The Anti-Pedant

I Don't Make the Rules.

In the workshop,

bold-as-brass postfeminists

crave the no;

dude does it old school

boot in the face, lays down the

hard line never to be crossed,

unless obliterative, in red.

These are the rules.

He holds them vise-tight, nary a wriggle.

Yet

I have watched them squirm under gentle praise,

mistaking faith for empty gesture.

Sorry, suckers,

but I am soft. Relentlessly. Yes, I tell them,

courting the gift.

But in them burns

a thirst for vinegar, not honey.

But oh, honey, I tell them,

honey is what I’ve got,

all flow, no edge,

yes the terrifying threshold you step over

on the way to find your way.