The Critical Conjunction of With

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the soft crash of the shore

trucks parked and dirt paths

mountains made of molehills

and a summer that lasts

can you imagine it?

hundreds, maybe thousands

of Hawaiians trekking to this place

a sacred space

having heard about the beach

with green sand

hoping they will find something

they had forgotten

or never knew

in this life.

that's what magic does

it reminds us

and driving down Big Island

you saw the sign "Big Band Dancing"

and i asked who was doing the dancing?

the band, or the people?

and you laughed and said

they had forgotten the critical conjunction

of with

black beaches that i said

King Kamehameha once walked upon

to gain strength upon his journey, 

and courage

what was a bit more mythology for

a man made of it?

i stole sand because

it was in my nature to take

and you scolded me because

it was in your nature

to save.

past cocoa flowers that take five years

then produce indefinitely

green, then yellow, then black

some red and some orange

cooked in their own juice and sweet

tastes like lychee, smells like vinegar

the purple part has no taste, is bitter

turns black

it is good for you.

a horn sounds off in an abandoned sugar mill

and he says "that's the quitting bell

you can go home

now."

the sun setting on Mauna Kea

everything that fades into 

the sun-blind spot of my heart

the stars that will soon be overhead

the brightest ones have already died and

me left holding the last burning ember

in my hands, the cigar butt lighting

my night. 

after surfing waves without surfers

and coral cuts and snorkels

and sleep, oh Oahu

Dean Martin singing On An Evening in Roma

and you, too, magic

that reminds me that i had forgotten

the critical conjunction
of with

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