dear norm,
this is just to say
so much depends
on TSA personnel like
Michael 236581 and J.D.
962013, waving their
magically detecting
loops around ankles,
dancing the sacred
command and control
choreography of
sweaty rubber footprints,
palms raised on extended
eagle arms to receive
a harried eucharist,
wafers of gauze fed to
the gas chromatograph god
-- this is my body (and
the air of my apartment,
the DNA of every lover,
other travelers on the
shuttle, and god knows
what) fed, for my
fellow americans and
common carriers, to
thee, for thine
spectral benediction --
that vision of american
chickens, damp earth,
a wheelbarrow waiting
to cart some sweet harvest
in from the securely
fertile, family-farmed
fields, to the security
of the family dinner
table: this looks
like a job for the market
and task-trained agents
at minimum wage,
designated by given name
and assigned number.
they told me after
i sent all my metal
through, and were gone
before i got my pen
back, so I made up
the "names" above, norm,
but the tags are shiny,
if you're comforted by
that sort of thing, and
i'm sure anyone with
a complaint will have
no trouble remembering.
norm, just
a quick note to say
i got "randomly selected"
by "the computer" for
special scrutiny by these
numbered officers 100
percent of the times
i have flown since
(our perception of)
the (very same) world
changed from a clear
autumn morn to
the perpetual excuse
of unabated fear, and
i fucking wonder why, norm.
i told you
i was suspicious, norm.
i still am.
and i am afraid
my papers do not please.