Fuck!

I'd planned to let my poetry be today,

take a pass, give it a break,

it being Wednesday ‘n’ all,

and my only idea had been to play with that,

but it couldn't get traction with my Muse,

its sophomoric connotations, you see,

embedded on my hard drive...

oh hahahahaha.

We're all seniors now

thanks to germ warfare--

those of us, anyway, who still read

strings of words longer than Tweets.

But for any of you Tweeters,

pushed by the title this far:

you won't find that wonderful word

anywhere else in this poem,

it being so insensitive it bespeaks

the emergence of our primal selves,

mine, anyway, and if you deny yours

I will secretly assume you are lying.

Oh, those (our) rough and ready

primal selves, marqueed by our

scalawag-in-chief, and the lowest

asswipe speculators...oops my primal

peeking out, for which I'd apologize were

we not sick of its la-di-da alternate name.

What’s that? Can’t get enough?

Toilet paper toilet paper toilet paper…

toilet paper toilet paper...say when...

Funny, I feel my primal rearing up

except for that. I still say “toilet paper”

even all alone, to myself.

But that other word,

the one in the title,

I use it constantly, cursing everything, ALOUD.

Cursing typos as they appear on the screen,

cursing my fingers for making the typos,

cursing my hijacked wifi for blinking out…

Cursing solely with that one nasty word,

and usually with “you” attached.

Happy Hump Day!

                                                                                                       m.d. paust