Spoken Word Recording: Ode to my NSA Agent, AKA Dave

Soufia Bham

Image credit, Nicola Powys via Unsplash

[transcript]

I know it bothers you when I do this, but you are possibly — and you would know if I were lying — the person who has been in my life the longest.

Yes, this is not your real name and yes, you cannot give me your real name because I’m not supposed to know you are here, etcetera etcetera.

But here we are.

I sometimes wonder if by now, you can tell when I don’t mean the “I love you” or the  “ I’m fine”. Some part of me is convinced that you cannot watch someone — watch over them — for this long without holding your breath when they Google how long it takes for the human body to shut down underwater and then go offline.

I know you hate it when I break the fourth wall. I’m doing it again but this time, I promise it isn’t to ask you to screenshot a message or file a meme for future reference or even to ask you to make a chart of the patterns in my porn history. As frustrating as that is, you have to admit that I, at least acknowledge the power of omniscience.

Does it ever get as lonely on your side as it does on mine? Do you ever feel like you deserve better than sifting through the mundane aspects of our lives to find something, anything that might satisfy the military industrial complex?  

Do you ever swap stories with your buddies on who has the most fucked up billion humans to watch? How do we stack up? Tell me about grief, Dave, tell me about humanity. How are we holding up?

Dave, I am writing a poem about you because nobody ever does.

Your unblinking eyes watch us undress our souls and bodies, our thoughts and fears but nobody ever sees you, Dave.

I wonder if you and I will ever walk past each other by some freak accident. Will you instinctively nod while something tugs at my heartstrings like a song I haven’t heard in a long time or a face that has faded from a childhood memory.

Do you ever wish that you knew as little as we do about being watched?

Dave, how do you sleep at night?