the butcher shop, the stopwatch bar and spitting out moonlight

stream inspired by the farm and its lovely people, an old screenprinter's stories, and another emotive old man, island localism, kava, amanda's jaw, slivers of lulled peace and softer slivers of sad

Sometime late September, 2024- steam of consciousness 6- Makawao,Maui,HI

Breath hold practice for the neo-turf narcissists

We grab roots that bleed black and blue

Sun burnt lips humbled again by windy sea

inconsistently consistent

a genuine mastery of fire that falls from sky

For some its romantic to dance in deaths showers

I prefer rosemary, dew of the sea

and experiencing new parts of the people I love unfolding

and native flowers suited for the beaks of native birds.

I’ve been out of practice with frustration

and spilling marmalade

Me gusta llorar por la tarde

que se llene la barba de David con lágrimas

por hoy, lloro y lloro para poder sentir algo

para acompañar al jazz tan lleno de emoción

para bailar la bossa nova con propia tristeza

Tristessa, Tristessa, te amo, no te encuentro

My purpose is to catalog utopia

and plan for Saturns return

and to notice the different speckles of night in each new place

A baby beat me to the star fruit, and grabbed it with a real tight grip

Posterization

Saint Marco

Sugar beach to Ma’alea

To do: read the Tao Te Ching- Zev told me so

The girl with no barrier between emotion and world sniffed the rain before it came and said she loved it

her laugh was the loudest part about her

Ocean erodes from underneath and we break free.

---

The Kalahari bush people check the kitchen first when conflict arises

the food and those that grow it and prepare it are source

but people run to counsel- outsource counseling

butcher shop then the stopwatch bar, then Voodoo stepping and spitting out moonlight

There’s localism and there’s division of people, and misdirected anger at the people bred from the problem but not the problem themselves- far away stares and empty eyes are noticed by the quiet ones, the observers of truth

I notice my friends hands are starting to look more like my mothers- with thinner skin and thicker veins and a more profound white around the knuckles- still strong and beautiful and taut- but different

My harmonicas full of sand again

i want to harmonize with cosmic law and wave the prayer flags of many colors over desolate terrain that still belongs to the bees

I need the tool to knead my knots to fill and squeeze out what breath can’t

I haven’t heard wind chimes in a while, or any sort of bell for that matter

it’s been more of a sinking, lately, taking place

comfort found in old high school shorts that were never mine, Waikoko coconut water and the smells of night time pollinators

A swing set made me nauseous today but falling sixty feet was exhilarating- go figure

thank you for spending time here :)