he snaps his barbed jaws made of thin sticks— you know
the kind that
SNAP and CRACK ominously underfoot when the woods have grown too
quiet, too calm, for all to be well
teeth gnashing— this the sound of dead leaves skittering against pavement and river rocks at dusk (that time when you need to settle down and get a fire started, but you’re not quite sure of where you are)
              homeless
wandering the woods in search for something he will never find
hysterical, eternally lost his

eyes

are the dim, barely there glow of camp fires that go out too early
fingers the cold that creeps around the base of your sleeping bag and along your neck
cheek bones the sun-bleached sides of mountains
his voice is the unrecognizable call from some animal you cannot identify in the depths of the woods, but not so deep that you cannot imagine it coming towards you. not so deep that the sound doesn’t make your hair stand on end.

his feet are bound with the ghost skins of snakes that lurk under rocks, darting out only when you have one foot precariously balanced on its side.

he travels — howling and yowling like some hell cat out of deep
mountain lore— starved, half crazed, ravenous
fever hot and parched
his mouth a voracious, vacuous, vorpal cave
that leads down into his river stomach— that part of the river you thought was deep, but revealed its true nature with the electric sting of broken legs after jumping.
his howl is the pounding of the wind at your tent
angry hands running broken glass claws against your skin as you walk against it.

he is jealous of those who wonder the wood for he has no true home.
his ribs the skeletons of eerie, too thick mountain laurel trees and the hollow shells of long fallen oaks.
the light of the moon burns his moth-wing skin on nights when the forest is full of her radiance. so he yowls, furious and powerless
rattling and shaking his bones — the dead arms of trees that stretch out over too steep mountains, acid burnt and raw

his name could have been pestilence to the christians
but only the Natives know his name and only whisper it lowly
and on nights when the wind is calm and he cannot hear their summons—
Windigo.

his only purpose is that he has none.
his motivation is endless hunger
that is older than the mountain itself-
or maybe it was born with the mountain…
he in his rabid madness has long forgotten the origin of his emptiness.
he is hungry, and you are in his wood.

It's that **** awake at midnight
Looking to your left and then right until your eyes adjust, drawn to one corner
there it stands.
Tall, grey skin over bone pulled tight as a drum
Still panting through its corn husk lips as if it is trying to keep blood pumping
Its heart removed.
The monster is back to feed.

You're walking home at night, stomach growling again
Turning a bend you run into a wall of a smell
Decomposition, palpable and thick
the Windigo stands under a street lamp bathed in light
Ashen skin nearly translucent, eyes meeting yours, it stares. Dry lips parting
Its teeth are revealed.
Rows of razors with human flesh still clinging to their yellow tinge
The same teeth that bit you years ago
Now its blood runs through you.

Your feet are bare, thick with mud as you run through the woods
Ice spikes the air and your lungs, your legs carry you, thin skin, grey like the day
You're searching.
Looking, pining for the next human you see because maybe when this one meets your mouth and is greeted by your teeth you will feel full.
You will feel complete
That smell of death and hunger will cease to linger around you
But you never find it.

This is the punishment you are handed.
Bones stinking out sorer than a thumb, barely human but still a cannibal, feasting on the flesh of the innocent
Scouring for that one last bite that will satisfy
The one piece of flesh that will make you breath easy and smooth
Hoping and holding out for the person that will fill your belly, curb your appetite
Wanting, Waiting for the pink to come back to your cheeks and the drear to stop its lingering
It stays.
That musky oder still permeates
Your stomach crys out
Your lips remain dry and cracked, all you can taste is the blood running onto your tongue

You are alone at night
Fear doesn't reach you because you are that thing that makes people cringe at in the dark
Teeth gnashing, eyes rolling, hands grabbing, skin peeling
Trying to clutch for the last shred of humanity
Choke it down.
Swallow
only to throw it back up
You will never be full
A spring gone dry
A wheat field molded
Your own eyes sewn shut by your inability to see
And what does it even matter anymore?
The malevolence already surges through your bloodstream
The disease is already infected into your system

So lift your eyes to the peaking sun
Open those desert lips one last time
Not for medicine, for one last cry
And run back to the tribe.

