DOROTHY CHAN
Hollywood, Make More Movies about Asian People
I wish Hollywood made more movies about Asian people,
like what about a movie about Asian people
living in Las Vegas, and unlike other movies about Las Vegas,
the characters wouldn’t have an epiphany every time they pass
the Bellagio fountains, because let’s be honest:
those fountains go off every fifteen minutes
and that’s too many epiphanies for the world to handle
in this universe that doesn’t even deserve a movie
about Asian people played by Asian actors
as the tourists right across the street at the Paris Hotel
mange on burgers and lobster rolls and steak frites,
because part of their meal needs to be authentic,
and is this really the height of all western sophistication? Like honey,
oh honey, I couldn’t book us tickets to France,
so let’s go to Vegas for some clitty clitty bang bang
in a hotel suite overlooking an Eiffel Tower restaurant,
and I swear it’s the same thing, and let me take you
to the center of the universe southwest style of pools
and Egypt and the Sphinx prowling the Sin City night,
and isn’t it romantic the way we’re swept away by lights
regardless of where we are—I mean, we could be in Venice,
Excalibur, Caesar’s Palace, or whatever being inside a Flamingo means
as we transport to yesteryear and gulp margaritas in the heat,
but back to this Asian film of today: I want a hundred Asian hotties
standing on the balcony of the Paris Hotel pouring champagne
over their bodies, and Hollywood, you better give them actual personalities
other than "brainy," "sexy," and "exotic,"
and let them celebrate winning against the house
without sleeping with Robert Redford billionaires,
or receiving indecent proposals from strange men on rooftops,
or robbing the entire place,
and if everyone thinks we’re so good at math
and being sneaky and seductive and winning,
we might as well laugh all the way to the bank, haters--
and Hollywood, once you make this movie,
I’m celebrating without you over a massive pile of dim sum.
like what about a movie about Asian people
living in Las Vegas, and unlike other movies about Las Vegas,
the characters wouldn’t have an epiphany every time they pass
the Bellagio fountains, because let’s be honest:
those fountains go off every fifteen minutes
and that’s too many epiphanies for the world to handle
in this universe that doesn’t even deserve a movie
about Asian people played by Asian actors
as the tourists right across the street at the Paris Hotel
mange on burgers and lobster rolls and steak frites,
because part of their meal needs to be authentic,
and is this really the height of all western sophistication? Like honey,
oh honey, I couldn’t book us tickets to France,
so let’s go to Vegas for some clitty clitty bang bang
in a hotel suite overlooking an Eiffel Tower restaurant,
and I swear it’s the same thing, and let me take you
to the center of the universe southwest style of pools
and Egypt and the Sphinx prowling the Sin City night,
and isn’t it romantic the way we’re swept away by lights
regardless of where we are—I mean, we could be in Venice,
Excalibur, Caesar’s Palace, or whatever being inside a Flamingo means
as we transport to yesteryear and gulp margaritas in the heat,
but back to this Asian film of today: I want a hundred Asian hotties
standing on the balcony of the Paris Hotel pouring champagne
over their bodies, and Hollywood, you better give them actual personalities
other than "brainy," "sexy," and "exotic,"
and let them celebrate winning against the house
without sleeping with Robert Redford billionaires,
or receiving indecent proposals from strange men on rooftops,
or robbing the entire place,
and if everyone thinks we’re so good at math
and being sneaky and seductive and winning,
we might as well laugh all the way to the bank, haters--
and Hollywood, once you make this movie,
I’m celebrating without you over a massive pile of dim sum.
Take Me out to the Dog Show and We'll Kiss
My dream date is going to a dog show
because it’s like going to the movies
minus the awkward silences or screaming
when the Creature from the Black Lagoon
or King Kong or T-Rex or Alien or Mothra
or Mommie Dearest with her big ol’ eyebrows
and wire hangers and seafoam face mask emerge,
invading the wide screen, and I scream,
because horror and sex really are the same thing,
the way everyone’s turned on in the dark,
where anything could happen while Kong captures Faye,
taking her to the top of the Empire,
showing this bombshell off to the whole world,
and if you can make me pant louder than I am
right now, boy, you’re a keeper, but just let me tell you
that it’s tacky the way you hold my hand
after eating popcorn, and I’m thankful that
at least dog shows aren’t in the dark,
posh, how we sit in silence, watching these canines
strut in a circle, and when the terrier group
comes on, I realize how my taste in dogs
is more consistent than my taste in men,
because these dogs are the alphas, the blue bloods
you take home to Mom, the corgis
of the Queen, or the Lassies and Luckys and Thunderbolts
on the big screen, iconic the way their hair flips,
or what about my Buzzie, may he rest in peace,
who was a puppy-show-dog-child-star-
apple-eating-piece-of-royalty, resting in the clouds
with his trophies filled with filet mignon
and rotisserie chicken and apples and cookies,
and boy, because it’s a dog-eat-dog world,
you better be ready for me to judge you in a pageant:
roll over, fetch, be sexy, get groomed,
run in a circle, and let me try out your bite,
but be loving. Be adoring. Oh aren’t you a good boy.
