THE  27Th  EDITIOn

Made in China,

right off the factory line—

perfect little communists

breathing bugs

and spreading red 

to angelic foreign minds.

 

I try to pay no mind,

knowing Asia

is less unified than a torn tangerine

rind—each border

fractured by viral

hate of humankind.

 

Let them think me so far left

I’m blind—willingly unconscious

to crawling centipede-esque

governmental corruption not actually mine—

because they see no partition

of Vietnamese and Chinese yellow

 

stars—too green

to know Deobureominjudang and Jiyū-Minshutō

zěnme bù yīyàng. A wild stroke

stretching from India to Indonesia

imagining

us as in harmony as butterflies

 

wings; lethocerus indicus

enjoying pacific blue.

My mother is of Philippine

Islands—subjected to fascist

regime (try to pay no mind

quarrels get it right next time). I watch as others raise the bar

 

to borderline

personal comments of invading Asian hornets

(try to keep a positive mentality)

and dream instead of indigo

ink dripping hands—Republican and Democrat

raging at their nations’

 

nationalists

being called out. For we are not communists

any more than your skin is purple around the mouth.