in the dream that got me fired
The plane was just a stomach,
I said, “eat me”
It insisted on retching
and language was like dry bread
at my throat.
we could just say it was the fault of the Security Clearance,
oh that agency is in the blood now,
lineage of martial-bureaucrat understanding,
lines tactical and quick …
LET’S say Iraq turns into a lifeboat
it’s a little country
the lifeboat needn’t be large …
it contains a stack of paintings,
stone tablets and manuscripts.
add Scheherazade’s stone hands.
no people, after all, this
was an imaginary place
the library colludes to have me believe
this country doesn’t exist,
garlands of holy books no longer even part carboniferous
when people ask me where are you from i’ll tell them
“i come from an imaginary country”
“i’m an ice pop made of frozen rosewater holding together thinly sliced tongues”