Category Archives: April PAD 2022
(in the key of clack) :: we’ve left our black smudges on the pages of each other’s hearts. we’ve flirted, we’ve fallen.we’ve phrased. we’re right here last callin’glasses raised for one moreround, glass syllables clinkedand jackets donned. and now as we soldier on (as these … Continue reading
you have been living with my ghost. the rest of me is gone,wisp’d way by grief. all that’s left here are remnants hanging in the air ,words not said old smoke rings and other barely there things. :: In April, we poem.
We stopagainst our better judgement, even though we’ve barely got a dime between us and we shoulda used it for laundry because your last t-shirt is starting to smell like that rest stop two towns back. The black black pavement just keeps on moving and that dot-to-dot … Continue reading
except it isn’t, really. this is just the onethey call the pen -ultimate. :: In April, we poem.
We commit them to memory, wear them as articles of faith, don them like habits. Sky. Sea. Tree. Wild. Breeze. We take the ones that move us and groove them into our skin. We close our eyes and paint our fingers cobalt, emerald, saffron. Count … Continue reading
(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 dynamitesmiles. All the while, we reallydidn’t see the fabled forest until we ran into the trees, … Continue reading
(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 flirtingwith 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 … Continue reading
here i am again, making eyes at chaos. asking mishap for a second chance to danceanother fiasco disco ball. wooing blunder-botch,courting catastrophe. you see, for me, de-bacle is the place to be. ::In April, we poem.
They are still unshod, by god-mother. (These wayward Wildling rebel-rogue princesses.) Barefoot loose and fancy only in their own daisy-chained glee. Nobody’s waiting to be saved. No-body’s even shaved in weeks and weeks. It’s all grown wild, like weedsand flowers, ivy. Stars. Some days, they … Continue reading