Tuesday, July 12, 2011


The beep from the garbage truck roused me
out of the trash bin in Reseda. They’d taken everything;
fake I.D., decoder watch, quarters
for laundering cash; even my sense of direction.
All I had was a note saying to be on the 12:08
out of Bucharest.
They call me Otto, spelled backwards.
I'm listed in the Yellow Pages under Double Agents.
Don’t turn around; that man behind the newspaper
may or may not be one of us.
Eagles have stopped landing. The jigs up,
hands down. I’m reading the sky-writing on the wall
Everything I forgot to forget may be held against me.
I moled in so deep into the enemy
I’ve been following myself for 11 years.
Listen to me; you’re not listening.
WW II radios buried in parachutes
are throbbing with underground static,
liberating colonies of ants.
I’m fluent in subtitles which disappear
into sheets, snow and tablecloths.
I’ve been rotated and photo-shopped
so often my face is perfect for radio.
I'm that hill of beans already spilled.
My plastic is maxed, I-phone tapped,
passwords hacked, GPS tracked
and my facts have been Wiki-leaked;
only my fiction is true.
I’m hanging by my thumb drive;
an open and closed case sensitive.
They’ve cleaned my cookies
in an undisclosed location,
Now I’m no longer important to you,
just one of the high-call volume
you are experiencing away from your desk.
I've outed myself under the big light, confessed
that I hate feta cheese and dumped Humpty.
I’m too old to die young.
When the heat’s off I’ll come in from the cold.
The agency told me to meet them on the 405
this weekend under the Mulholland Bridge.

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