If I will not
write of white rice
or shades of yellow,
they tell me there is no
place for me.
Without a Mekong river of tears
trailing down a mountain of
black hair and stale sushi,
I will not be Asian enough
to fit into this volume
of Eastern voices for Western coffeehouses.
You no good if you no talk like
cereal box-tops about transitions and the old country,
or grandma and her wizened fortune-cookie wisdom
amid a comic bevy of oh-so-tragic
hard-working,heartbreaking restaurateurs
and cunning launderers
wandering a crooked Chinatown street.
They will tell you:
“You may have been an English major,
but you’d best keep these nonsense thoughts private
and give the audience what they want, for god’s sake.”
Don’t rock the boat, people!
A woman walked up to me recently and asked:
“What is the name for your yellow hue?”
I said: “Color me Pissed.”
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