Where the Action Is
Hawaiian Hells Angels belly up to the bar. Low-slung levis bare tattooed butt cleavage.
Leather cuts display insignia, branch affiliation.
Molokai Joe announces he’s in lust with the barmaid: fine ass, red thong panties, no bra,
immense tits, grim reaper tank top.
Hector has no time for trim,
is here to score crack, Maui Wowie, or something stronger.
Negotiations require whiskey. Empty stools buffer drinkers from dealer and bikers.
Business concludes with shots of tequila.
Palm fronds bat morning air like wings of ascending green angels.
Bright sunrise lifts lavender lids, delivers clear morning.
Scent of vanilla macadamia coffee drifts from the kitchen
Rain storms have passed after stripping trees of their blossoms.
Mist lifts, reveals hills, the cabin-fevered outside and walking.
Tiny lizards skitter across steaming cement, disappear under ginger.
Geese and roosters patrol sodden lawns, forage for breakfast.
At my table, I scribble, unable to capture essence or acuity,
consider tossing in the towel, regrouping poolside.
Pele stirs, kindles volcanic ridge line.
Clouds simmer ominously.
Above bronze ocean, celestial embers.
Storm front rolls ashore, buffets green headlands.
Morning light liquefies, saturated with water.
Demoralized roosters—sodden, bedraggled.
Clingy humidity embraces on contact.
Showers steam against bare skin,bougainvillea, plumeria blossoms.
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