I found Him at dusk aside the railroad bank:
A little green lizard perched atop of Him,
that seemingly assumed invisibility
on taking notice of me.
He was in the form of a fallen tree
lying stark naked in anguished repose
I could sense Him calling out to me.
I carted Him away to give Him dignity.
Two days later appeared a lizard on my steps;
lying watchfully, intently studying me,
it was, I was sure, the same as before
and then again, it assumed invisibility.
Since then that lizard is nowhere to be found,
as its master yearns southward bound—
awaiting nightfall, it would seem,
compelled to stalk for eternity.
Could He be the Jersey Devil
whom I aroused so fortunately?
to be reincarnated for all to see?
Or some alien on behalf of my senility.
Oh, for a pen, paper, and flask of brandy,
to be inspired by Him so to meditate,
to rekindle memories or dream anew,
I could write and compose for eternity.
But I care not whether false or true
for such are for me alone and not for you
in no way intended for posterity;
but rather, for my audacity.
Where to buy in print
Murder, Werewolves, and Ghosts
by Phil Cross
Three weird short stories: featuring,in the first, the owner of an auto parts junkyard; in the second, immigrants of Romanian descent; and in the third, the inhabitants of a crawl space.
Grandma Was a Bag Lady
by Phil Cross
A pet supplies traveling saleswoman, aged twenty-eight, picks up a seventy year old woman hitchhiker on the Interstate. They adopt each other as surrogate grandmother and granddaughter, traveling about the southwest, engaging in one adventure after another in which the old woman is not hesitant to use the .25 caliber pistol strapped to her thigh.
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