Ode to 8-14
Not nearly as bad as 9/11
    unless trapped in a darkened elevator
         on the 87th floor of a high rise
              amidst claustrophobic paranoids,
                   invalids and psychopaths,
                        diabetics without insulin,
                             priests lacking faith and
                                  assorted acrophobiacs.

Hardly as awful as Iraq
    surrounded by intransigence
         unless packed in an immovable train
              below the surface turmoil
                   underneath an unlighted river
                        where depleted air withers,
                             suffocating emphysemiacs,
                                  crushing human herrings.

Scarcely as horrific as Bali
    unless aloft on a frozen roller coaster
         or the highest point of the ferris wheel
              where screaming patrons shiver
                   with cold currents and shaking,
                        big eyed youngsters paralyzed,
                             lovers fearing separation,
                                  carnivals of Sardonicus.

Barely the terror of Titanic
    or the death-seeking Turkish earthquakes
         unless one is under the knife
              in a blackened, blinded surgery
                   where hopeful emergency generators
                        fail their promised ignitions,
                             as stifled obsidian, illumination
                                  lingers in frightful solitude.