I. Casablanca, 1953

The market’s choked with bhang, camels, goats,
feral mullahs, and piles of scrap aluminum.

Frenchmen with bourbon eyes
caress the brown boys serving minted tea.

Dark veils glide between the stalls, fingering
chick peas, melons, delicate lingerie.

—the horizon bulks with the smoke
of burning diesel, but I fly… high above it all.

II. Chicago, 1968

Here come a thousand rabid Keystone Cops,
twirling their mustaches and rubberized batons,

but, they’re no match for me. I’ve read Machiavelli,
Lau-Tzu, Allen Ginsberg,

Chairman Mao, Dr. Seuss and Adam Smith
—my hands… my hands are invisible

as I leap into the basket, fire up and lift away
in my Nyquil-green hot air balloon.

III. Luxor, 1997

Behold—

I am the cipher in the gurgling hookah,
the mummified raven’s feathered prayer.

I am the dung-beetle’s prize in a mortuary temple,
a basket of hot cicadas thrumming.

Look at me! as the sands scourge your eyeballs—
look inside, as I possess your wet-brained dream.

Grab your sandals, hold your water, guard
your cabochons and pearls—I’m flying…

flying this machine.