In the pewless church of San Juan Chula，

    a Neocatholic Tzozil Indian

    wrings a chicken's neck. Through pi？oned air，

    stars from tourist flashbulbs flame， reflecting

    in the reddened eyes， in the mirrors

    statuary cling to， inside their plate-

    glass boxes. A mother fills a shot-

    glass with fire. Others offer up moon-

    shine swelling in goat bladders， the slender

    throats of coke bottles， as if gods too thirsted

    for the real thing. The slightest angle

    of a satellite dish sends me to Florida，

    where the sleepless claim the stars talk

    too much. They stumble to their own

    worn Virgin Mary whose eyes， they swear，

    bleed. Florida： rising with its dead，

    even as it sinks into the glade.

    Meanwhile， a coast away， the heavenly gait

    of Bigfoot in the famous Super-8，

    voiced over with a cyrptozoologist

    who's all but laughed at the zipper-lined torso.

    Bigfoot trails out of California

    into my living room， a miracle

    in the muddled middle ground of the event

    horizon， in the swell between each seismic wave

    where time carries itself like Bigfoot： heavy，

    awkward， a touch too real to be real.

    And the miracle cleaners make everything

    disappear into faintly floral scents.

    Miracle-starved， out of sleep or the lack of it.

    I keep watching， not to see Bigfoot

    but to be Bigfoot， trapse through grainy screens，

    and the countless watching eyes， the brilliant

    nebulae bleeding. Yeti， pray

    you come again， you Sasquatch. Video

    our world for your religions. Memorize

    all these pleasure bulbs， these satellites，

    our eyes， our stars. Look： how we turn

    each other on tonight， one at a time.