palm tree

Electric ukulele strums at the dawn, catching waves and mountain peaks mixed with sunshine sunrise on every sound wave. A Hawaiian Call to Prayer. Breezes are gentle here, the climate is temperate, the sun is warm. The waves are sea-through blue and there is a little glint in your eye, but not of the sun; It is mischievous and playful. And as we lie in this hotel bed, disturbed only by strips of light coming through the ends of the darkened curtain betrayed by its ends where the empty balcony lay, starting to get warmed, I close my eyes and internally wish for five more minutes. The ceiling fan propels quietly, circulating the air in this room that is only a few notches below stifling. You know you must make some excuse. A knock at the door, almost on cue. Hopping up as if propelled by a bolt of electricity, you grab the white terrycloth robe that lays on the chair and tie it around your waist. The knock sounds again. The palm tree wallpaper lines the hallway like a runway to the door. There are coconuts hanging from each one. I wonder if Willy Wonka would subscribe to the idea of scratch and sniff and taste coconut wallpaper. Just to be sure, you approach the design, but as your about the scratch, get distracted by the water stain on the ceiling, snapping yourself back into reality. The knock again. Avoiding the obvious. Not wanting to open that door and have it be some dumb conclusion. I think I must get better at going down to the mine and pick-axing away, even when it gets uncomfortable. Kerouac, though remarkable, and not comparable to whatever this is, could only get so far. But I know nothing. Just some layman’s common knowledge. Tripping over my own feet in the hotel room. Lover stirs and turns in bed. Glancing back, not wanting the dream to be over.