the pink hotel was still the queen
the hills looked like a christmas tree
the palms shimmered and the sticky scent of
plumeria lingered on the breeze
the new englander danced
barefoot on the sands and streets
the merchants offered cups of noodles
pineapple slices, leis and garish shirts
next to the club where don ho
slack key and hulu was king
mai tais and teriyaki
tropical dreams
and in the back streets
people who had came from everywhere
lit the bundles of firecrackers
tied to every pole
noise and smoke
for her-initiation