because it’s like going to the movies
minus the awkward silences or screaming
when the Creature from the Black Lagoon
or King Kong or T-Rex or Alien or Mothra
or Mommie Dearest with her big ol’ eyebrows
and wire hangers and seafoam face mask emerge,
invading the wide screen, and I scream,
because horror and sex really are the same thing,
the way everyone’s turned on in the dark,
where anything could happen while Kong captures Faye,
taking her to the top of the Empire,
showing this bombshell off to the whole world,
and if you can make me pant louder than I am
right now, boy, you’re a keeper, but just let me tell you
that it’s tacky the way you hold my hand
after eating popcorn, and I’m thankful that
at least dog shows aren’t in the dark,
posh, how we sit in silence, watching these canines
strut in a circle, and when the terrier group
comes on, I realize how my taste in dogs
is more consistent than my taste in men,
because these dogs are the alphas, the blue bloods
you take home to Mom, the corgis
of the Queen, or the Lassies and Luckys and Thunderbolts
on the big screen, iconic the way their hair flips,
or what about my Buzzie, may he rest in peace,
who was a puppy-show-dog-child-star-
apple-eating-piece-of-royalty, resting in the clouds
with his trophies filled with filet mignon
and rotisserie chicken and apples and cookies,
and boy, because it’s a dog-eat-dog world,
you better be ready for me to judge you in a pageant:
roll over, fetch, be sexy, get groomed,
run in a circle, and let me try out your bite,
but be loving. Be adoring. Oh aren’t you a good boy.
Ode to the Las Vegas Showgirl
My female fantasy is a Las Vegas showgirl,
because I want her to want me so she can teach me
how to perform WOMAN to a stage of thousands,
standing still while naked, the ultimate superpower
that only females possess, and boys you’ve got to
quit asking for the recipe,
because us women are freaks of nature
from outer space, born in the Valley of the Amazons,
and we don’t need men to save us from killer bees
or exploding lava or giant Aphrodites romping
around New York city in blonde wigs and bikinis,
because hell, we gave birth to all your biggest nightmares
and fantasies, and thank you very much,
but we’ll take both the cherubs and the warriors
on the Sistine ceilings in our tacky homes of luxury,
play a little song on our white baby grands
and perform an entire strip act, because that’s what
you call versatility in beauty pageant language,
and back to the 10 PM show on the Strip:
if diamonds are a girl’s best friend,
then feathers are the illicit lovers,
because who wouldn’t want to be a fuchsia Big Bird,
as the men in the audience can’t control their boners,
and let’s have a pillow fight later,
after the show, after the Titanic scenes
when the cast goes wild and saves each other
from the iceberg, and save a sister,
live for a sister, and then the scenes when Zeus
gets all bronzed up and his numerous lovers
pick each other over him, because who needs
another horny god all up in the galaxies,
when women could be the heroes instead, humiliate the man,
and really, the movies don’t give the showgirl justice,
as she sits atop the Flamingo, looking over the Strip,
burger and fries in hand, the pink lights
of yesteryear blazing over the sunset.
because I want her to want me so she can teach me
how to perform WOMAN to a stage of thousands,
standing still while naked, the ultimate superpower
that only females possess, and boys you’ve got to
quit asking for the recipe,
because us women are freaks of nature
from outer space, born in the Valley of the Amazons,
and we don’t need men to save us from killer bees
or exploding lava or giant Aphrodites romping
around New York city in blonde wigs and bikinis,
because hell, we gave birth to all your biggest nightmares
and fantasies, and thank you very much,
but we’ll take both the cherubs and the warriors
on the Sistine ceilings in our tacky homes of luxury,
play a little song on our white baby grands
and perform an entire strip act, because that’s what
you call versatility in beauty pageant language,
and back to the 10 PM show on the Strip:
if diamonds are a girl’s best friend,
then feathers are the illicit lovers,
because who wouldn’t want to be a fuchsia Big Bird,
as the men in the audience can’t control their boners,
and let’s have a pillow fight later,
after the show, after the Titanic scenes
when the cast goes wild and saves each other
from the iceberg, and save a sister,
live for a sister, and then the scenes when Zeus
gets all bronzed up and his numerous lovers
pick each other over him, because who needs
another horny god all up in the galaxies,
when women could be the heroes instead, humiliate the man,
and really, the movies don’t give the showgirl justice,
as she sits atop the Flamingo, looking over the Strip,
burger and fries in hand, the pink lights
of yesteryear blazing over the sunset.
DOROTHY CHAN is the author of Attack of the Fifty-Foot Centerfold (Spork Press, forthcoming April 2018) and the chapbook Chinatown Sonnets (New Delta Review, 2017). She was a 2014 finalist for the Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellowship, and her work has appeared in Blackbird, Plume, The Journal, Spillway, Little Patuxent Review, The McNeese Review, Salt Hill Journal, and elsewhere. Chan is the Assistant Editor of The Southeast Review. Visit her website at dorothypoetry.com