Sasquatch Country is faced
with black basalt, young stands of Lodgepole Pine, lichen-painted
igneous cliffs, and sensuous imagination. Gods
exist as images; thats their reality. Psychic reality.
Fantasy powers. Powers of fantasy. They can be celebrated,
by rituals but they do not exist by virtue of rituals any more
their existence is tied to the mythical narratives about them.
As psychic realities they are present anywhere to the heart of Mount St. Helens's truncated mass fresh in a starched white surplice.
the way up, though
posted along the road.
to drive then walk to the cave's graven mouth. Breath and
mossy rocks evaporate together, snow-melt drips from the
roof. Steps lead down to a maw that immediately
swallows my shallow light.
Retreat and balance
on a higher step. Peering into the Void, cross the Dark Divide
cave, Minotaur's lair,
Colossus's graffitied walls,
Sasquatch's winter den. A young
couple with twin-mantled
lantern run down the steps and
bove again, we clamber
over the hard face of blackening snow, into a field bruised and
burned from when these fractals were last reforged. Here large footprints
impress the earth with the awe of being observed by what's hidden
behind our eyes.