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by Richard Stevenson

You know I ain’t no Andean Condor.
The biggest badass bird you know
has a wing span of twelve feet max.
I’m bigger. Big as a Piper Cub airplane.

You say no bird can lift more than its weight.
Yet here I am, carting off a fifty pounder —
a faun you’ll discover, mutilated, in the hills.
I’ve grabbed a few of yer own kids to boot.

Still you refuse to believe yer eyes.
Native legends, you say. Balderdash.
Yet I’ve brought down planes and left
blood and feathers in the wreckage.

Let me break it down for you. I ain’t
from Texas or anywhere south of yer
booze- or pill-fuelled imagination, dude.
Though I like to cruise those latitudes.

I’m passin’ through yer space/time
co-ordinates, babe, but I ain’t slip-slidin’
through any alien wormhole waterslide either.
Einstein had it right: we’re talkin’ multiverses.

You live in a 4-D universe. Ain’t willin’
to accept an onion skin layer can be peeled
off, or that any cryptid critter can be a skin walker
or wanderer. I once existed in yer time. Died off —

or so you choose to believe. But what if
spacetime is curved, one layer wraps
around yer reality, can turn it inside out?
Oh, my God! Scream and shout! The sky is falling!

That’s o.k. I get it. Some god is colourin’
outside the lines! Yer box has only got
256 colours, and there’s only one of him.
Pretty anthropomorphic of you, Holmes.

Big Bird, Piasa, Kongamoto and I
are flyin’ past yer pia mater, babe.
Might have to take a closer look at the limits
of yer chromosomes. Even a dog hears more than you.

Listen up. The sky ain’t fallin’, dude.
It’s just foldin’ like the creases in a tablecloth.
There are more elements and spaces between
the sub-atomic charms and quarks you know.

Sorry to split yer pop stand, babe,
but even a thunderbird gets hungry
for a little adventure and fast food.
Later, ’gator. Catch you on the flip side.

Copyright © 2018 by Richard Stevenson

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