Freeing Free Verse

Freeing for me, fuck what it does for you.

Well, goddammit, Your Honor, but whom are you to judge me?

And misconstrue the type of woman I am, chastising me for actions much less heinous than those you hold beneath the folds of your robe.

You’ve narrated some piss poor justification and banged your gavel around.

And I am awkwardly sitting in my assigned seat here at our newly turned table.

In march the jurors, sullen and bitchy, waving their fingers at me in poorly timed repetition.

“Oh, no, not the wagging finger”, I lament, and then cackle like some loon that’s also a loon, because what in the fuck does your wagging finger mean to me, Susan from the HOA Board, you take notes and are spoken over so clearly you mean less than nothing to me.

The entire buffet table of you bitches can get these “distasteful” words from me, and because I’m super Southern sweetie pants today, I’ll let you keep them, so jot it down:

The day I let the opinions of poorly programmed Fembots decide my day, take my pulse, bitch, because clearly I’m dead.

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