Hawai‘i Literature & Art
— Since 1978 —
He paid for one night with his last twenty hidden away in his otherwise empty wallet the gallon of cheap red weighed heavily in the brown paper bag, stuck between a dog-eared copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s Tamerlane and Other Poems by a Bostonian one of only 50 copies printed long ago he had found…
One thing about owning an old car is that it gives you a good excuse to spend hours poking around wrecking yards, archaeological sites of great interest and value as repositories of automotive truth. Having just excised two adjectives from that sentence, I’m wondering whether to put them back in and whether I should find…
Distant feral squeals. Backyard dogs losing their minds. PAH! The rice pau cook.
To complete the Carlsbad Experience, cavewalkers are encouraged to return at sunset to watch clouds of bats emerge from the depths of orifices far beyond the gentle limits of our polite walk, their nightly maraud of the desert sky. Affirmative. I shall return, but in the meantime I’ll find a quiet place at the back…
It’s becoming a bit obvious that I need to talk to somebody — anybody will do, anybody who will deign to put up with the likes of me. The radio might tide me over, if I could get it perking, but even at full volume there’s not a hint of static. Maybe I should get…
figured it’s time to visit Zippy’s again not the restaurant the take-out, where food is less expensive and you can still sit down if you so desire the cashier was pretty but about fifty years beyond my age group I ordered my favorite chili and cheese fries the cheapest way to seriously add calories and…
I wrote like a madman Poured my whole soul into it At least what I thought was my soul Didn’t answer the phone Forgot to shave and didn’t brush my teeth Struggled to find my muse in the bottle Only to get drunk earlier than usual Strived to make great literature Out of the mad…
Ha-wong! Or would that be kara-whong!? Just what sound does a meteor make when it plows full-speed into hard desert rock? Anything like the Smack! of horsehide on cowhide of a Big Jim Wilson fastball to the open pocket of a catcher’s mitt? Of course I jest. It’s more like the sound of one giant…
Lucky for me, the car never hit the bike and the ditch flattened out to cushioning undergrowth. My great black Dutch ditch-bike was a girder on wheels, impervious to bending or breaking, and, like a full-body splint, all my guts and gizzards stayed more or less securely in place while lightly skimming over the handlebars…
Nothing much going on botanically as far as I can tell, but the truth is, Northwest greenie that I am, I can’t tell much. Drifting along, tumbleweed’s love to the ground, etcetera sounds great from Pioneer’s Sons, but I’d sure like right now to hug a smelly, fat-barked old Douglas fir. Protection. Security. Aspiration. The…