Who Decides

Who Decides

I don't know how to say this,
'cause words are like nails
sealing the lid on the coffin,
disregarding what they are not.
This is really hard to say,
'cause my thoughts on the matter
can't be nailed down.
They ride the floom,
in one ear and out the other,
like greased pigs,
mischievous and squealing.

Here's the thing:

Things happen from moment to moment.
Spermatozoa number three-thousand-six
knocks on the door, takes off his shoes,
and pours a drink;
Mrs. Egg leans back, smiles, winks,
and spreads her legs,
and in that moment
an entirely new citizen of earth
is ushered in
through velvet curtains.

Another example:

You wake up with a headache,
miss your bus,
walk three city blocks,
turn a corner,
and find yourself in a really bad movie.
On cue, an extra turns, points and fires.
A tiny phallic metal projectile
makes a vaginal gash in your flesh
where there shouldn't be one.
Three feet to the left
and the brick wall would be shattered.
But it's not, and you are,
and now it's all over.
Your job, your marriage,
your upcoming vacation;
all gone in one moment.
And so on.

Now here's the tricky part:

Are all moments essentially the same?
Who decides?
Are some moments bigger and fatter
than others?
Are some moments flat and shiny
while others are prickly and thin?
Are some moments covered with hair
and other moments bald and sweaty?
Do some moments click and chitter
like insects?
Do other moments giggle hysterically?
Do some moments wear dark glasses
while others stare directly into the sun?
Are some moments wiggly like jello
while others run down the inside of your leg?
Who decides?