Sasquatch Sighting ‘09
Thursday, November 12th, 2009
This is how happy living THAT far away from Hanover will make a man.
In the hopes of escaping the dreadful autumn rat race of Hope, Alaska (population 137) our beloved Sean included Bend, OR with Maui and Las Vegas in his annual Autumn Barbapalooza vacanza of hippie speedballs, adventure sports and satirical American literature. He ate bacon, climbed Terrrebonne’s famed Monkey Face, and called a blind-behind-the-back-bank shot at the bar pool table in front of a gaggle of gapers.
One afternoon, between thermi of French press and his third tobacco-heavy "persie," Squatch managed to channel his inner sexual zen and use our pre-9/11 magnetic poetry to leave a lyrical musing on the Mackay/Bacon fridge.
wet fat farts whisper below
buzz chirp flow regret
stop
liquid? lie sacrifice
embrace the hot rainbow with thundering silence
like an lighting owl without a window
reach search blow dusk storm
corduroy soft
velvet despair blooms for eternity
and
as the old sparrow leaves streaming color
joy & spring die within her
he jumps
her soft silent eyes farm tears
as the slow hot breeze float as fragrant sorrow
deep dark color
surrounding us like islands in ocean
or a
pond around a tadpole
how why
&
east west
ice clouds of rain appear above her love
she reveals her heart
no air horizon reflection or livelihood
crickets cry with
every man
I almost never create a stir
sigh
Just like Kingsford Road in 10th grade.
When I returned from work, where I had made 4 gallons of blue cheese dressing from scratch with my bare hands, Sean recited his art over cocktails, much like the ones you see above. Mitch giggled and I rubbed my face, happy to once again share in a moment with our hairy, untamed friend, a rare sighting in the Lower 48.
