What is called ignorance is also called bliss here.One heady sip of fake coconut,an artificial high             sliding up the crown,investigating the cell structure,the bloodline, the intelligence,the ability to adapt in weathered environments—A party is just a party. And the head is just a country.Where forgetting all responsibilities is a form of adoration.Where tiki bar banana flames pursue the senses.Where the foreground is a façade for taking flattering pictures.There is no way to get out, but there is a way to fall hard.Like falling for a French or Spanish soldier, or being claimed by one in a violencewhile the waves turn their veiled heads toward the moon and the moon minds its share.If you break this body open, you will catch sight ofa jagged continent, fresh as a raised tattoo,inside of                    a bright, white underbelly,inside of                    a chest hoarding the only clue to a family crest,inside of                    a plantation wedding loose with                                       ghosted hydrangeas and one bone dress,inside of                    an opening onto a field,a bliss here,                    like a sugar skull eyeshadow look,                    like a luxury seventeenth-century pattern on a powder room wall,                    like one apology for all Hawaiians from Dole company,                    as well as                   the suppression of language through the shearing of braided hair,                   the suppression of language through philanthropy,                   the suppression of language through the renaming of art and archival objects,                   the suppression of language through talks of money                   and fine new establishments at the peak of popularity.                   Interior of restaurant says: If you like piña colada, or vintage Cuba,                   or vintage Vietnam, or vintage India, or the scent of any island,                   then try this mai tai or mojito variant on a remake of the original rattan chair                   in a smoking glass, or open this tropical                   treasure chest right here as it grasps onto old Puerto Rico,                   and the drunk side of Cancún, and all this valet, waiting for you.