I.

I want it anew, no more colonial
marchin' on my mind.
Jaclyn Smith is banished
from my fantasy world,
along with all the white angels
that torture my woman-of-color soul.
Slow glow snow plow out of my head
to that shaky shady nightmare dumpster
where Blacks straighten their hair and
Asians perm theirs.
Multi-culti Breck girls posing
in the commodified mirror.
And.. so.. on. And.. so.. on.
Come to my dream where Lucy Liu
breaks out of the white girl
mai tai Buddha butt sipping trio
leaving no ancient Chinese secrets behind.
Come on! To where Asian drag queens
win 7 to 1, second to none, over the
Log Cabin Club, sistahs stop flirting fighting
flirting long enough to strut, snap, and picket
gay repubs with signs that read
WE DON'T WANT IN YOUR SILLY OLD ARMY.
JUST GIVE US THE GUNS!
Come on! To where Keanu Reeves is
taking it up the ass from Greg Louganis
(We like sticky rice, closet cases no more) on
that hapa boy roller roller roller
coaster of love.

II.

For love is what makes the world go round.
Spins you/me/the cosmos off its axis.
But not some kinda hi-bred well-fed
tres francais canape and champagne,
crystal glass and one pinky out, kind of to do.
Oh no, my love demands some sweat humpin,
butt thumpin, ass kicking, brick throwing
kind of affair.
Quite and right on!
Carnal kisses and insurrectionary wishes
dot my nighttime landscape.
Dream of yellow brown women
dancing death on swooshes and lace
whirling chopsticks and fishheads
with yellow brown men
armed with scalding water and tiger balm
to beat back the corporate attack
and sing victory.
Yellow brown women kiss
yellow brown women kiss
yellow brown men kiss
yellow brown men
shout "hurrah" and
multinationals crumble to a fine fertilized dust
where dandelions and spring bamboo lead all
manner of rebellious weeds in a glorious shoot
skyward.

III.

Chino Latino diners		we
White liberal whiners		are
Baby-killing B-2 bombers		not
Sweatshop profit commerce		them

Hate, hate, hate them
Love, love, love you
Yeah, baby, that's the dialectic.
Take it back, take it back. Bust it out
of well-worn dusty pages of high falutin
ho-hum blah blah tassel headed white men. Bust
it loose, baby. Love and rage. Love and rage!
That's what I'm talking about.
Come on!
Tear it down with no hesitation but trepidation
and build it up with worldly affection,
passionate erection.
Come on! Quite and right on.