i get in the minibus and i start driving. i wipe the congealed sweat and sunscreen from the windows and start driving. each day melts into the other, and i start driving. i stop at so many hotels and pick up so many people and struggle so against what seems to be an angry flow that when i’m on the road driving to these little preserves of silence and love, i am bound up like a twisted testicle cord and can’t even talk. hawaii is a mystery to me.
or in the morning i ride through the dawn with ring necks migrating in packs of two and four and seven. i round the mango corner and rumble past the ulu. kneed gears come to a halt among the stefanotis and the clouds are pink like an englishwoman’s skin.
or in the afternoon i come upon the garden with feet left among dried sporofitics ferns. the mud takes them home along with laupuaa and the breath.
or, and here is the last of it, as i regain the mountain mist enshrouds the great fruits and a flat plan surrounds me.
and waste, and waste, and waste.
but there is something better i remember as the Monster sweats through me.
there is something better.