Sunday, April 23, 2017

When she gives you silence.


Reach in

Do not be a body made of hands. Do not reach out to hold everything around you. Holding cannot keep what will not be kept. Do not try to carry what will not be carried. It will only make you heavy with your body made of empty hands, holding nothing. Reach in. Do not show your sleeves made of hearts. Do not show what you cannot get back. Do not be disappointed. Do not be what disappoints. Do not. Do not. Do. not. be. this. way.


Friday, October 7, 2016

After you

Before you
I was a never ending
Ream of words

I was mornings unfolding to greet the day in language
In metaphor
In the rhythm of my thoughts bouncing off my keyboard

After you
I am never quite sure
Of the right word to say 
I am terrified of paper
I am apprehensive of anything proposing its own permanence
I am looking for exit signs
In all the pretty girls eyes

I am looking for you
And the wind
In everything I do

After you
I am forgetting the names to my favorite songs
I am turning the melodies inside out
Pulling the words out from the spine
slow and one at a time

After you
I am without
Everything I thought was
I am no language
I am foreign tongue
I am tone deaf 
I am too quiet
I am removed from my hands
I am full of salt

after you
I am not mine


Friday, July 24, 2015

Love letter to Pōhaku:

Inspired by Noʻukahauʻoli Revilla 

4 to fill the mouth
to stop the hunger
from foaming over
2 for each palm
ʻiliʻili keeping rhythm
craddled between tight fingers
thousands for the ahu
the paia
 – the ala nui

1 million ʻai pōhaku emerging from ʻāina and ocean
protest passed carefully between generations

chewing rocks for water

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Warm Welcoming Fire: For America

I cannot write
another name / his body sunken
I cannot stand
the weight, another brown boy is
hanging / I cannot breathe
this generation’s inheritance
the choking stench of violence persists
this accumulated death of the innocent

so instead I watch as we take
the pens and signs
throw our hands
the voices
and prayer
we open
our palms crying
don’t shoot


count the syllables and cities who home the buried
who mourn the dead and dying
Whose breath is held
Still waiting
for justice

Count the times
We have watched the master’s call for massacre
Held our young and brown closer
Shielding our children from this wildfire
Of slaughter turned acquittal

Remember the young men
Remember America’s promise
Kept secret from their opened hands

Today we light this foundation
that allows for the protection of the killing
and the dishonor of the dying
we burn with the skin and bones of our children
but not forgotten


what will change this country
if not a young man
shot porous
his open palms’
broken promise
his burial’s
warm welcoming fire


Sunday, October 12, 2014


ʻĀpuakenui is licking her lips across Koʻolau’s spine
And I watch as their Uhi falls down her curves and floods the muliwai

ʻĀpuakenui is tracing her fingers across the open shell of a crowning tsunami
And I am a recollection dissolving
Trying to (re)member the way you and I once shaped moana

ʻĀpuakenui is flooding light into the breeching bay of Heʻeia
Catching Oama between the webs of her toes
And I am holding my ea at the base of this Manawa
Waiting for your ʻŌpihi lips to bring me home

ʻĀpuakenui is shaking the ʻōpua free from her seaweed hair
Shaping sky for her promiscuous arc
And I am two palms opened to akua
Trying to catch the iʻa that fall from her scalp

ʻĀpuakenui is crying
Waling for a lover who wont return
And I am wet with longing for you

E kuʻu hoa ʻōpua o Hōpoe,

            Not even all this beauty
Shedding itself around me
misting this palapalā
Can distract from my longing for your lips
Sweet like the ʻiwi of ʻōpihi

After the tongues first taste

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

To Wet your scales: NOtes on missing you from Lānaʻi

To Wet your Scales: Notes on Missing you from Lānaʻi

Pressing my lips together
I remember your shedding skin
The way your scales clatter as they fall to the floor around us
I pull you
Gently with one hand
Tighten my wrist around your waist
I want to inhale these pieces before they fall
Before the new body is covered and dazzling around you

As you shed
Yesterdays falling from your body
Like water dripping off cold wax
You remind me
To love a moʻo wahine
One must always be prepared to shift
And take shape

I am not so flexible
So I hang on
Hoping not to be left behind
My fire dries you
Iridescent flakes, the shape of un-kept promises shake and fall to our feet

The closer I come
The more
You dance into new shell,
And I wonder
How to touch you
And not evaporate your wet
To pull you inside of me
And not take
But build