from Michael Magee's Mainstream Poetry (Blazevox, 2006)
Ten years and this will be just another big Asian city, like
countries and let the Empire swallow them for their own benefit.
Brutus and Ajo look at me, pity in their eyes. Maybe the thin
Asian chick, burgundy car coat, Hong Kong chic. They like
opium, the old guys down in Chinatown: pick up trucks,
insinuating that guys with trucks are deconstructing ads,
explaining their basic meaning by Asian Norms: about six
guys although on some occasions they bring in the 6, picked
up and grunted as they made their way ... Asian Santa is 7" tall.
The “green” is still spotted with snow, but the flag is up, the ball
is on the green, and the Golf Guys have their drivers ready.
You always hear about sleazy guys who get blowjobs matching
their spectacular looks to Kimmy, a 21-year-old Asian cutie.
Young ladies dial a number on their cell phones--I understand.
The country guys are having a model minority Asian
stereotype in a carton which the guys really enjoyed (occasion
was the baptism of their sons). I don’t want to sound stereo-
typical, but most Asian people I HAVE MET, are pretty short.
Their evil plots always lose in the end and Asian girl in shower
makes soapy mess, soaking wet both in and out of their Hispanics––
different, however, depending on their skin tone: my lights
went off so the two guys couldn’t but he was definitely Asian
or Malaysian or something. The 2000s may well be the Asian
century, a fantasy world where even the bad guys are beautiful.
With their easy going nature (you will find I’m sitting at work),
the guys with the white-striped manes (my eyes had switched
from their normal green) have a special girl or guy and watch
the “biker-bankers” tear off their Hell’s Angels with a party
of gun-toting guys heading to the grubby paws of horny
girls and guys grabbing make-out session to titillate straight
guys (epitome of the Dragon Lady cum Asian sex goddess).
An Asian woman who spoke little English kept asking
about tomorrow. They expected to see an Asian in the
remote areas. Guys in military uniforms will pass out
queue numbers: octopus cooked in their own ink is a Spanish favorite.
On Friday mornings regardless of their age, gender, the bed slipped
into recession. A full month of Asian action and general
weirdness after the 1998 Asian markets crisis, a bigger, nastier
version of the little guys that you rape with less than 3 guys
behaving like the Killing Angel, each for their own reasons,
more like an alien than an Asian. An Asian business man rips off
his coat, revealing a glittering, Vegas style. What this guy
should really do is take apart the upper right hand corner
for a glittering gender: predominantly female ethnicity.
Tomorrow, the English guys are drinking: enjoy engaging
with their culture caught in between two guys while a video
camera mounted in the wall behind their couch OH NO! NOT!
jams mint into her mouth. Guys in pajamas of every color
but gold prefer to walk in the dark and bang their shins.
“Are you guys alright?” There was no response in that communiqué.
The hungry and naked spend their lives doing only this;
they don’t really look Asian, necessarily, so much ... I
always figured that if the guys guess what was on their logo,
the crazy guys in movies (you know the type––guys who will
write happy talk hammering out the best deal for
their fighter, “a real fight”), our little guys are ruined. The others
turned to see one of their men had fallen. Indeed, despite his glittering
blues, greens, and silvers (“As we retreated two white guys on
bikes appeared...”) they had him tied up in their old Frontier.