Mushroom selling mystics
trade round headed vision buttons
for greenbacks or sex.
Sand flies tear at your
flesh, tiny prehistoric gymnasts,
dancing on parts you never knew you had
in pressure cooker wetness and heat.
An old expatriate with eyes
the locals called demon eggs,
bangs rabid jumbled words
on an ancient typewriter of mourning.
Your hotel in the jungle,
through barking dogs miles,
shadowy palms casting nightmarish visions
across the white sand haunted roads.
Morning sky pounds you through
windows ten feet tall and wide
glassless save for jagged shards,
overlooking the pool filled with twisted metal and lumber,
where once tourists floated like spoiled red walruses,
with thick insulating hide to protect against
the wide eyes children's gapping stares.
In this three dollar a night wreckage
of this resort twenty years past dead,
you sift through another sort of ruins
also twenty years in the making.
A tedious renovation
of long hand filled notebooks,
silent hours gazing over the sea,
a placid yet angry tabula rasa
greening with projections
and agonizing agape lessons.
The buzzards fly side by side
with the sea gulls, the dreams swiftly
following shifting sweaty nightmares.
When they become indistinguishable from one another,
from yourself, it will be time to go home.
A kiss under revolution monument,
a moment stolen, hidden even from the dark.
You can hide among the 25 million only if clever.
The collective eye watches like
a stern chaperon, or a hawk searching for food
Watch over your shoulder even in pleasure!
The father who wants you to be good,
to find a solid man who works hard
and does not beat you,
would shudder at this, as you do now,
your skirt hiked, panties parted to the side,
the revolution has been won.
(C) 2002 Rich Furman