..."

These ebbing tides that keep you alive with movement,
will eventually wash my body ashore.
My mouth full of pearls;
My eyes covered over in scales.
Your marshy touch will dress my body in cat-tails and swamp bugs;
Little brightly coloured fish will dart from my heart to my lungs.
Seabirds will nest in my hair in the filmy half light from deep unexplored pools.
I have become the shipwreck of your soul,
And those are pearls in my eyes.

Good night, sweet ladies.
Good night.
Good night.

A Precarious Situation

All the world waits,
humped over in silence.

The purring engine to the polemic mimicry,
of the universe doubts our existence.
We were never here,
and we argue over our importance.

The jungle breathes in the darkness,
caring not if we live or die.
Vegetation does not stop for instances of the mind;
It carries on eating up any rotting tissue in its way.

There is an eroticism to this rotting;
this disintegration of flesh, muscle, bone,
with the wet slipping of slimy bellied rats,
from one shore line to another.

"I did not think so many were undone."

Sitting on the river bank,
watching violet light seep into the ground water,
I ponder our undulations in the foreign lands,
eating up derivative elements of hard tasting candy.

The wind blows my hair to a moving crown,
and I wiggle my toes in the mud.

The jungle breathes;
Waits in silence for the world to end.
Waters lap at the shore of a timeless sea,
where pearls are little more than oceanic pebbles,
drifting into the eyes of dead sailors.

"Look! Those are pearls that were his eyes!"

The world waits;
Watching;
Breathless,
as the towers of ancient civilizations burn on the horizon,
with the shuttering rhythmic cry of over zealous demi-gods,
who undone so many.

The world holds it breath,
and the jungle shivers,
creeping over the long dead assimilations of an industrialized society.
Great machines of war mean nothing,
to the creeping vines,
and skittering beetles of the corpus genus,
who make their homes,
in burned out flesh.

In all of these wasted ironic mutations,
I lie naked,
watching the stars on a river bank,
dressed in the vestiges of a gluttonous race.

Each star winks at me with a pearl-like eye,
telling me the secrets of unused emotions,
vibrating from one existential relapse to another.

Each dead star brings me its light,
as a dim memory of another existence,
in a futile race to arms.

I slowly bury myself in the sexuality of mud,
like a cryogenic frog,
testing the limits of each wriggling limb,
and wait for the world to start all over again.

Heartland

from the coast that bore me
in the womb of green needles
and the dark brown scent of ashen bark
where cedar trees sing
of the wet winds on cold nights
and the lights across the water
call to me from the shore

to the homelands that cradled me
with the warmth of ancient fir trees
praying to clear skies with soft clouds
near the circle of stones
where lichens creep with the slowness of ages
and the echoes of water over rock
sound of far off voices

if I should ever leave this place
I fear that I shall never know peace
that I shall birth no other land
and my hands will never rest
may my soul linger here
forever in the twilights of the West
with these sentinel forests ever living within my dreams

green eyes

my kitten cleans
his paws
and tucks his nose
into his tail

i suspect
that the truth
of worlds
lurk behind those sparkling green eyes