I love Japan.
I’m so into it, I eat my cornflakes
I want to fit in.
I’m so into it, I wear a fake, jet black
top-knot of my bald head.
Japan is everything I imagined
it would be. They still hate us;
it’s a chance to re-experience WWII.
On the trains at night, late, I imagine
someone might run a bayonet through
my knee, screaming, “Stand up straight.”
They greet visitors at the airport
with a test. “When,” they’ll ask,
“are you planning to leave?” If you answer,
“Never,” they send you home. There’s
only one acceptable answer to this question.
Many foreigners love it even more
than I. They eat rice cakes for breakfast,
lunch, and dinner. They bow as they talk
on the phone. They have all their body hair
removed. They wear tattoos of men raping carp.
They regret not having slept with…
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