Bigfoot, Sasquatch, the north-woods rumble
in the latter days to the heavy tread of legends
Creatures clothed in white skins, arctic hare, fox
polar bear. We huddle quiet, terrified, watching
Northern Lights neon up the inky sky where
faint stars twinkle, fires in the eyes of mice
Sargent Preston, King, we call on you!
Burst from the pages of dogeared books
stashed in attics of generations past
crash like a V-2 rocket in their midst
blow them to tatters, stomp them to sludge
We'll honor you with the fat of slain muskrats
you can have our women, unshaved but wanton
since the sad emasculation of the cities
Oh, how the wind blows! How it tears and burns
Tears clink like ice in cocktail glasses
the hair on our legs, freezes to the dead skin
of victims, scattered on the snowy plains
The Shaman in his patched Banana Republics
sleeves replaced by weasel pelts
kneels, breath steaming like a freight train
counts ten, begins the Chant of Summoning
Oh Lord Protect us...
but He will not,
She dips His glowing hand in Gulf Stream waters, watches flying fish
break the gentle swells like silver arrows, watches the setting of the sun
tacks once more to the south, lost in the tradewinds evermore, nevermore
...
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