i am …
over dimsum:
the waitress comes up and says, “blahblahblah.”
“sorry,” i reply, ” i don’t understand. i’m not chinese.”
“OH!” she laughs. “i thought you’re chinese–you look chinese.”
i smile and point out what i want.
over pho:
the waiter comes up and says, “blahblahblah.”
“sorry,” i reply, “i don’t understand. i’m not vietnamese.”
“OH!” he laughs. “i thought you’re vietnamese–you look vietnamese.”
i smile and point out what i want.
over taquitos:
the waiter brings the check, and i pay,
and he says, “rodriguez?! you don’t look like rodriguez. are you married?”
i smile and sign the bill.
funny — it takes a trip to my parents’ country
over halo halo
pointing out what i want to a street vendor
to look like what i really am:
an American.
What Are You?
what are you?
they ask me.
homo sapiens,
i answer.
haha, they reply,
no, really, what are you?
good question.
what am i?
i ask myself.
an idiot,
i answer.
haha, i reply,
no, really, what am i?
i am a fashion trend
a fetish
a rug
a hood ornament
a housekeeper
a nerd
a laundry woman
a virtuoso pianist.
i am an exotic 800-number in-the-privacy-of-your-own-home massage girl;
and i’m good at math, so i can do your taxes, too.
i am a foreigner in my own country
a chink a Jap a gook a charlie
i am a tourist attraction.
i am dimsum pancit pho and kimchee
served over a bed of rice
with tea.
i am sashimi.
i am
whatever you want me to be
asshole
i hope that answers your question for you.
everything
you are
the sky
purified by astringent clouds
a quill
scribbling caramelized cryptics
a book
pressed by breastplate publishing
a garden
birthing tulip fruit & nightcrawlers
you are
the scent
of hope
and
the taste
of rainy days in bed.












