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