some days,
she takes her potatoes
…..(and her love poems)
smashed to smithereens,
brave new world view things
cleaving, leaving eyes
and peelings
in this social rebel breeze.
she is
the scribbler who scrambled
her words, the girl
who talked to trees
(because the sunlight doesn’t
quite reach her skin);
one lone falling intricate howl,
an anti-love poem
…………digging in,
barefoot and belonging.
name her selah
……(#crazy talk)
poemdemic moonshine
…..apparition
..emberling
………………fluff
in protest of these most
ridiculous times.
she’s a
blue-green marbled mayhem
orbiting its own moon too soon,
building a better enough
and distancing herself inside
from
{un}
……..(iambic)
poem exotica.
she is
eyelash flutter,
waving palms in Sunday
best. This tree
that says we are together,
strong
(and then Lady Luck takes a rest.)
it’s now day 22,
……(or 52, or 102, who’s counting?)
and she’ll follow that yellow brick road
(follow it down, add sugar)
into the why and wherefore
into the sequence of time
………..(keeps on slippin’)
into the unknown tomorrows
of smallish dragons
into the blast of it
into the last of it.
………………………………{force quit.}
…
in april, we poem. sometimes late. this one’s remix-built of all my poem titles so far this month, with just a few extra words mixed in.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
“she takes her potatoes
…..(and her love poems)
smashed to smithereens” — great. And this!
“into the blast of it
into the last of it.”