by Barry Pomeroy
Yours is not a real country; it belongs to the US, which is to say it belongs to us. Your people are small and dirty, and covered in flies. I send them money on late night ads, which they use to fornicate in glass jars full of marbles. Monkeys spit in your parliament and your laws are made by dicing; your traffic lights work by the stars. You have no civilization, only rocks and champagne, and lizards in the desert that no one will admit are there. Once I get the money for a ticket, I'll come as soon as I can.
Barry Pomeroy authored the novel Naked in the Road, and his shorter work has appeared in Treeline, Freefall, Cosmetica, Bards and Sages, Insolent Rudder, Tart, The Tiny Globule, Willows Wept Review, Writing Shift, Ulterior, Oddville Press, and Word Catalyst.