when the mountains
begin
to stand tall
and grow families
and a two story home
subs for skyscraper heights
and when SUV windows
suck my hair
in the wind
everything
everywhere
has a bit more
beauty
and when a red dirt road
eats
a paved painted highway
at ninety miles an hour
with music loud
and windows down
and a bump for every beat
and I see, to my right
a homemade graveyard
crooked stones, sienna mud
rain cracking in the sun
and everything
everywhere
seems a little less grave
and when my flip flops
maybe “slippers”
crunch the dead grass
and a wild dog greeting
is feeding at my feet
and Dusty and friends spill
from their
solar powered shack
in straw hats
and ocean bathed lips
kiss hello
on cheeks surprised
and everything
everywhere seems
a lot more
surreal
and when I hear
the dogs had puppies
ten, now seven
three are gone
and I ask why
to the reply that maybe
this guy
Wild Bill
had maybe handled
them too hard
and to the right I see
his truck
army style, single star
full of guns and talent
where his skinny
Veteran
body
lives and sleeps
and paints
and camps
and paints
and hides from guests
on land outside
and suddenly everything
everywhere
seems a lot
more wild
and when I walk
the creaky stairs
stepping over wild cats
through a doorless entry
welcome
into wooden tiny rooms
so packed
and in the back, she stares
from canvas brushed to life
four hundred dollars of Pele
with volcanic angry eyes
and on the right, his newest piece
with two surfers
three seconds from swallowed
petrified
but alive
from worn in
wild hands
and in that room
in the back
of the shack, six eyes stare
and I stand
and they glare
and slowly everything
everywhere
it’s starting to
erupt
and when I try to
comprehend
Wild Bill
and Dusty’s home
and when I spin around
and breathe the air
and learn it like a sponge
and when I try to wrap
my mind around
this place so far
from home, I know
there’s more
onshore
this lava land
than Honolulu knows.
