or Thoughts on a Moral Controversy
Waiting room segue in a series of dreams
AM Jazz radio barely audible
in the muted, awkward space
between bewildered young women.
Eye contact refracts
through anesthetized gazes at annals of pamphlets
divulging an illusional existence
The critical shock of awareness
renders also an understanding:
There is only one decision,
whatever monochromatic brochure character
she fall into.
These sketches read real as comic strips,
trying to cartoon a hellish carnival
of gyrating pain, warping amidst a fury
of picketers parading signs like crucifixes,
raging grey faces contorted balloons,
high off a helium tank of self-righteousness.
How to explain:
Far worse than any physical pain
is the absence of it tomorrow,
when Dante's carousel stops.
The carnies in their lab coats
and the cross bearing sideshow file away.
Only, she's still clutching
that plastic Pegasus
once beheld with phantasmal delight,
a pitted peach,
staring numbly in the