On Not Flying to Hawaii

I could be the waitress
in the airport restaurant
full of tired cigarette smoke and unseeing tourists.
I could turn into the never-noticed landscape
hanging identically in all the booths
or the customer behind the Chronicle
who has been giving advice
about stock portfolios for forty years. I could be his mortal weariness,
his discarded sports section, his smoldering ashtray.

I could be the 70-year-old woman who has never seen Hawaii,
touching her red lipstick and sprayed hair.
I could enter the linen dress
that poofs around her body like a bridesmaid,
or become her gay son
sitting opposite her, stirring another sugar
into his coffee for lack of something true to say.
I could be the reincarnated soul of the composer
of the Muzak that plays relentlessly overhead,
or the factory worker who wove this fake Oriental carpet,
or the hushed shoes of the busboy.

But I don't want to be the life of anything in this pitstop.
I want to go to Hawaii, the wet, hot
impossible place in my heart that knows just what it desires.
I want money, I want candy.
I want sweet ukelele music and birds who drop from the sky.
I want to be the volcano who lavishes
her boiling rock soup love on everyone,
and I want to be the lover
of volcanos, who loves best what burns her as it flows.

Alison Luterman


Dauphin Street

Recently, I was lucky to be able to join a friend at his friend's downtown loft apartment. I had heard him talk about it before, but I really didn't know what I was missing out on. It is the coolest place to hang out and an absolutely beautiful space. The balcony looks out over Dauphin Street downtown. We were able to sit outside and drink a beer while we watched everyone walking by on their way to and from bars. We made up our own game of seeing who would respond to "hey guh" or "hey boi". I think one or two times I laughed until I cried. I love simple nights like these with good friends and easy entertainment.

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