"Lost" - Alex Johns

"Lost" - Alex Johns

I was so focused on writing
that a roach had lighted,
ninja-quiet, unnoticed

on my bald skull, 
my lightbulb with ears:

an armored astronaut now perched 
upon a virgin surface.

At least a minute had passed,
at least a day in a bug's life,

before I felt it make its way
from my crown down my spine.     I 

flailed and raged like a ninja on Xanax, and
when it fell, despite its skill, revealed there

on the arm of the chair for what it was, 

alien, exoskeletal,
almost black,

I slammed down my fist
and in the process hit the black X
in the corner of the screen
to end the software's session,

and I lost the poem,

the best one I've ever written.

This story is literally true.

The poem would have been truer,

the way stars each scream
a secret,

the way every dream
seems to be an example of something, 
but you can't know what
just yet, 

perhaps primordial chaos,
perhaps of future times,
perhaps of something
psychic, extinct, or otherwise divine.

Then you forget.

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