Remixing Ro Sham Beau 


(a Golden Shovel poem using my Ro. Sham. Beau. poem from day 26) 

We thought it 
was what it was, 
the end and be all 
of sigh-language fun, 
the soup to nuts and 
center guts of all games 
of the heart and dynamite
smiles. All the while, we really
didn’t see the fabled forest until 
we ran into the trees, and every one 
of those roadblocks. What we make of 
it is less than the total sun of adding us 
to a sky of stars. What you do next (that 
mystery) would make more sense, would 
mend this broken fence if only we could be 
held in unquiet hands. See? (But don’t ask me)
I’m just a scribbled storm, prosaic pandemonium hit 
with a loose thought, caught right here between a rock 
and a hard place, a ghost-traced word on invisible paper, 
an origami ink-stained girl finally daring to run with scissors
straight for all things that need a new mosaic, from top to bottom. 

::
At the end of April, we remix.

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