perhaps an artist appropriation,
just to start the evening off right;
a Crayola-colored sidewalk,
with wishes listed from those
whose hearts have exploded
in silence and ignored loudly.
perhaps a host body
that will carry us through life
like a violent video game
with a killer soundtrack,
from bridges to busstops,
birth to burial.
perhaps a stop,
halting to look up
at surging sky and hoping
that the sky's narrative skill
looks down at our battlefield
with peaceful intention,
through the tops of hawks
as we are under their soaring bellies.
perhaps we sit on the stoop
and welcome the night with songs
about ex-lovers and myriad of memories
we now contort to fit the flow
of places we go and stories we tell ourselves
on dark sides of days such as this.
perhaps we will go
and die in a forgotten place
with ghosts who only want
to be left alone, or better yet
want to just watch like voyuers
in rented windows waiting
for oblivion to take its rightful role
by cleaning our screens.
perhaps something new,
like untethered desire to dream up,
buoyant in joy, with no concern
for its inevitable flee,
but just a place to be and see,
as the world turns from our point of view,
and we feel dizzy from its carnival fun.