They tell scary stories about fake werewolves
because they don’t want you to know about the real kind.
They want you to be frightened
of their nature and their name.
They don’t want you to go looking for them
in willow groves and abandoned factories,
in refugee camps and ghost ships,
and on the inside of your own skin.
They don’t want you to meet
their wild eyes which can’t read billboards,
or their wild ears in which pundits sound like parrots,
or their wild minds which don’t understand your excuses.
They don’t want you learning how to take off your skin
and leaving it in a McDonald’s dumpster in the dead of night
and walking away on four legs from all this nonsense forever.
They tried to kill them all off long ago
using superstitious weapons and hateful hands
because people kept drinking their tree potions
and forgetting all about sacraments and sin.
But the werewolves hid in the shadows
and at the bottoms of ponds
and in the wombs of deaf mothers
and behind the eyes of the occasional mischievous nun.
And they are with us still,
riding horse angels and eating forbidden fruits,
tipping dharmic dominos only they understand,
and laughing in living castles in cool defiance of the liars.
You may meet one someday,
passing unexpected in a convenience store aisle,
perched atop a telephone pole at 3AM,
in the mirror of a depressing public restroom,
or in the recesses of your mind that you rarely approach,
and you should not be afraid.
The werewolf is you,
hidden under your false clothing,
being looked at by your false eyes
and feared by your false mind.
for the first time in your life,
and come howl with us.