The Legend of Sasquatch
Sasquatch plays in a rockabilly band
and roams the roads at night
in his vintage white leather interior
cherry red Chevy.
The man beast slices down back roads
behind bright yellow moon mimickers,
howling husky lullabies to silver wolves
running alongside him in packs.
Lost and found behind diamond beams/
searching for home/ out on the road,
running one more time from what they’ve seen
Crickets chirp in time from his dash
amongst old maps and lighters,
understanding all too well
a lifestyle in hiding.
On nights when the wolves
stay home with their wives
Sasquatch recites poetry in whispers,
lonesome legends of dotted lines,
frightened doe eyes,
whirs of late night rigs
decked out in bubble lights
and Coca-Cola logos.
Past twilight on his way to the bars
Sasquatch thinks of Mom
and all those times he’s reached out at dusk,
of home in the woods surrounded
by sweet sap and ivy,
of nights off spent hiding in trees,
watching the Fact or Fiction film crews
panic at the sound of their own footsteps.
On nights when the stars glow bright
above vacant country roads,
you can almost hear the Squatch revving his engine,
belting his tunes, heading for home.
If you’re worthy of trust, he’ll let you catch
a glimpse of his leather jacket,
his slicked back pompadour,
and the orange end of his cigarette
burning into the first streaks of dawn.
Writer’s Note: Sasquatch has always fascinated me, especially since I’ve encountered one. I was driving home from the lake one night with a group of friends (I was not drunk or on drugs) and we were driving down the back roads, chatting. We all saw it at the same time – beside a mail box (there were maybe 2 or 3 houses in the area total, it was definitely “in the boonies”) an incredibly hairy creature about seven or eight feet tall loomed out and reached toward my car. I honked the horn because I didn’t know what else to do, and we all started asking each other what in the deuce we just saw. Hence the line – “…reached out at dusk...” Sasquatch? Or a really bored really tall kid playing tricks?
Alcohaul
Airy lies in bubble suits
Stole my source from me.
The glass, the wine, it’s almost time
To dip in the alcohaul sea.
I grab my gear and step in line
To see what I can see.
The cork, the years, those angry tears
Bob bottled in the alcohaul sea.
No buoy floats, no lifeguard swims
As I reach out to her.
She looks away and still today
Floats rocked by the alcohaul bomb.
Rusted Mirrors
Rusted mirrors
are stones polished into funhouses
of smoke and silver
slivers of words
we were never meant to note,
markers on trails heavily rutted
with the lost footprints of those
blindfolded before us.
Yet we forge on,
valiant in our quest
for anything that swears
to soothe our singes,
for something to balm,
unseen waters over the fires
of our veins' burning maps,
synapses, vessels,
iridescent threads that connect us
with the helm of God.
We call to him
from behind the charlatan’s door
because she tells us it works
if we pay her.
So we patiently knock
at her poorly lit back door,
hoping no one sees us,
poor inside our souls
but not inside our wallets.
The Forgotten Carousel
Horses trapped beneath chipped paint
Pose like peonies in a garden
Of gold twirled poles
And circus music.
Their glassy eyes roll
Skyward,
Open-mouthed
In porcelain
Honeycomb prayer
Liberation
In the mind of a man wearing
His favorite pinstripe suit,
He carries fortitude in his briefcase
And passes it forward to Iraqi taxi drivers
And kids splashed by puddles
On streets too busy to notice
Their Rastafarian reflection.
A mother sees and sighs a song
Of palm shaded redemption
From her place between two cracks
On dampened market pavement
Just before grabbing the last
Ripe lime from the stand.
Three states down and to the left
A lady in her mother’s wrinkled polka dot dress
Sips patience on the rocks
From her clapboard porch,
Watching thunderheads build
On an orange horizon.
Tuesday: paint kitchen trim.
Wednesday: hang our laundry.
Friday: write my memoir.
Sunday: open the Book
Health
We understand when thunder hangs heavy,
Weighty as the hearts of the starving,
Riding low like the basket
On a young girl’s arm
Deep in the woods without Off!
Or Grandma
Or any one to hear her comment on the ferns,
The squirrels,
The wolf
Safety
Her voice carries around the world and back
To that carousel west across the country
In glittering California.
The captive horses hear and neigh
Within themselves at her words,
At the sight of the Warrior
Bolting across amber hazel skies,
Charging like seasons through their cracked
And fragile minds,
Sweeping their worlds
Of leaves, of worms, of moss
Wisdom
Dawns on a stormy horizon.
Provision
As dollar bills begin to fall
On the carousel’s beach
Littered with beach glass and abandonment.
Thousands of paper crescents float
From the billowing sky, heads facing upward
As if catching one last glance
At the world that exists beyond yet beside
The one we call our own.
Curved like hammocks, moons,
Question marks,
They follow on the coat tails of gratitude
At the horses’ swollen feet.