The sky is purple
In Hilo after dark
Above the Innovation Center
By the tattoo parlor,
A 1950's bank building
Like this was Wilkes-Barre
By the paint-dissolving sea.
The Makery is empty,
Its showroom plaster mounds,
A box of nails and a toilet,
Graffiti on the glass:
"No love for snakes,"
A "Thank You for Shopping Here" sign,
Still friendly even in death.
The rooms of the seedy motel
Are now shops like "Asian Wax."
And there's art on every wall,
Galactic, phosphorescent art,
Barely disguised fantasy beings
Staring back through our eyes,
And colorful flyers
On every boarded door:
Gentle birth doana, Maori healing,
Daoist qigong, pau hana,
Sarod and vision board workshops,
Permaculture classes,
"With Cosmic Space for Eternity,"
Bhakti fest, sacred sound,
Candlelight restorative yoga,
Lomilomi massage,
Death as illusion lectures,
The ethereal database
("Future timelines, past lives"),
Nothing open but neon signs.
I had spent the evening
Under a banyon tree
Willing non-attachment
From government housing pathos,
Watching birds form flight arcs of caution
Like galaxy arms
And those of the crazy old Japanese soldier
This morning in Honoka'a
Who said "hello neighbor" to me
Before a profanity laced
Vow to continue his march with suitcase
And not give in to Mount Fuji.
And I lay here now in an attic room
Serenaded by tree frogs,
Wanting to fill the glass Buddha head
With jelly beans.
