O Light, Red Light
by Cathy Park Hong
Girls! Girls! Girls! Batted molas eyelashes at boned molish chap,
But lika Greco Frieze, him stood in cold puddle o red light,
Spite One Girl! Curdling she finga, ‘Come bwoy, Come, don’ G’won.’
Toto sum Girls! curdled dim fingas attim but he maki no choice.
Only browsed ‘till sighed ’nut’a day.’ Went back, spillim seeds
onto hotel carpet, lone, wit only zuzzing cable, a suite nocturne.
Ai fife, he warbled, Ai la lune triste nocturne.
‘E capered down to karaoke lounge to singsong, a sloshing chap,
At hotel, quaffing Singapore Slings wit pomegranate seeds.
Next day, ’E kem back to de Girls! ta fes de garnet light.
Fished outtim haisimap pinga, but brined bine choice
E sterilized, and de Girls! chortled _’G’won home, batty bwoy, g’won.’_
Him moist eyes be anime anemone, he g’won
back, pining Don Ho’s “Tiny Bubbles,” a blarny mon nocturne.
Him catcha “desertitis.” “The sensation of feeling deserted after facing too many choices.”
Infectim neurotic forest like SSRI pips: him pinga all chap.
So, ‘E turn to return to him hum-a-day life, to fes domicile’s wan light
dreamim o him progenies chortling attim wasted seeds.
Ai, wine o consciousness fermented frum brain’s wadder, what seeds
sprout in de desert? What yields? We labor por him joy. Neva we g’won.
Nary, we work ovatime, shaving de tourist’s cuticle ’til dead o light.
Crooning our macaroon troats de 99th nocturne,
But, you, non! Tourists kennot be slaked, dim troats be chap
Lika duck wit chokelace dat kennot feast on fish o choice
We offal da finest sampla plate bouquet o choice,
But desertitis cankas digestion, destertitis like intestatus, whateva you’ve see’d
Yea desire reined, saddled like apaloosa wearim chap.
G’won, g’won, g’won, g’won, g’won!
In him suit attire, He whom cannot be sated, snored nocturnes
In him town’s train station tru eve’s descending light.
Fraid o failure, fraid to fessim wife in halogen light,
De act o returning a requiem, neva a choice,
But dawn’s aubade caressim prickle cheek, singing away nocturne.
Doe banished, he can come back to him life, begin afresh, aseed,
De tourist’s privilege be dat he can return, always return, doe frum desert he g’won.
‘Wake up, ole chap, wake,’ a janitor clap in him ear ’til janitor hands all chap.
Eye-crust y feral mout, he wink out o nocturne to janitor’s flashlight.
A pitiable kinda chap but he habba choice ta gwon home, me covet dat choice.
When dim ideas seed in us, how do we’um return, when we can only g’won.
