replace the plastic chairs.

lola don't know what happened.
she really don't.
but you can peer through her gloriously, glorious bay window and find her
and her paper dolls
barely seen amidst a mountain of browned maps
rolled up over and over with all her plans.
lists and places and trinkets and things
her little life inside this mansion of a cabin - built with woooooooden beams,
ceilings low to the ground,

watch the terribly divine inter•jection.

it must be
the great pause/reversal on the ancient tape player.

hear it sssskip skip, change. the blood in the atrium beating to a new, ethereal rhythm.
the silver record, switches to something of divine nature.

and she tastes it all crashing down, as rubble and rust cover
her little life of dreaming -
and ceiling dusts rest upon her tongue.
as she whispers to herself, in the squeaky voice behind her mother's
red lipstick, "He tends to do this to me..."

invisible movements.
missing bed frames.
the great reform.


ya, she's a dreamer. a seer. a fairy in a make-believe world.
ya, she's an architect. a lover. a terrified child in need of deconstruction.
lola's one of those with chipped white nail polish, and gaudy diamond rings, and dancing fingers upon the bottom of her
ya. she's a daughter. a dancer. a safe-havened sojourner looking for a home.

and there she was: mapping out all the bold-fonted tomorrows,
with colors and numbers
and connecting dot.dot.dots,
all perfectly in line,
lining up.
cake. and horses. and oceans. and fire from heaven.
babies. and 17 stringed harps. and foggy fruit gardens.

all perfectly one after the other
etched in her expectation well,
going deep within her soul.

columns and rows like pebbles in the walls of castles.
deep dark waters like the kiddy pool in the back yard.

(stones captured from a greater, rock mountain?
waters stolen from deeper seas - stretching beyond those blufffs like mighty knights on the backdrop of sand, sand, shell, and sand.
it must be only the outlines of her coloring books.
ever and only.)

but THEN.
click one, twenty, thirteen, ten.
He comes -
that stranger of a man,
light, and Life, and mystery, and power..
it's either this way
or that...
he arrives on a horse painted yellow
out of the abyss of her inner frame

can you see him

smell shreds of map and paper and color
all over the ground.
mounds of piles, and piles of mound.
and lola remembers, even through blurred vision within
the waterfall of wondering.

in a whisper she recites those classical words,
"I love it when He does this.
yes, I am sure."

for there is something delightfully fascinating about
swallowing the soup He serves.
she's been at the banquet before -
and what sings to her from the table of glass
sounds better to her stomach than all
the potions of concoctions of adventures she's
written out before.
being blanketed, anyway, by sinking, submerging sands of time.

his offering exceeds her faction-ing.

his diamonds are the fat beat that
make the song worthy of a dance.

she knows she's not a good artist.
her play-games bore
the atmosphere.

lola longs to live -
and so she's remembering.

his redefinition is her reality.
for the title of his book is still,
"i know your desires."

watch him reprogram the time machine.

this is glorious.
and lola breathes.

selah unto living.
and living unto