When I was in China, you could hear two tears drop,
a soft yin and yang expostulation of woe.
I implored, Please don't throw my books away (sob, sob).
The Beijing airport guard looked at me and said, No.
He was taciturn. I said, Please, these books are pure --
Nietzsche's full, Lolita, Architecture as Space,
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love -- Bore! --
he yawned -- solly, I hate Eengish; so much manure.
Ha! A yak shat on my shoe at the Great Wall. He laughed.
Oh, capeeshamente on that, huh? No books.
Can't afford to fly them home, I wept. No life raft
in his eyes. I tried hard not to think, fuckin g**ks.
Istanbul to Port Moresby, places in between,
teaching EFL for ka ching-a-ling-dong-ding.
