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?

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

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.

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.