There’s a salve for that absurdity,
she sputters while sharpening Mongolian daggers,
a time capsule of opium wars and triad dens.
There’s a hole for that irrationality,
she grunts while reshaping carpetbaggers,
a potpourri of foolish consistencies.
There’s a pyre for that authority,
she pounds while punishing bootleggers,
a rotisserie of tendons baking under warranty.
— yiqi 27 april 2015 10:13 am