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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

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