Ice Cream Aloha

The Thirsty

     The island rises from the ocean, covering herself in greenery, repeatedly, for the sake of a recursion of hazy suns. It is a remote archipelago somewhere in the future. More wave functions, continuous, undifferentiated, arrive continually. It receives the falling water, emerald green on the ferns, then more water for the genetic code that lies within, a thirsty algorithm, code written long after the fiery birth. Acts of repeating the code were never meant as an approach to a desirous target, or settling of issues with expected outcomes; only majestic expressionlessness, a massive jungle that still stands in wind-spun sparkles, endless droplets careening off rock, water prisms, the north coastal zone peppered in wetness, flinging into wind spun plummets. It wonders at its own pummeling of the rocks below, the ones with their own reasons, refusing to budge. This perfect genetic machine putt-putts in isolation; a continental shelf yawns beyond the horizon--to the north, more compaction of ancient island chains. The island drips with its ferns on rocks, making her all the more brilliant in constant droplets gushing relentless amidst undefinable gravity--as if inevitably--from mountainsides of empassioned verticalness. Her home is a condolence, outside the narrow zone where land and sea meet. Yes, the island remains safe from the vast ocean (the only entity allowed to eat away at her weakness), she nestles amidst more and more water, shedding a slow percolation to suckle the plants. How lucky to find no divorce with decency here, to be waiting for a new night, a bright moon. How lucky.