Men smoke cigarettes in the back rooms
of Roswell warehouses, full of boxes marked
“biohazard” and “do not touch.”
There is a mysterious woman in need of help
who leaves you a note saying her life is in danger
and can you help her hack this government web site
which lands you in the back of a grey van, no license plate,
with a gun against your head. You’re handed a passport
with someone else’s name and a wad of cash
but have lost all your memories. Good thing you have
a mysterious tattoo and this notebook in your own handwriting
to give you the most important clue: your own secret past,
a map to your darkest love. The Illuminati
have hidden a message for you in the dollar bills in your pocket.
Did you notice this whole poem is written in code?
And this poem has been nothing but a dream? Or purgatory?
Or a false recollection implanted by government operatives?
Please forget everything you’ve read. This poem will self-destruct.
Photo by Stefano Corso
