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.
After Deluge
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.
Molten
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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