Women’s Question under Post-Communism—

—Prague beauties move like thieves—
some lost to Edens, others in Eden—
lost—but how, do tell me if you know—
to refinement—gems uncut—lost—
with their rich—yet subversive—
underclothing undertones—back
on a slow and public summer bus—
is it where glancing up would kill?—

like a desert’s desire which is running—
all and any surge and deluge dry—
each night will count as many—
as thousand and one—in Europe’s—
Gothic-cum-Baroque—Deco Heart—

isn’t it how the Devil would come in—
by forbidding what all souls always—
know—which means by letting them—
themselves forsake it—for the sake—
of void once they call it freedom?—

past the word—the clue—the key—
choosing to be truth and music—
deaf—past the note—past the scent—
any cat from the neighborhood—
will know and not even wink—

while overseas—are, I heard—
into padded Cul-de-Sacs—
stealing fashion, rhythm, swagger—
and tang from sisters from—
ghettos and gangs—

yet Prague beauties—thieves at heart—
do also fall for thieves—and so I also—
heard that when people began saying—
while still under the rule of the Reds—

that whoever steals is always—
a winner and who won’t is but—
a sour dud, communism lost it—
all the way—for Locke already—

taught that whatever you do—
you shall never rob the robber—
and if tyranny was once a blind—
humanity’s alley, we improved it—

greatly now—we simply forbade—
or gently urged all—
to know it—by building dead—
ends right in people’s minds—

turning all into blind Oedipodes—
in the caverns of sworn-in Octopi—
where whoever keeps conscience—
won’t have either bread or wine—