I never had you; therefore, I never lost you

When contemplating the existence of losing myself, I try to follow the rumble of elephants chasing the tails of constellations and the moon’s milky nightgown, but all I find are spacecrafts in parking lots and discrepancies in manifestos. A “lost in the fields of barley” Scotsman calls out Lucifer (in German) for cheating at a game with no rules, while empty milk bottles deploy tendrils to suck up souls smelling of shit-stained suppositories. Ghosts leave crackling wrappers stray on turf foreign to sweetness and my soul, oh my soul, is a toothpick prick away from calling out for help, bingo, or amniotic fluid from an I.V. A derelict at a gas station swallows salivated nonsense from the foreign diplomat from Mars, while a trashcan goes over inventory for the night before finally going nowhere. A streetlight loses track of time after contemplating what Sunday did to deserve Church Sermons. Undead dream clouds float over cemetery fields before being pimple-popped by the scythe of a four-year old feeding on the corpses of princes past. Syrup drips from palm trees running gaily in fields of phallic objects until clouds decide to make it awkward. Rivers flow west where winter winds its way through tunnels of smoke-pocked timetables and schedules depicting the end of beginnings and the middle of ends. An old man in Delaware declares that hemp is hostile and that Elvis is himself an impersonator. I never liked that old man, especially after he enslaved cyclones with a smirk and stripped silhouettes of their wetness leaving them lamp-shaded and well rounded. As for me, I grew up three years younger, composed something of a symphony in the name of science, and still susceptible to someone saying, “I never had you; therefore, I never lost you.”