The Devil’s Mask by Khanh Ha

THE stable boy peered up from the saddle when the little master made a grunt in his throat. Something was coming. Out in the sun, a white-furred monkey stood looking in. After a while it waddled in like an out-of-shape old man and, once past the sun glare, and inside the cool dark, its fur looked as white as the rice flour. It usually came when the little master was in the barn.
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In the process of clawing my way to fame I commingled with a lot of foul characters. Shanghaied by their sordid ambitions, I was dragged into a moral black hole. I had to brown nose these scrubs, hate it as I did. And once I got famous the media hounded me, many of them claiming I was trash. The truth is I’ve battled these naysayers my whole life, finding that none of them has the DNA to be a rock star. So they can cram their crappy reviews; I say they’re the ugly ones. My art transcends them.

While walking home,          this man's
hat was blown off in dense wind.
When he got home,          there it was,
waiting for him on the front porch
in sure direction     like a hole-in-one.

Inside, the wife said, "thinking always
about history, some day you shall fall
into it          like a kind of time-warped
tunnel,          no return."     He has supper,
reviews the indigenous newspaper

as if written          like letters from Plato,
watches old Western episodes on TV,
drinks a highball with two cherries
reminding him of          sunrise-sunset,
goes to bed and dreams only in black

Amy:                   I spat on you by mistake then,
                            I’m sorry.

Anthony:            That’s alright, sweetheart.
                            If anyone was to spit on uz, I’d want it to be you!

Amy:                   Aw, you smoothie!

Anthony:            I know.
                           These wedding vows just write themselves, don’t they?