LO LALA LOLA Poem by Kiki Dimoula

A dream on patrol

in abandonment's tenements

arrested an old acquaintance suspicion

red-handed, leaning on

a shuttered likelihood,

eavesdropping.



"Please understand," I told it,

"the folks you nab are no garbage.

Don't mire them in. I break my back

retrieving them. They're for repair and return.

You're not their expiration.

A poor exhausted nap is what you are

under the cool of tears

while the repairs occur so they won't hurt."



A skilled restorer, inspiration,

precisely montaging all their trials

without which the body doesn't trust

any reintegration.



New people never did exist. And even if

we named a couple first-created

it was to win imagination's

majority confidence vote.

They always show up second-hand

from their mysterious origin, a mystery too

how old that is, what slavery it comes from,

horsewhipped in cellular plantations

for dinosauric eons.



We don't know a thing.

Every beginning came to us

a simile with its mystery.



A fabulous restorer, inspiration -

of every worn beginning

renewing art, artifice, and life

from ashes to Lo

Lala Lola all fall up!



Only their box is new.



I send them down again with the old price

since they have lived before.



So, have we too?

Then what's the quick?

And is the seam a gimmick

to make us love?

If life is reparable

where's all that's lost?

Still being stitched?

Can such delay be overcome?

This inspiration, is it careful,

correctly marking, numbering each piece,

or does it use my body by mistake

to fix like new what yours

is lacking?



So old each new sorrow.

So dearly paid for its new box.



O millionaire

answers and your unknown

hooded, secret abductors.