Why We Need Bad Words

Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.

The barn, to us, was safety glass
Prisoners talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
them from visitors, visitors being
our parents.

Shrapnel word cacophony
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.

We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.

My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the embers
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to smolder.

4th draft written on 2/17/19


Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.

The barn, to us, was safety glass
Prisoners talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
them from visitors, visitors being
our parents.

Shrapnel word cacophony
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.

We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.

My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the memories
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to linger.


3rd Draft written on 10/23/18. 


Why We Need Bad Words


Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.

The barn, to us, was a safety glass
to a prisoner talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
him from visitors, visitors being
our parents.

In a cacophony of shrapnel words
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.

We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.

My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the memories
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to linger.


2nd draft written on 10/16/18. Originally written on...