Suffering Geniuses

gladly is best left to other geniuses,
those little guys with a knack for calculating
the algorithm of whatever,
or a flair for memorizing phone books.

Their gears are so smooth, you want
to watch them clutch and shift
through a window implanted into their skull.

These fat cows of so much thinking.

At parties you’ll find them slobbering
into random cleavage, taking pains
to hide their gifts. Other times
they’re so serious you want to scream,
“Fuck you and your blue hair,
go eat a hamburger!”

Of course they’re men.

True geniuses can see through poetry.
They’re comfortable being
of at least two minds, one of them
counting the vowels in Tuscaloosa,
the other watching the small

constellation of lights brighten
in their heads, one after another
as the world slowly slides
into its right name.

Chris Semansky | Mudlark No. 20
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