(Titles Remix: another poem gone rogue)
We are most mad
about the ice(box) poem(s),
the flibbertigibbet foldability of
flowers
fables
,
Phoenix rising –
fluff.
All that flirting
with disaster, humming
schwa and counting all joy
(conspiring with dragons).
We
(wild girls)
breathe like (wee) origami dragons,
making sense of sunrise, making
much of the bend in the road.
We’re told we
gobble, growl, grunt
and ro sham (rain)beau
on authority of mercies new
and those that be.
We are an aubade to broken power
and other trips not worth taking.
The tin man’s got a plan and
here is what we know:
how to hold the world more
(happily, ever)
softly
how to get away with murmur
what to do when the world’s too loud, and lousy
that this poem is unpunctual at best
that Cinderella smells a rat and
Wilding Wood is not a waiting room.
We wish
(for the love of this poem)
we could ask and answer Alice
about her abundance.
This is just to say we’re still talking
about those damn plums
about the significance of sizable dragons
about that time the supervillains stopped by
about study hall & (sewing our) oats
about Tuesday Night, 1991
(the night she finally almost left)
,
about the things they carried, bereft:
1 poem stitched in sidewalk chalk
1 Boogey Man Plan
1 sticky poem
,
scented ink and silence.
We are algorithmic experts on
withholding info from a distant sun
(carry the 1.)
Hey, it’s laundry day.
Let them eat poems.
::
In April, we poem. And sometimes we remix.
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