Dr. Huang is a cheery fellow,
and today we talk politics
as he zaps my meridians
with #.005 surgical steel.
“Politics is like a toilet,” he notes,
“smelly, but we need it.”
“Like making sausage,” I offer,
“you don’t want to see
what goes into it.”
Dr. Huang continues,
telling me how
blood sausage is made.
He swirls my energy a last time,
turns off the light, and
I slip into a needled reverie.
Who actually knows what evil
Lurks in the shadowy heart of Man?
I try to consult Dr. Huang
about this when he returns.
He chuckles, inscrutable.
Leaving Dr. Huang’s office,
I run to catch the Route 71.
Meridians ablaze, mind filling
with guilty pleasures,
I move to the rear of the bus.
Staring into the window,
I recall a woman,
into white witchcraft
and dark sexuality,
who believed we court the chthonic
each time we wipe our behinds.
Full of sensual knowing,
I slyly glance at the other passengers.
The bus worms through a dark tunnel
and discharges me
far below the city.
I rise to Pioneer Square,
returning to the light,
oddly refreshed.
