Out along the base of a mudden mound, a house and good people live inside, we snuggle together and then sit upright, we talk in love and liberation with our pencil and sheet of paper pierced with every stroke I write the dialog you say some words, constructing mud-like phrases from dirt wetted and sun-baked intent and full of desire — not the battle horn of another dictator we all knew now from pictures — this desire is popular and mobile and your life and being and worth and culturally and so on as ours. You say it is 1964 and when I look down I am wearing a short skirt with a red mouth and teeth that look as polished beads, I say no no this is Baquba of the two-thousand-ten-or-so desires of an Arab, my love.
The mud theatre.
June 24, 2010 by /////
rheim alkadhi | ريم القاضي 
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