Straight No Chaser

How to Fight Through a Bad Day

borrow two words from grim, write a shitty poem and sneak it into an asshole's email inbox with lots and lots of malice.

for [the asshole], because you lie and lie and ruin everything and never apologize, and because i hate you. araghgaragh i'm just so MAD. when i get mad i really act my age, and when i get that juvenile i do things like this, write for an audience of one and revise revise revise till i know it'll get it. i'm not a poet and i don't do well with the general stuff, but i like metaphors. blah:

and then, finally, one gets through:
pierces skin and interstitial tissue,
shreds through membranous silver,
rests a moment and retracts.
now we know what
a punctured womb looks like,
empty and a hateful red, saturated enough
to stain anything it touches,
starting with the lift ticket
beneath it in the wastebasket.
i've seen the other life-giver--very pretty.
we'd never dice that
but if we did it'd yield precious few
drops of its own. i'd hardly call that
bleeding
but still we'd exclaim over the sacrifice,
collect the drops
and call them sapphires.

and now i feel better, and am writing a paper comparing my least favorite homeric epic to the mahabharata, and some popeye's biscuits should be delivered to my door in a few minutes, and yeah, i lied, i'm not working at all, i'm trying to make something of the writer's cramp prompt. and i want some ice cream.