I wrote a poem
today about my own personal hell.
It’s the
place where I send too-small hex wrenches and stripped screws. It’s where
this non-crafty crafter’s half-finished first projects languish. It’s full of
otherwise benign and uncategorizable objects that I tripped over, publicly or
privately. There are burned-out light bulbs and blue-screened computers and
those pencil sharpeners that eat the graphite right out and leave empty wood
hulls behind.
Today’s poem was
about the realm to which all of my own imperfect and wrong-place-wrong-time things
have been damned, and particularly about the moment I’ll inevitably end up
there with them.
I offer this as a
prompt: Tell the whole story of your go-to cussword—your sonsabitches or your
holiest shits. Interrogate your interjections.
Like others I keep the commandments I like.
ReplyDeleteBut situational ethics kicked in when the chain came off my bike.
I invoked the Lord’s name and a favorite verb
As I sat greasy-handed on some far-off curb.
A case of damnability if I’ve ever seen it.
It’s not in vain if you really mean it.
Bravo! Bravo! :)
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