And then there was orange, glinting in a pile from the ground outside my second story window. I sit and count the scattered papers on my bedroom floor, thinking, "Maybe someday the past and present will meet," though I know full-well that they already have. Now it is twofold, it is insult to injury, it is twenty seven eleven.
We are lies, aren't we? We are thankful for the unknown. My father sips scotch and devours the truth. I catch my connecting flight and travel back in time. The man in the blue coat is replaced by the man in the black hat, the man with the feather hat, and the man with naught but war paint. It is like the movies, I decide. I settle on a log bench and read the classifieds in the newspaper.
Mother and father tell me to count my blessings as if they are sheep. I tell them that their analogy is flawed. Morning comes and I tie a string around my ring finger, proclaiming, "I am here to collect thanks! Bring out your wish lists and your tattered diaries!" I am a liar; I am thankful for nothing but sickness and ink. I write "twenty seven eleven" three hundred times and vow to make a difference. I fill my car and my fridge and roller blade up the mountain, chanting, "Noa! Noa! 'Oia'i'o! A'ole mahalo nui!" My cries go unheard and I sulk back down, a landslide for the ages.
I begin to write poetry that oozes pretension and reflects obsession. I try to pronounce the disease and instead find myself bound to a table crushed by feast and fear. I have written "twenty seven eleven" on my forehead and am forced to listen to the "Lord"s and "grateful"s and "God"s and I have had enough.
I break free and head for reason.
more old poetry, this time from 2009 the hawaiian in stanza 3 translates to "freedom! freedom! truth! no thank you!"