The Turkish owner of the Red Star convenience store refused
my check after the hurricane, a stripped tree having
fallen on our instant access cash machine
as when a warrior, a spear
thrust clean through his breast, sags
backward, drops from his chariot into the dust,
his armor clattering around his torso.
In the Fitness Center parking lot, in my soft
red mouth, I worship
two cocks, one from Beijing, one from Saigon,
depressors on our native tongue.
A Russian ad chatters in the dashboard.
Jang and Hung, homo erecti
before me, our threesome shielded
by the driver's side door, whisper
to each other in Mandarin the latter
learned, along with French, from his mother,
so long ago. Does Jang urge, come
again? I nod
and nod. An honest man
prefers the mountain; a wise man prefers the sea.
In the convenience store, a birth-defected boy
begged his daddy for a slice of pumpkin pie
the same golden color as the skin
of his fingerlesshand slapping
the dog collars, shaking
the wall of silver chains,