Sunday, January 17, 2016

Prompt: No bad words

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.


  1. Like others I keep the commandments I like.
    But 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.