The Hawaiian language has 12 letters which is important to understand particularly if you consider writing an apostrophic poem, not to a person or thing, but to a letter of the alphabet.
It might help to explain why Hawaiian poets never write about zoology or the role that zygotes play in life, and leave zymurgy to the haoles, for native Hawaiians prefer a linear life, free of endless zigs and zags
I don’t imagine I will try and learn Hawaiian any time soon, although with twelve letters, I’d have an easier time of it than Russian, say, but nor will I write an apostrophic poem to the letter Z although I will open a bottle of zinfandel to honor it.
On the razor edge of dreams the periphery of consciousness a face appears, and I am left to wonder who this person is, who he might be. At first he is a child with a pixie cut, a bowl placed over the head, the bangs cut without considering the face peering out and others peering in. But, as sleep washing the last sands of consciousness out to the sea of Morpheus, the face morphs and it is Science Officer Spock who is peering back at me, his ears pointed to the heavens reminding me, as I slip into Morpheus’ orbit that I can yet live long and prosper.
The young man says, “I cannot comprehend how karma can be balanced.” The woman laughs, says, “you remember but I was once a stripper, that I took off my clothes, and being naked in the presence of men was nothing, since to them I wasn’t a person, just an object of momentary desire, but that life is behind me, as you know. But as a healer, my therapies take me to the strangest places, like the swingers’ club which hired me to do massages, and there I was the only one dressed, they were naked and I am certain at that moment karma found almost perfect balance.” “Now,” he laughed, “I have two images I will carry in my head forever.”
I’ve always been a bird person, perhaps it is just jealousy their ability to fly unencumbered, encased, to lift up by will alone. Here it is all about water, the Muscovy ducks waddling up to me each morning, pleading for the handout they should now know will not be forthcoming, at least when anyone else is around to cast disapproving glances or worse, and the coots, pairs swimming in the fountain ponds are not ducks they claim, we of the lobed toes and flashes of white between the deeply set eyes. But above all it is the Egyptian goose his old Jewish man clearing throat honk that catches my ear and not just any old Jewish man, but Billy Crystal as Miracle Max, and I half hope his partner warbles like Carol Kane.