Last Halloween in Hawaii
A wave breaks in a place that is half as deep as the wave is tall.
If the rail is too low, you claw into the curl;
if it’s too high you become the world’s least rad rhino-chaser--straight into the soup.
The ultimate middle finger is to leave with your name,
carve it with an ice pick,
jagged as Jagger, across the back of Jeff Beck‘s guitar like Tina Turner did--
because Jeff is cool enough to love that the way any honest man should.
Meanwhile, the sleaze who tried to invent you with said name,
on a continent you gave him no less,
is still running the same tired, back-alley barf-game. (Yeah, okay barno!)
He’ll only ever be remembered as the Bucks Fizz version of “What’s Love Got To Do With It.”
The gross kind of hot-dogger. Never a wave-slider.
One who had to pull leashes to win.
And these are the comments of his friends.
Over here, I am shimmying down the stages he didn’t have the crest to ever set foot on.
We always knew I had the sand, didn’t we?
Telling them to keep the current under me,
I keep the pulse in my pocket.
I’m just about ready to get more than compliments for all of this,
about to cash in on every single thing you missed.
I’ve studied hard and I’ve learned
even tame impalas have to run fast to catch their connections.
Kevin Parker said:
“there are definitely things that have disappeared that would have been great.”
The greatest of all is that I know you’re not one of them.
The second is wavelengths like him made me know it wasn’t too late.
Dana Miller is a wicked wordsmith, giggling provocateuse, and mega-melomaniac from Atlanta, Georgia. Her poetic syllables like to trundle in the wilds—usually in search of a smackerel or two. On their way, they have found themselves featured in Postscript Magazine, Better Than Starbucks, Fairy Piece, Sledgehammer Lit, FERAL: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Small Leaf Press, and Nauseated Drive. When not wielding a lethal pen, Dana adores surf culture, Australian grunge rockers, muscle cars, Epiphone guitars, glitter, Doc Martens, and medieval-looking draft horses with feathered feet. Oxford, England is her spirit-home and Radiohead is holding the last shard of her girlhood heart.