Makes voyeurs of us all.

When you’re ducking the news because it’s too awful to look at, somehow you can wind up watching the endless syndicated episodes of CSI shows, the one in Vegas, CSI Miami, CSI New York, NCIS, and all the others that show dead naked women on the stainless steel table of the pathologists. They blur this and cover that, but it’s all a peekaboo show and makes us closet necrophiliacs simply by watching well paid actors talking about rape kits and vaginal and anal smears and torn perineums and DNA, DNA, and DNA.

So, channeling my inner William Burroughs, I wrote a poem about this bizarre phenomenon.

My CSI Sonnet

A dead woman is the saddest thing.

She still has eye makeup and painted fingernails.

Her feet are deformed by years of high heels.

Her breasts are flaccid and inert on the morgue table.

Her hair is still done.

She can’t close her legs to conceal her sex.

She is no longer with us.

If only she could be.

If there could be a light in her whited eyes.

If her legs could cross.

If her fingers could touch.

If her mouth could smile just a little.

If she could have just a little life.

A dead woman is the saddest thing.

This elevates and ennobles us how?