At the maximum capacity of breath
the dog on the porch in my Hawaii Kai limbo
into divine sediments.
The aeroplane on route to Australia
numbers its days and works in tourist meat.
Beef is transported into paradise;
alone at the top of my solipsistic 44rth floor window
at the Island Colony, I long for Akira Kurosawa to appear
and make his well-handed perspectival escape
into feudal Japanese sentiment over the over-built
scenery in the Rappongi porno districts of Waikiki. Certainly,
we know that love is trench warfare, gives
old and young a massive headache. Rush ye
out into the morning traffic to work, you divine snail.
COMPUTE THE TIME
Compute the time you spread sheet at your NASDAQ computer,
webbed in but aspirin of various sorts are needed
in your multi-mediated head today as the gymnasium
of imported dreams chalks the island with possibility and profit
oh black child island
the animalistic rumors grow
young again, imagine, imagine what could be
over that graveyard mall. Time is leathery substance,
something that whips down upon your quest, all eggs and
bitterness, all eggs and China white persuasion.
Determine where you stand in time, be
discrete, constant, full of mana and charm.
Electricity, I am an English major,
you hold me whipped out and whimpering across the whale-drained cosmos.
SEVEN IMAGES FROM HIDEKO
The contaminated blackboard looms
over avocado ice-cream sunrises
as he makes his way by heart
to the Honolulu international airport.
Past the grimy crimson door
to some lovelorn future.
Oiled penguins lounge in Kyoto
temples, reading day-old newspapers
and stale haiku, reciting the mantra
like a Mercedes headlight.
But today he is reading another freshman
composition on the feasibility
of green mashed potatoes as Irish
solution to world hunger. A few
semi-colons are missing from your argument, kid.
TWO DIME AND A NICKEL
I'm down to two dime and a nickel
and a pencil fight or two here and there on Hotel Street
as I trod the grimy streets downtown like you salary man
tired and mute in my make-believe limousine,
sleepless in a cattle car bound to Santa Barbara
with a SONY television set showing Hawaii Five O
reruns on Mars. The nearest gin bar named Thirteen
Charley would open its wares as rain to the
grinning dead or candied snow to polar bears
in China. But the crash of my one holy life seems
accident of two dimes and a nickel,
more stale donuts in the hands of dead philosophers.
The quest for money calls to the Pagoda motel parking
lot attendants who stand empty as my pockets off a key.
The daydreamingbeast drifts down dirty from Asia
Pacific, cruises the booming Shihlin night markets
lit up into a new infinity of shopper goods, mostly
shirts, cassettes, video dromes; savors the skirts and scents
of Taipei squid near the Grand Hotel, Scorpio
beast that he is. Yet soul
of half-spirit, too, he gazes
up the stuffed streets heavenwards
at epiphany of a huge Mercedes Benz
sign glowing like God's late-capitalist eye
over Taipei, clean geometry
in the midnight traffic jams, come to shop or drop--
gleaming like some promise of postmodernity
over the ten thousand swarming boutiques of Tienmou.