I.
Helicopters buzz
alongside lush-green sea cliffs
through sacred valleys
and over farmland, cutting
through peace and quiet, cutting
through silence like knives
chop, chop, chop, a reminder
of missionaries
sharpening their blades, chopping
the islands like venison
taking everything
from the backstraps to the scraps
while overthrowing
Lili’uokalani
with the help of the Marines.
Ospreys bring to mind
scenes from Apocalypse Now,
somehow we forget
that they still train for something
looking down from the heavens
at people farming
just like in Afghanistan
for seventeen years,
farmers just trying to eat
people just trying to live.
II.
Then there’s the tourists
with Hawaiian Tropic tans
in choppers buzzing
too close to the ground, looking
at life below, not seeing
that the sounds they make
slice away all that remains
of serenity
in a matter of seconds.
Do you think you want seconds?
This venison is
just too damn good to be true
and the dirt is red
and the Pacific is blue
but white lies are in the sky
clouding history
and more than a century
of occupation
calling Hawaii a state,
not a kingdom or nation.
soitgoes1984 