Wechsler 145 (WAIS-IV)

                    i. Three Standard Deviations
                                        above the Median Score

Truly, I can’t take seriously
          the threats of anyone who uses
           “fucking” as an adjective and as
          every other word, unperturbed
          by idiocy and myself possessed
          of mastery over tongues, mine is
          a dictionary of invectives
          the resonance of which no one can
          touch, not even if lucky enough
          to win my attention without first
          succumbing to being ignored, since
          language itself is for me a sword
          thrust forward without warning, the war
          of art one I can more than afford
          to win, a race this rat has his whores
          in, taking the house down having no
          need to play any card but my own


          genius, relieving imbeciles of
          their symptoms by convincing them to
          wear out the cure before receiving
          its calm, too simple to know I am
          the cause, in effect infecting this
          village’s idiots with what thoughts
          against which they come to battle, what
          parts of themselves they cannot face or
          handle, dealing placebo chaos
          as if reversing roles—acting out
          scapegoat fantasies for fools—were feats
          miraculous as the laying on
          of hands, using those tools to move pawns
          and faking an interest is one
          performance my silence breaks through when
          none rise on cue to applaud its lie
          when none realize I have power

                    ii. Very Superior
                                         (Extremely High)

over truth, making it up & making
          it do whatever I want it to
          vituperating a talent few
          can manœuvre all the way through or
          ever recuperate from after
          feeling it sting to their core what souls
          fear more than an afterlife falsely
          advertised, dying inside far worse
          than shouldering alone the burden
          of finding out what the cryptic things
          I say really mean, a wickedness
          of eloquent vocabulary
          intentionally confusing my
          enemies, a chameleon’s banquet
          of diction blanketing my musings
          in unseen fangs biting deep, my mouth
          subduing the substandard with truth’s


          insidious and subversive wounds
          refusing to be removed, crookèd
          words whose imperious maladies
          metastasizing rot’s roots to full
          bloom kill, until I remember my
          father told me to use my powers
          for good, to wait until reason’s lens
          returns to temper intuition
          and lowers the tension of life in
          this world, until the thundering of
          a stormy mood passes before I
          burn any bridges, to consider
          burying them instead of swinging
          hatchets, that positive thoughts lead to
          positive results, and that my half
          of the inheritance consists of
          more than just his wit & mind, but kindness.