Go! Go! You cocksucking son of a bitch!
My bloody scream, involuntary, serves,
I’m sure, an evolutionary niche,
Releasing pent up stress, relaxing nerves.
Much evidence reveals that not all cures
Depend on pills or surgery. Sometimes
You think yourself to peace—soft breath
Provokes a meditative trance, sublime.
Sometimes that stupid driving lunk disjoints—
Can make your head explode—quick therapy:
That raucous shout drops BP thirty points—
Supports your breath, admits serenity.
Not all cathartics need be laxatives—
But be sure your window’s closed—that lunkhead
Might see red and, brained like a rusty sieve,
Jam on the brakes, end your cure, shoot you dead.
(8/29/11)