one day, me and the boys will load up the ‘yota/ grab our brews and weed and the speaker and roll right up to the shore/ park the car, pitch the tent, spark the grill, and kanikapila/ to the stars

I asked one of my kids today, “What do you think it would be like to move to another country?” The first he thing he said was, “Well, I would move to California—” and I cut him off. We all laughed for a good while.

If I close my eyes I can imagine myself running my fingers across the streets. The hard grooves between the trees. Like the spaces between carpet fibers. Pressing hard into the spaces, past the fluffy parts. Or like feeling the air between strands of pili grass. Or is it feeling the grass between the strands of  air? Are they different? Smoke too much.

I stand on the precipice, and my world spins as the ocean crashes into the jagged rocks sixty feet below me. I am surrounded by people both living and not, and the pillars holding up the heavens calls to us. I hear the voices of women behind me chanting and the explosions of men landing in the water below me.

Notes on: Carter, Paul. The Lie of the Land. Routledge, 1996.

Playlist: Casual, Chappell Roan.

I’ve started researching for fun I suppose. I felt like writing, just not poetry or music. So, I resolved to read, I guess? Googled some things and found this old book I have never heard of. Like it so far. Hope you aren’t here for an actual review of it. But here are the highlights from the five pages I had time to read:

I woke up with my phone underneath me again. Flush against the middle of my back. I am always forgetting to charge it and running off into my day at fifteen percent. If it isn’t the phone one day, then it is the Apple Watch, or the Macbook, or the Apple pen, or the Airpods; all of these devices I rely on are working too hard to emulate their owner. Don’t start me on the charging the vapes. A poem to warm my cold electronic devices; from my dying electronic device:

I want to drive out into the middle of a clearing in Ewa Beach to hear the clinking of cheap vodka mixers. I want to feel the rita singe the hairs in my nostrils and at the back of my throat. I want to stand awkwardly in the dark, hanging out of cars, smoking cigarettes, and howling into the night like these bitches.

Took an old manuscript and chopped it from 50ish to 20 pages. I like the chapbook as a container. It’s like writing an album; nice and succinct. Listening to GNX by Kendrick Lamar and thinking about Luigi Mangione. Revolution? Why not? Lemme just put these poems out bruh.

I saw the brothers on Halloween. We watched movies and talked a bit about the spirit world. I kind of shut down the conversation. I wasn’t all that interested in exploring astral projection and spiritual callings.

Moses threw a party at Chez Kenzo on Friday night after papa hula. Pili and I rode together in a taxi. I love seeing that man.

It’s morning again. Up too early like always. No one to talk to but the desk lady downstairs when I take the dogs. A man walked past me, dressed entirely in black.

In the morning I spray bleach across the counter and walk the dogs. It’s 5:30 AM on a Sunday, this is kupuna hour. I empty cans of beer and seltzers. I dust off incense and ashes from ledges and pick up pieces of fluff from the floor. Everything is scuffed and sticky.

Low-stakes; nothing to lose in this game. We sit around the bar with too many drinks, more than we need and should have. How-to-play: As the drinks flow, try your best not to sing!