Michael Boughn

Lost in the Woods

i.

Lost in the Woods is a symptom

of immaculate intent caught

in quagmire’s etymological

dispersion into late 16th century,

first use 1579, stunning if you

stop and wonder how do they

know that, it’s just a far off sound

Chaucer’s air ybroken in Time’s

river roar, but then recorded

brings it down to this stuff, scratch,

scratch, click, click noise of fix’s

longing for the sound, no quag

allowed, though you can no more escape

quags than fly to the—we used to say moon,

but that’s out now as some corporate

Entity is flying there as we speak,

having plundered this place

to the point of falling apart, there

may not even be a Woods

to get lost in by the time they’re

done with us, now they’ve got

the moon in their sights and she’s

not going to be happy, it’s bad enough

Neil Armstrong left bags of frozen

piss there, one small bag for mankind,

that old male marker staining her beauty,

now they plan to bring in machines

rip her open, dig into her body

with drills and claws, rape her

while the earth watches that lust

for gold (and lithium) foul

all human connection to celestial orbs

and their spirits while rendering

the Woods, her demesne after all,

Private Property properly posted

Stay Out and cinched with a tall fence

ii.

for Joe Napora

Lost in the Woods is a symptom

of disorientation thinks soul

is given when it has to be earned, you

have to learn to hear the stones’

morning song roused with the warmth

of first light the crows rise to, black

cloud ruckus, joy cacophony stones

can’t match at those frequencies

still, lithodomous buzzes with familiar

fit, home sweet home, star light’s port

in morning’s mystery, if we knew anything

we wouldn’t be here, Jack said, where

do you come from being a question

unheard in all the noise we take

for furniture, meubles Olson said,

someone left us in familiar arrangement

holds us in position reminiscent

of pretzels which we take for

the Perilous Path having forgotten

how to listen to the stones’ song

Eglinton at 5

It’s never through with you, never

done with the deaths original

to your own figurations

of happy trails or another

stroll through the garden

of shattered hearts, pieces

crunching under relentless

reflections on the nature

of metaphysics. Examined

traffic patterns yield

crusading misprisions in place

of flows when deflect

enters the picture. When the picture

enters deflect confusions

confound patterns claim

to assigned seat. The light

changes and no one moves

because distant incursions

of injected greed breeds

entropic fixations normal

stasis and no one really wants

to get there knowing pensioned

conclusions offer little hope

beyond brief visits to distant

unapproachable worlds

of bad teeth, crushed goats

writhing in dust, and another

beautiful day in the light

stolen from time at a cost

calculable only in utter

disregard for what passes

for decency, a concept ripped

from pages of unique

literary merit. Repeated adjectival

superlatives ring bells

in alien belfries rousing objections

anticipated well before approaches

to various ramps announce

impassable blockades of jammed

up steel and rubber founding economies

of pain and routine passages

through unthought habits against blank

skies of late February. Food

and roof wander into labyrinth’s

multitude of reasons and become

stone. Not stoned, which would reopen

negotiations with traffic patterns

toward possible, what? entropic

fibrillations or analogical

eruptions into parking lots across

GTA, little gestures of love oozing

into front seats with hot pizza

after game’s folderol? Sheer unlikeliness

of the sky caught up in rivers

of red lights, silent and still

over stabilized motion interruptions

stretching into fields of grief

for unrecognized iron fortune’s

rendition of almost there if it

weren’t for the damned traffic

announcements leave it likely, in fact

newsworthy for broadcasts

across temporal grid interstices

every night at six while economies

quiver thinking of arrangements

opening, beginning to move

into the night, shifting constellations

flowing toward another long day.

Global warming vs. Texas

Where belief stumbles is faced

in technocracies of abundant

density holed up in innumerable

brains where it weighs down

lighter elements with ponderous

observations and largely concealed

weapons designed to equalize

any errant discriminations

democracy has failed to render

into products worthy of weekly

attention and extreme acts of attenuated

credit. Tenuous atmospheres

leave vision fixated in singular

messes, lone stars burning brightly

over parched stretches of desiccated

ground where half a billion trees

take a right to the kisser

floors them for the count, the rest

left staggering while Texas, dancing

back and forth over skewed limbs

announces its intention

to execute all remaining evasions

of self-administered lobotomy

procedures to protect and preserve

legitimate archonic aspects

yielding molecular rearrangements

of visionary materials into shop

windows lavishly outfitted

with genuine imitations

of identical jackets or boots

designed to generate real

outbursts of lollapalooza

shit kicking and other enthusiastic

patriotisms. It’s a hell

of a country and no indications

to the contrary can produce

vision beyond super-sized

satisfaction’s gaudy projections

of temperature controlled four hour

erections stabilizing the drive

home. The drive home doesn’t like

global warming either, but it doesn’t

hit it. It does complain

about the weather which Texas

finds subversive. The Alamo

then shows up, confused about its

contextual significance, but always

game for a slugfest with whoever

is around. Remembering it

is not it, and perhaps that’s why

global warming is laid out amid

limbs of all those forgotten

trees. Remembering leads

to sudden ejaculations of manhood

the sticky kind spontaneously

remembering correctly positioned

Last Stands and other tableaus of pumped

up vacuity hungry for a fight

with anything moves with great

affection. After all, oceans do rise

from time to time and need to be slapped

down just to show them who’s boss

around here. Around here quavers at thought

of more feats of engineering prowess

extending into its flows and quietly

leaves through the back door taking

global warming with her

into dank alley’s storied egress.

The War on the Car

War and car don’t rhyme

though you’d never know it

by looking. Having formed

every square and passage to its

wheels, asphalt and cement sock

sewn tight, imposed angular

bound vision into knotted

contortions leave limbs

wrenched, dislocated, cramped

shadows of known reach, each inch

twisted out of vehicular

contractions of morphogenetic

plenitude into rigor of its

intersections, each one timed out

of squared seconds stacked laterally

across expanses of imagination’s

former self, dark formulations

of encounter rising from ashes

of place, declarations of war ring

with sardonic amplifications

of victorious erasure’s contempt

for the loser who looks first

right, then left (except in England’s

green pastures) and steps

into it. Sometimes it’s a river

of asphalt. When the shape

of water is lost, the war enters

a new phase, waxing gibbous

in pedestrians’ minds and the dreams

of commuters waiting

for the light to change. Ghosts

of entire forests wail but war

is already beside the point since world

that ended remains without adequate

ventilation leaving this one with its

lavender and lilac floating on what

can only be considered a very subtle

inflection with little credibility

beyond fading claims of necessity

and undulations of blue to fend

for itself with no chance of sure

footing. Hephaestus may step

out of the truck, squat and blunt,

dip the key in oil and fire the ignition,

but who sees him and where can you go

when the nets drop in badly rhymed

imitations of real streets, impassable

idea of rush, a declension of free way

as it plays out in sluggish rivers of red

in the night, stalled light. Meanwhile,

the war returns when hordes of cycles

descend on the city out of the north

an important sign of further

origins than the regular

ones. The cars, taken by surprise,

roll back before two-wheeled bell

ringing berserker onslaught.

Regrouping at Holts, they emit

an impassable wall of carbon

monoxide lays waste to every

living thing around, leaving marauding

cycles down and scattered across endless

asphalt sweep. Cars win the war

driving back and forth over mangled frames,

twisted tires, honking and squealing

their all-weather Michelins. A national

Automobile Appreciation Day is declared

and everyone has an extra fill-up on the Mayor

before resuming their place in line