Honolulu Frankenstein

I walk carefully
watching for the sharp rocks
that might bite into the tender
soles of my feet.
You said, and I quote,
something about never loving me
so here I am

It's funny how I'm always
expecting more Florida
seagulls here, but not the subtle
scents of tropical fruits
growing like discarded ruins
peeping over the back walls
of people's houses.
Even in the most dirty alleyways
you can see splashes of
poinsettas hovering over flickering
back porchlights I tell you,
sometimes it's enough to
make me sick

I've come here to look for
the albatrosses. Here at this
supposedly holy point at the tip
of the island, easy huh, but
I feel lost. Pillboxes
now serve as graffiti posters
of the brave new world my
grandfather fought for
and I know I should be offended
but somehow I can't be.
The seagulls that are here
can't be said to lack
for their sense of humor, but
still I feel I must press on.

The waves crashing on
the only beach I've seen on this
quest were unsurprisingly filled
with the other people off the beaten path,
nudists and lovers, lone surfers
of some skill - I suppose the
rocks lurking beneath the shallow
surf might scare away the timid.
I don't even remember who told
me about this, a sanctuary I guess,
for birds, great big honking birds.
Albatrosses. Painted oceans.
I'm drenched in brine, nursing a limp
from my big toe and watching
warily over my shoulder every
moment to brace myself for the
next wave. Painted ocean my ass

I wish I knew something
that could have made it better,
but somehow I think it could
never be any better than it was
Past tense already? I wish
is such a cop out - right?
because winners don't wish
for things, they make them happen.
I wonder if I'm beaten,
and if that's the reason I've
come to see the albatrosses.
Fuck, I don't even remember
what the albatross was supposed to
mean except that in the end it was
dead and the old man was a pariah.
Maybe that's what I've come here to do,
kill the stupid endangered birds and
justify my self exile.

Though I admit, if you're going to
exile yourself this isn't a bad place
to be. I'm not too far gone to completely
escape the sunsets and jiggling suntanned
boobs everywhere I guess, but I'm not
in bliss either like the young punk
soldiers who come drifting in and out
of the bar like loud clumps of feeder fish
to oogle the oriental eyes and make
bad old jokes new again while they
sweat out the hoo-ah testosterone
Uncle Sam-eness and tremble to regain
their ex-indentities as average
dropouts and not our Apple Pie Ubermensch.
What good would it do?
I've come to paradise not to coddle my old
memories but to exorcise them. Toss the torches
you angry mobs and burn down the
Castle Frankenstein already, I'll make no more
monsters of myself anymore.