From 'the Double 1c Poem by Morgan Michaels

The glint off the wing hurt his eyes. Half asleep, he felt the pressure change as the plane dropped. Swallowing hard, he fell from the mountaintop of consciousness into the abyss of sleep, to the sphagnum-covered earth. There he saw scowling Indian chieftains, scar-scrawled and tattooed, and friendly squaws with gourd-like breasts wearing necklaces of seashell that gleamed in the crepuscular light. He saw conquistadors, casqued and bearded, in burnished armor, wearing fawn-skin breeches and carrying blunderbusses, looking like they'd stepped from a Velasquez canvas. He saw ebon-skinned Africans, chained in gold, looking disdainful but doubtful. He saw coveys of highborn women wearing mantillas, fanning themselves with great, Stygian fans, sitting proudly apart. He saw sequined, honey-colored women with long legs and peacock tails, who smiled broadly, waved and vanished. He saw bad types-thugs in pin-stripes who counted cash and smoked black cigars. He saw bags of powdery heroin and....