Moss Covered Steps

Remarkable steps

ecologically aware

curled meditation.

Private Dancer

Sly and the Family Stone reverberates in the background.

I Want to take you High---er! Hi—gh—er!

Boom shaka lacka lacka---boom shaka lacka lacka !!

The darkness throbs and then a
spotlight flashes illuminating
her four inch spikes
all aglitter as her
well defined stems wrap the pole center stage, inching their way up
heels first, towards the dark dusty paper-mache ceiling.

Swirling lights and a throbbing deep-tone tease the regulars as
her voluptuous implants bounce
and her trim
athletic form swings and slides
gracefully
swirling, twirling
thumping, bumping, writhing and smiling to the beat.

Just another sultry artist with pouty red lips
and no tan lines.

High-priced minutes tick by as
thick mascaraed lashes and smoky eyes
slice through the fog, combing for dead presidents
as they salute a beautiful flower
in full bloom, as she eyes a dirty clock
and competes with
younger more fragrant flowers
showing up late for the dinner rush
and now shielded by burly men
in dark corners.

Daylily

Large showy flower

Used in hot and sour soup

medicinal fare.

Water Lily

Sacred water nymph

rooted in lively fishpond

shows genuine smile.

Wasted Words-Rictameter

My comments on war!

Truckloads

of wasted words

line up on back lots, march

past shelled stone facades and down bleak

alleyways seeking young inquisitive

souls trapped in constipated minds

prone outside wisdom’s door

drenched in bullshit

scratching.

Rictameter is a scheme similar to Cinquain. Starting your first line with a two syllable word, you then

consecutively increase the number of syllables per line by two. i.e. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10 Then down again,
8, 6, 4, 2 Making the final line the same two syllable word you began with.

Sentinels

Giant knobby pines

guard Kalihi Valley Park

old rumination.

Last Train Home--Chinese Documentary

Last Train Home--Chinese Documentary


We met at eleven
on a Wednesday
for a Chinese movie
preceded by a fat American
lunch at the Pavilion cafe.

Overfed in our luxury as we
observed the spirit of these dynamic people with
backs bent in two, using simple tools
to farm and rebuild cities, to live in squalid
closet-size rooms for decades, and send money home
to finance dead dreams, to children who don’t understand why.

To children who just want their mommy and daddy to tuck them in at night.

To forsake what we would call normal.

Young couples who have to leave home at an early age
leave their babies to work in factories
to make jeans for spoiled Americans with 40 inch waistlines
until their fingers are bent
until they have become so numb
that they no longer remember
how to speak to their own children.

Migrant workers trapped in their nightmare lives
breathlessly pushing
against the mob
for days
for a train to take them back to
sons and daughters
who live in tiny shacks with grandma
reeking of
inadequate plumbing
looking to escape the duty of being first in their class.
Frustrated lonely children searching for an alternate life
away from their parents’ stark reality.
Sharp children still wide-eyed
more impatient as each year passes
for mommy and daddy’s annual visit.