“…[T]he
guard force should be actively engaged in setting the
conditions for successful exploitation of the internees…
by MI (Military Intelligence).” –Maj. General
Geoffrey Miller, Commanding officer of U.S. detention
centers in Iraq, in internal policy recommendation report,
August, 2003.
What’s up, Ramal, I’m an American boy, a father,
two children, graduate of Whitman High, where I was a member
of the Science Club and Student Council, then I got to be
the youngest elected officer ever in the history of my town’s
Rotary Chapter, I’m in charge of fund-raising, which
hasn’t been easy the past few years, what with the economy
and all, but we’re hanging in there. I hope you won’t
take this the wrong way, because I don’t want to assault
your sensibilities, or anything like that, but I want to be
up front with you because I believe that honesty is the best
policy: So, I’m going to put a pointed plastic hood
on your black and blue head, and then I’m going to stand
your caped body on a milk box, with live wires taped to your
outstretched hands, and then I’m going to count to ten,
you witch-like Arab freak, and maybe I’ll flip the switch
and maybe not, it all kind of depends. By the time you get
to MI, you’ll be softened up, and you’ll tell
us where the terrorists are.
Hi there, Hazaj, I’m an American girl, former Vice-President
of the Heartland High Young Democrats and Captain of our Regional
Championship pom-pom squad, which no one ever expected to
even make it to the second round, it was just amazing, we
had our pictures in all the papers and stuff, you should see
my scrap book. I hope this isn’t awkward and uncomfortable
for you, and I hope you don’t mind my starting out by
just getting straight to the point and saying so: But I’m
going to fuck you in the ass now with a fluorescent light
tube, you sorry-assed, primitive thug. By the time you get
to MI, you’ll be softened up and you’ll tell us
where all the hidden weapons of mass destruction are.
Welcome, Kamil, I’m an American girl, nineteen, pregnant,
my Dad is an alcoholic, but my Mother is in recovery, with
her own Daycare, and I’ll be taking it over after the
Army, I’ve always wanted to have my own business, and
I’m going to expand beyond just one location, I’m
not thinking small. And since I believe it is always important
to say what one means and not beat around the bush, I want
you to know something: I’m going to hold a pistol to
your head and tell you to jack-off, while you recite the Koran
as fast as you can, you heathen, Hell-bound fuck, and then
I’m going to look at the camera with a cigarette dangling
from my sultry, teenage lips, giving the thumbs up. By the
time you get to MI, you’ll be softened up, and you’ll
tell us where the missing evil Baathists are.
A pleasure to meet you, Khafif, I’m an American boy,
former Homecoming King and now Little League coach and Assistant
Manager in-training at Wal-Mart, which is providing jobs and
low prices for our depressed area, which has been really hard
hit ever since Maytag left town, life is tough sometimes.
I hope you won’t mind my directness, but I strongly
believe men should say what they mean, without pulling any
punches, so here’s the deal: I’m going to shove
a fifteen inch dildo down your mouth, while you crawl all
over your naked comrades and they crawl all over you, as if
you were all a pile of maggots crawling on the rotting body
of a dead Imam—don’t whimper, motherfucker, or
I’ll shove the rest of it in, you towel-headed, perverted
piece of filth. By the time you get to MI, you’ll be
softened up, and you’ll tell us where the gangster friends
of Saddam’s demonic sons are.
Nice to meet you, Tawil, I’m a single girl, with an
on-line degree in Social Work, a member of the 700 Club and
my church choir, and I’m completely against evolution,
which goes against the Holy Bible, as you may or may not know,
but in the new Iraq you’ll get a better chance to know
it for sure, and maybe you’ll be saved. And because
I believe people should always tell the truth to each other,
no matter what their race or creed, I’m going to give
it to you straight: I’m going to make you suck the cock
of your comrade Wafir, until he comes in your mouth and you
swallow it, unless you want to get packed in ice like all
the other ones at all the other detention centers besides
this one, and then I’m going to put a leather collar
around your neck, because it’s come down the chain of
command, a long, long ways, and then I’m going to clip
a leather leash onto it, and then I’m going to make
you follow me down the long hallway of Abu-Ghraib, squirming
like a slug, crying out in falsetto the names of your tent-wearing
wife and your babbling, lice-ridden sons. By the time you
get to MI, you’ll be softened up, and you’ll tell
us where all the videos and photos of Saddam’s torture
prisons are… We know they are somewhere, hidden in some
deep, wet place, you Babylonian, porn-loving fag. And we’re
going to get what we want and what we need, no matter how
deep down we have to dig. Look at the camera when I talk to
you, asshole, or I’ll go get the dog.
Hi there, Madid, I’m an American poet, twentyish, early
to mid-thirtyish, fortyish to seventyish, I’ve had poems
on the Poets Against the War website, and in American Poetry
Review and Chain, among other magazines, and I have a blog,
and I really dig Arab music, and I read Adorno and Spivak,
and I’m really progressive, I voted for Clinton, even
though I know he bombed you a lot, too, sorry about that,
and I know I live quite nicely off the fruits of a dying imperium,
which include anti-war poetry readings at the Lincoln Center
and the Poetry Project, with appetizers and wine and New World
Music and lots of pot. And because nothing is simple in this
world, and because no one gets out unscathed, I’m going
to just be completely candid with you: I’m going to
box your ears with two big books of poems, one of them experimental
and the other more plain speech-like, both of them hardbound
and by leading academic presses, and I’m going to do
it until your brain swells to the size of a basketball and
you die like the fucking lion for real. You’ll never
make it to MI because that’s the breaks; poetry is hard,
and people go up in flames for lack of it everyday. By the
time any investigation gets to you, your grandchildren will
have been dead over one thousand years, and poetry will be
inhabiting regions you can’t even begin to imagine.
Well, we did our best; sorry we couldn’t have done better…
I want you to take this self-righteous poem, soak it in this
bedpan of crude oil, and shove it down your pleading, screaming
throat.
Now, get the hood back on.
*
Kent Johnson is currently on the run from Homeland Security
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