Red, White, and So-Blue

July 3, 2009

Ninety degrees of separation from gelid cacophony,
Flaxen hair, nutmeg-skin dolls loll on blankets, easy.
Mocha sands lay homage to well-weathered, freckled shells.
Beneath regal palapas, imbibing passion fruit iced tea,
Gringos soak in the gentle gust and fresh seawater smells.

Discord oscillates with negative twenty arctic eupnea.
Ninety degrees removed from cloud nine inbred panacea,
Emerges a shadow of a plebian in solemn icy embrace.
Her desolation fills its own crestfallen art galleria
Of detritus visuals drifting like sand away from this place.

To where crimson-on-cream women wink a cocoa-eye,
And wave to well-toned caramel-skin men sauntering by.
All let cerulean surf tumble in, calming like ancient rime,
Not wary that palm oasis has masked the nightingale cry.
Ninety degrees of separation apart, is a scene less sublime.

She pleads for a single peso, for a bond that was never born,
Grasping a cylinder encasing an abortion, revoked and torn.
Sunken eyes askance, them scrawny vagabonds… same.
Freemen brewed, tyrants quaffed in a party freedom sworn.
Like corn in the reapers, invitations drown in the flame.

As the exhaust belches its morning blues anew the snow,
Such porcelain, alabaster splendor is tainted with dour woe.
She looks up and wipes away fresh tears or sweat perhaps.
“Palm oasis, so-blue sky… where are you?” She bellows below,
Bathed in toil and labored breath, depressed under glacial caps.

There is something vaporizing from her shoddy shroud,
Through alleys of cobwebs with tatters and tins endowed.
Sunken by shame, and clearing for comfort, on fiscal iota,
Past vain valor, exploding in this warrior’s mushroom cloud,
Particles meeting particles from ninety degrees distant utopia.

She has fancied this mist since she discovered her reality,
As a shadow among gleaming urban lights of vitality,
Since she kneeled on Winter solstice, begging to know,
Whispering to the Wind if it can learn Wave’s hospitality,
That heartens the Gringos, with its lulling ebb and flow.

Such slumber, this indolence, mojito and margarita in tanning hands!
As we dine epicurean, in the comforts of clover to soothing trance,
The patio table shakes, the riedel glass topples over with the buko pie.
Fast spreads the gale’s shady pall; its furtive eyes shoot me a glance.
Yet Freedom’s teacup stands halcyon, in honor of the Fourth of July.