Injuries are, mostly. There’s that
moment, lucid and still
as a Sunday in June, when you know–
but do it anyway, like running
in rain down steep trails whose
paths are a jumble of roots and rocks–
like grabbing the wire just
now getting caught in the mower’s
whirling blade. Later, nursing your
cut, break or sprain, you’ll
remember it and curse yourself.
Or consider Lust: my body’s got
no more sense than a bitch in heat.
She’d just as soon roll over for a bookie
as a banker–or a good-sized mongrel.
And how about Decisions?
Based on some imaginary future
which neither you nor I
have the wisdom to imagine
correctly. And then more decisions
based on decisions based
on false imaginary futures.
And Intelligence? Dimmest bulb
in the building–I mean, it thinks it’s smart,
thinks it can decide who to love and
whether or not to bed the ex
boyfriend. The truth is, Intelligence
thought Lust made the Decision
which caused the Injuries,
but it was Stupid all the time.
Stupid first appeared in MiPOesias Magazine (MiPo), Vol. 18, September 2004.