Lost Poem

So, you’re lost?

Me too.

But don’t get downhearted.

Even nature is lost.

Not the Moon nor Omega

can tell where it is.

Sit down in my shade and relax,

take your breath

but keep watch.

Before long,

we’ll be surrounded by wolves.

Or maybe this time, for a change,

Alsatians will come.

Who knows- we may end up

devouring each other.

It happens. However,

I don’t advise it.

My flesh has even more maggots and ticks

than my stink would suggest.

You’d be certain to chuck.

Better empty than sick, right?

Endings are terrible.

Beginnings are painted

in blood.

In between it’s all losing.

That’s why angels have wings

and why they live in cornices

sculpting clouds

from our dreams

and the smoke of ambitions.

Meanwhile, humans have whiskey

and forceps

to tug them along

and keep them from choking.

I’m hungry.

Are those wolves or Alsatians?

My counsel to you is to run for your life

and later, when you will have time

during a pause in a clearing,

torch all your maps and your guides,

blank your address book,

and smash your connections.

Your guides are all predator’s menus

and they will use your connections

to track you.

Who am I to advise

a modern professional like you?

I’m poetry.

I’m the thick

and endless forest of the lost.

The Moon and Omega and

all the prime numbers

weep as they wander around me

encountering suicide’s ghosts.

I dwell in your hope

and your failure

like angels,

though I’m lighter than they are

and care even less.