What We Don't Want

The lantern spun into the night sky.
This one is faded like his hair, greasy and thin, and his face, a geyser with no way to explode.
Just bubbling, bubbling and then nothing...
He was in his chair: Perhaps with beer, perhaps with potato chips...
Perhaps with just a watch on his hairy not yet old man hands.
He is an old friend sinking into the upholstery.
The living room is bright, and  then it gets dark, so very dark.

Swinging

Ghost swing: 

You will be there: 

Uniformed...

Perhaps mismatched...

Sometimes he turns it on, and you can't hear yourself for some moments. 

Will you chip at the already cracked paint on my roomy vessel?

It was too colorful, anyway,

or maybe it was just how I wanted it. 

Too bad now...

 I am not sure it's going to float.

The ocean salt tore the interior and exterior, swinging its Poseidon arms.

But I thought you were wrapped up: a soft blanket around

new skin.

But instead you are red.

And I am red.

And I don't have a boat anymore.

Who Are You?

Tell me: What is your timbre? Is it an animal call in

the woods? The type that startles the smallest slug...

Or are you more the car's tires hitting 

the rain puddles? You can't really hear it below the cab driver shouting and the pans crashing in a street side restaurant.

I long to know the pattern of the composer's composition. 

And when the woman in the shiny dress emerges from the red curtain, I will follow along with my bow, poised

for the movements.

Doll Keeper

Black eyes...
The jangle of ankle bracelets
Find your place on the wooden shelf.
Where your mother put you and fed
your pink lips nuggets...
The doll breaks, falling
past the third level and the second and the first.
The shards are of a life
Ruined by
the doll keeper.

As She Is

The ships sail their own path to the lighthouse; she is the one with the white and gray patches standing in the tall grass.
She is enough for them to keep plugging along.
Look closely at her physique, and you can see the etchings of those who have come, insistent, that she was more than what she was: a light for the lost.
Humanity's strikes against her surface are
all over this flare in the morning and night.
They don't know what she sees when the ships come:
How she fills up enough to stay as she is.

Priorities

She thought she could be carried by letters and numbers: the caricatures march: one by one, hurrah:

carrying her into the hole

where she will stay.

Unless the light is shone: in the living room where the furniture is in blacks and browns and grays: you could sink into that couch and never leave: the material devouring every bit of you.

Follow the light

from which no darkness could extinguish.

Grab those plastic grocery bags and give them

to him.

He knows what to do.

Closing In

Thunder like it's not close.
He was here in the morning with a hot touch
then that man with the shiny suit sprung up the symphony, and that was it.
Then I feel the patters on the wall inside of me; And it's closer.
It's in my house, spilling out of my forgotten closets that aren't an afterthought anymore.
The storm is inside.
Where it always was...