Self-Portrait Absent Impulse Control

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_13/Moody.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]

In the television commercial
for high-tech wheelchairs,
the woman is basking
in her new-found freedom,
gazing improbably
down the Grand Canyon’s chasm.

I want to reach out with my finger
and push her over the rim.

If a tree falls in the forest,
it’s because I’ve chopped it down.
One strike of match
and the flaming meadow’s mine.
A ship glugs to the bottom of the sea.
Care to guess who’s holding the drill?

Two streetlamps double my shadow.
The dog barks so much in the night
that no one bothers to get up anymore.
A cupped hand negotiates the muffle.
Letters clipped from magazines
still get the message across.

In answer to your question-
Yes, I do want your firstborn son.

The screwdriver in my hand
keeps proving its uses.
Infinite, the number of ways
in which a rope might uncoil.
The best way I know
to understand resistance

is by pressing this blade
just so against my neck.