On a distant Hilo Highway,
crest of a church roof flashing, garish neon, “Jesus Coming Soon.”
The hotel room with mismatched wallpaper and Dixie Cup decor.
Golf balls ricochet off black volcanic rock inches below the surface.
Things are not as they appear.
Hippies dwell in crude trailers,
isolated in the bush, growing what they grow.
Lava flows restlessly to the ocean, rising steam clouds,
looks like hell.
Sea turtles sleep along a coral head angle parked, like in a prairie town.
Urchins perversely pierce my foot on the day before the shark bit,
but did not kill, the morning surfer. Lying still, an arc of stitches
on display.
The aging waitress gives a wink.
Planes of tourists keep flying in.
Nude sunbathers wrinkled brown
come to worship in Paradise town.
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