Iowa   dreaming   California ranch-house suburb under three feet of fresh powder   commotion on the roof of the house across the street   a man on the ground runs up and throws something up there   an oblong shape tumbling in the air   I think: hmm, looks like a German World War II "pepper-grinder" grenade   and there's a terrific explosion and I know it's the Serbs   in a small crowded room I confront a man with curly hair   it's him, the Serb who threw the grenade and he screams back, in a California accent:   "They were fucking Huots and you're fucking right I threw it!"   I say: "There's no room for that kind of thing here"   "I'll get you!" he screams lunging at me, nearly berzerk with rage   "I'll get you! I'll get you if I've gotta chase you all the way to Iowa!"   the dream shifts a level   I'm remembering all of this, and I'm thinking: I have to write all this down   like a poem, and the name of the poem is Iowa     © Michael Fleming Berkeley, California April 1994