When Perseus threw Medusa‘s head into the sea, the snakes turned algae into stone and coral. A sign of good luck. Rapture of the deep. At the iron gate on the old Pali Road, a Styrofoam cross and a faded red shirt, small black squares like raisins tied to the tip of an ohia tree. I throw píkake blossoms, someone’s abandoned lei.
I can’t get used to the hordes of Japanese tourists doing everything en masse, like the random choreography of starlings. Someone’s remembered suicide, the Pali winds didn’t blow him back up, like in the legend. No reprieve. But even though today there is no wind, the wind is blowing floral offerings to the gods of the sky. A suicide remembered.
Tomorrow is the Fourth of July. And patriotism makes me nervous. Oleg found our graveyards strange. Red flowers equal death on all the graves. A mynahbird pecks at a fallen mango. I’m feeling sorrow for the parting of lovers, the suicide of the heart. The rain is falling like tears—all the clichés to haunt us. Oleg says the sky is the color of his heart turned to stone. The lover’s gaze, an unseasonable summer rain.
Sunset beach—a squall to the west, rain over the ocean, pink from the volcano, Sunset, the golden path of the sun. False calligraphy of clouds. Turtle Bay was murky but along the road, a Chinese man driving a tractor was followed by a cloud of egrets. A white frenzy of wings writing the air with the feast of feathers.
This sunset promises to be a good one, rosiated hue. It was hard to relate to the penguins and the flamingos sharing the same pond at the Waikiki Hilton. Mind boggling.
Marilyn walks along the beach in a red toga matching the sky. The squall deepens into purple and becomes opaque, falls into the secret of the night.
Sunset beach—a squall to the west, rain over the ocean, pink from the volcano, Sunset, the golden path of the sun. False calligraphy of clouds. Turtle Bay was murky but along the road, a Chinese man driving a tractor was followed by a cloud of egrets. A white frenzy of wings writing the air with the feast of feathers.
This sunset promises to be a good one, rosiated hue. It was hard to relate to the penguins and the flamingos sharing the same pond at the Waikiki Hilton. Mind boggling.
Turtle Bay is Mormon territory. White-skinned women who have never seen the sun draped in pahoehoe shawls. The men, with their sharp angulations, look like aa, which is fittingly, male lava.
In the place where I buy my second pareau the owner discusses Japanese buying habits— just as a busload stopped and bought $3000 worth of clothing. Less Japanese here now. The natives are grumbling, but the building racial tension is stanched by the flow of money. We all have our gauntlets. Party boat coming in packed like sardines.
In the place where I buy my second pareau the owner discusses Japanese buying habits— just as a busload stopped and bought $3000 worth of clothing. Less Japanese here now. The natives are grumbling, but the building racial tension is stanched by the flow of money. We all have our gauntlets. Party boat coming in packed like sardines.
Marilyn walks along the beach in a red toga matching the sky. The squall deepens into purple and becomes opaque, falls into the secret of the night.
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