reflection on a stubbed toe

mentally, i am starting to identify myself as a poet. following most every interaction that takes place these days, every stimulus, every contact, every conversation I have, i find myself asking how to translate that poetically, whether it would make a good poem, what I can extrapolate from the interaction that might make a good poem. i stubbed my toe on my doorway today, and my initial reaction wasn’t a ‘FUCK!’ or any other sort of expletive – it was a ‘can I make this into a good poem?’ i shit you not, that’s what went through my head. imagine that, poetry replacing hurt, doing literally what it’s done literarily for years. something else, eh?

also, dems took control of the house today, and nancy’s first action was to call the prez and let him know they were up and running, a thinly veiled middle-finger stuck straight up his righteous ass. let’s hope this marks the start of a much-needed return for rationality. and apparently, this nation could use a hearty dose of rationality:

"wait, were we even in the vietnam war?"

and check out the end, when people supported a war on a country that didn't even exist, because bush supported it.