buried behind a wall of complacency
my contentment boils -- steams like pots of cleansing tea-- in the constant cold
pass the peace pipe over the bones of my enemies.
my rebellion is rooted
deep within my veins
                                       {burried under tact and sweet smiles}  but ready to return

the blood of warrior women waiting to return

runs within me- my abilities are their evolution

from the color of my eyes to my tolerance for pain-- rooted

into my skullspinesoul

in a field of dinosaur bones-

only the strong survive the cold

this ever present frost
follows me like the windigo; its return

deep in the decemberjanuaryfebuary ache of my bones
a disease malignant in the
deep r
              u
n
n  
     i
        n
            g
tap-roots of elms-  etched
into
time like
               skeletons in the ice
tested {thawing} with every return
of this ******* season, evolving
from the lifeless bones
of trees to the wings of birds

brittle, but strong;
bundled with love(hate) protecting me from the cold

letting go, but wanting them to
fall back like
cigarette ashes in the wind

this is no place or time in my life for slow acceptance but
I find safety in the muscle bound bones
aware, lying (insomniac), waiting for someone to breathe
life into the marrow.

my love- deep, engrained, rooted
the pulse of human heat keeping me from the cold
will I ever change?

bundled against the cold, the cracking of my bones
is like the creaking of the dead trees i stare up at
with their songs of change
and the end of fears never to thaw out again

I looked into your eyes and knew how easy it would be to **** you.
I plotted its path and then decided how I would end myself afterwords.
I felt nothing.

Sometimes I feel everything.
I cry and scream and curse, gasping for air. Blubbering in fits. Grabbing at my chest trying to feel for a heart.
Most days now I am normal.
My brain is functioning and my numbness is almost all but gone.
On those days I cry.

I looked into your eyes and thought it would be easy to **** you.
Surely then I would see the face of god.
He would come down, flesh out my pale limbs and introduce me to the sun I haven't seen in so long.
Take one look at me in that light, see my claws and teeth, maybe glance into my eyes.
See my fear, not for him, but for what I've become.
What I've transformed myself into.
Take note of the hours it took to shape my brain into this lackluster heap.

Maybe that crimson pool collected near you would drown me,
I would be consumed and swept away, only to emerge, my skin dyed by the parting sea.
Reborn like a Phoenix, not from its own death but from that of anothers.

Maybe my thoughts never did get better.
Maybe my skull is still screaming at the thought of housing my brain.
Something inside it doesn't sit right,
scratching at the edges of my recesses it demands attention.
It knocks and growls. Clacking its teeth until in one instant, it is released.

I looked into your bare soul, naked and clean next to mine.
Its polished exterior in contrast to the soot of my own.
How can you bear to be next to me?
Your clean gaze further sullied mine's black.
***** and bent, grime in its crevices.
The kind of grit I have been picking out by hand my entire life.
Now my fingernails are split, cracked past the quick and caked by filth.

What would you think if you read this?
Would you cry?
Would you back away?
You would probably kiss me,
take the knife out of my grasp,
bleach my hands white,
sew my frayed dress back together,
wash the dirt off my bare feet,
drop me down into the caverns of fitful sleep so that I may not glare at my reflection in silver.

It doesn't matter if it's rusted, it doesn't matter if its broken, it doesn't matter if its clean.
All that matters is your reaction to me, not fear, not disgust.
The simplicity of not wiping away a smudge on a mirror.

Of all the old tales
and folklore alike
vampires , werewolves
and ghouls delight
the one which I fear
even to this day
the witch of the north
Windigo is it's name

The natives hold true
the stories they tell
of the forlorn ghoul
floating through the trees
howling out its warning
to those who will heed
to those who don't
their flesh it will eat

This was the tale told to me
by my good friend Yves
tramping around the northern woods
in the fall of'70
Yves was not a man
to scare easily
he laughed and scoffed
at tales of thing he could not see

My blood it did freeze
on that last October eve
when the wind began to howl
on all hallows eve
the sound seemed to come alive
whipping up the leaves
the only one who showed no fear
was my good friend Yves

We had come up north
to survey the scene
checking into stories
of people missing
the guides we brought
we thought were stout
turned out not to be
all but one,cried aloud
and ran into the trees

Young Gaston and Yves
surveyed the scene
howling wind and  screaming
then the wind died
and silence took hold
Oh how they talked so bold
they cursed at the trees
and taunted the leaves

Breaking the silence
was a keening wail
the fury of which
I still can hardly tell
the sound shook my bones
clear to my knees
it looked like it scared
even Gaston and Yves

I thought I saw
a fleeting mist
flowing through the trees
seeping, creeping
with a growl and a yell
the furies of hell
were unleashed around me
swirling about
a vortex of pain
I never seen
Gaston and Yves again

I searched for a sign
early next day
for what had become
of my friends you would say
all that I found
were bits of cloth
and some teeth
all that remained of
Gaston and Yves

Try as I might
the sight will not leave
my hair is now white
as you can plainly see
if you go to the north woods
you better beware
of the dangers and creatures
that do lurk there