Down yonder, where at night, chain-toads get their spinal cords yanked out and turned into hangman knots for skeleton bracelets and the rape ghost ride around on bicycles and everyone leaves rotten sandwiches on they porches so as to shoo’em away… down here, late into the night bad things happen that don’t have a name, down here where even the pilfered graves are too afraid to stretch out a yawn of what it is that holds the heart of this place in a grip so frightfully fierce that even fingerprints evaporate into thin air rather than be haunted down by name… down here where the Bible don’t mean shit after a certain time of night… ghost, bandits, devils, hateful imaginations… the animal skins dripping dry out in the woods where rabbits die off from heart attacks and the trees hide their faces away in iced
horror… down here… where money has no power… down in here…

foto/Shelby Lee Adams