I wish I were a Chinese Superman,
I’d put on a red velvet jumpsuit
with black gauntlets and a cape,
grow a big Fu Manchu moustache
and I’d save the whole world,
just for you.
On Monday I’d whiz around Hong Kong
rescuing orphans from burning slums
and beating on the guilty.
Tuesday I’d fold Tianamen tanks
into origami swans,
deliver bon mots to the foreign press
while frying assassins
with my laser-heat vision,
and later,
maybe take some old people out to a buffet.
Wednesday I’d team up
with Cleopatra Wong,
the shotgun-toting secret agent
disguised as a Carmelite nun,
and together we’d wreak such weird justice
that any murderers, rapists, frat boys
or bicycle muggers still standing
would be in therapy for so long
they’d never trouble anyone again.
Thursday I’d use my Chinese Super-brain
to perfect that crushing Wu Shu kick,
then I’d spend the afternoon
zooming around the docks of Shanghai,
cutting Tong bosses in half with my shins.
Friday I’d remedy the drug problem,
cleverly ingesting all the narcotics in China.
Saturday…
Saturday I’d probably sleep in.
Sunday I’d liberate the money
from the coffers of crime bosses,
corrupt officials and devious religious types,
and I’d give every penny of it to — well, actually,
I’d probably spend a lot of it.
I’d buy you some great stuff, though,
Lambourghinis for all my friends, and,
as befits a super-hero,
I’d get myself
the biggest pile of comics you ever saw.
But after that, definitely,
I’d build an orphanage
out of, like, diamonds and Waterford crystal,
and I suppose if they were careful orphans
they could read my comic books
when I was done with them.
Aw, crap.
Even in a poem
I can’t be very good
for very long.
But I’d try,
oh, baby, how I’d try.
And one night
when all of China’s feeling blue,
one night when I’m not saving the world
or sleeping off a Chinese super-bender,
that night
I’ll fly thirty thousand feet
into the evening sky,
translate the Mighty Blue Kings
into Mandarin,
and I’ll sing,
I’ll sing until the whole world
moves in rhythm
with a billion pairs of Chinese feet
all dancing to the same sweet tune.
And up in the night
where no one can see me,
I’ll practice my swings and clumsy dips
alone through the clouds,
and I’ll be Chinese, and super,
and thinking of you.
