It was a weird dream, in that there was merg-
ing with past selves in the dark of the light,
while present bereavements cold as Iceberg
Slim's professed persona's gangly nearsight:
This is not a trite moralization,
but rather a tale of intoxicant
expectations that mist the complexion
of Normalcy, that mendicant:
S/he begs with a bill, not with an invoice
and charges a tithe as a decent tip,
and your nostrils flare, 'cause you have no choice
but to pay up and stay on its Fools' Ship:
I wish I could feign the coordinates of truth,
but I'm not a Judith, much less a Ruth.
urbansonnets 