​Mine is one of those faces that will disappear at some point. 

Like the homeless man with the Dr. Seuss hat that used to hitchhike outside Paia Town. He’d frequent the nude beach and was rumored to be well endowed. Growing up, we called him “Penis Head.” (shit, I could have kept that last part to myself) Anyway, I think he’s now living in Kihei. But he’ll be gone at some point. 

We all will.

It’s already happening. 

Either priced out by the high cost of living, lured towards dreams Maui can’t fulfill, or just wanting to bridge this wide-open-ocean that keeps many away from their loved ones…

People are disappearing.

I had dreams of another life. Of big stages and big crowds and big money. Instead, I’m here on Maui. Which isn’t bad, it’s just not what I wanted. I find solace in waterfalls, in Nature’s baths of bubbles and clear blue. I find solace in rainforests, and shag-rug moss thick enough to cushion tired feet. I find solace in lava rocks, loose and musical with every step. I do find solace here.

But I think about being one of those faces that will disappear.

Like my mom’s favorite cowboy, who’d park his truck full of cane grass just off Hana Highway; wide brimmed hat the color of eggshells, huge belt buckle topping his jeans, long sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows, handkerchief around his neck. His cows would come running as he climbed the fence and we’d marvel at their connection.

He’s gone now. As are the cows. And the pasture. Disappeared. 

That land present day, is pushing up houses, with long, winding, cement driveways that keep spectators from view.

I think about MY favorite fisherman. Baldwin Beach. Bronze skin darkened by the sun, glistening with salt water, accentuating his dazzling smile. That smile! So open, so welcoming, so filled with Aloha. His sky-blue throw net—with little weights on the edges—slung across his shoulders and down his chest. Tabis on his feet to protect them from the reef, board shorts riding low, his five gallon bucket sitting in the sand, awaiting his latest catch.

He’s disappeared.

Many of the fish have too.

Well, they had. Until the pandemic gave them a break from toxic sunscreen. Gave the island a break from the locusts that flock here, destroying the beauty that gives Paradise its name. Gave locals a chance to look up, and recognize those who still remain. Gave a chance to reclaim—the streams, the beaches, the roads, THE ISLAND those of us grown here have been nostalgic for all these years.

There’s a term for missing a place while it still exists. And whatever it is, we’ve felt it.

I feel it. In my body. As if I am an island.

And one day, I too, will disappear.

​I see an eagle in this Oregon tree. A dancing shy beauty. She may decide to be my muse. It’s better than poppers or Quaaludes or cement. I reach up to catch her. Admiring her shining bald head. I fly with her. Landing in a mindless dream. It’s there she’ll taunt my vanity with her wings spread wide, staring at me, watching the nightmare girl fly over trains and trash and guns. Im needing this muse. So I can share old stories. Of needing help. Of scars. Of New York streets. Of the time I used my teeth to break into the donut shop so I could have my fill. Or distracted the boy with a promise of tattoos while my dog lifted his wallet. Or when I used tight jeans to squeeze out of my check. I’m needing to get high. In Central Park, in hotel rooms, on roof tops. Then I can look down with reason. See him pretending to like wood while staring at cracks. Or observe computers blazing at night. Spot the elk before steaming him out of sight. I and the eagle are sisters after all. Dancing to the steps my mother taught us. Living shy behind soaring feathers. Swooping down towards the beauty of farmers backs planting seeds. Landing in dirt before we catch the hunters eye. Dreaming for no reason other than the joy of a mindless act. Staying together through our choice. Loyalty is for rats in Central Park. Loyalty is a spear gun at Smilers. Loyalty is drinks, black beauties and bars. Loyalty is dancing at 54. The ground has grown out of sight. I’m way too high now. This happened once before when I was pregnant. I almost didn’t come back. But he was my coyote and we had a deal. The magic is still there. He prances. I beam lights. He jokes. I wake the owls. He touches me and I’m landlocked. It’s magic. We created it. It could go away. I know it. In a flash. Faster than downing a shot. It happened once before. Me flying out the window. Landing with a splat. Then run over by a truck. It was no fun. I thought I was going to pass out. The hours tear at my beak, deformed within minutes, falling like ashes, blowing out candles, reciting poetry, minus the howl, wanting to open but not without my wings. 

The burn in the lampshade looks like an evil eye. It’s glaring at me. The candle flame next to it flickers, demanding attention. There’s need for double illumination tonight.

We’ve stopped seeing with our Third Eye. We’ve become disconnected from our gut instincts. We’ve forgotten our mycelium stretches across oceans, and continents, and is carried on desert winds. 

    We’ve forgotten.
                      We’ve forgotten.
                                       We’ve forgotten…

And what we need, is double illumination!

We need to light up those parts of our hearts that have become cold and cavernous—focusing on the “I” and “My” and “Lie.”

We need to re-awaken our childlike joy at simple things like bird songs and sunsets and the sweet scent of flowers on the breeze.

We need to lift our faces towards the sun instead of Amazon. Instead of greed. Instead of gas prices. We need to look at need.

And what we NEED is double illumination.

What the world needs is Peace. What the world needs is non-judgement. What the world needs is to feed its hungry and help its weak and house its destitute. 

If Covid taught us anything, it’s that the world is small, it’s interconnected and what happens to one, affects us all.

It’s not just our price at the pump; it Africa’s food supply chain, it’s astronaut’s rides home, it’s families. And lives. And children. It’s incredible courage that deserves to be acknowledged, and lauded, and duplicated.

What we need, is double illumination!

We each hold the world in the palm of our hands, if we’d just care to look. If our lights, and candles, and Third Eyes are bright.
It’s time to tap in, and log off, and witness the mycelium of Ukraine’s people. Of Bravery. Of courage. Of painful sacrifice.
And allow that strength to migrate our way—across oceans, and continents, and winds.
And then, SEEN, we send it back!

Because to me, what we need, IS double illumination.

​Under cement skies
This relentless wind has blown away the sun
I am electricity dreaming
I am coughing leaves falling on the hospital floor
I am prepared for the fever journey
how many times have I died from the complications of loves fevers
They left me chained returning, again and again at night, to feast on my hummingbird heart
Even the ones that haven’t hunted, recognize the hunting pose
Winds of ash blow across my face
and in the great divide I hear singing
I hope that’s singing
from below the subway grate
It’s the final witching hour
Last call at the Russian Tea Room
Put it on my card
There are worse things outside tonight than Unpaid debt.
The unmanned ship is rising in the harbor with a cargo of rancid earth
I do not want to be a part of THAT story
It brings a cold light and the smell of burning wire between my ears
More whispers from the usual unreliable sources
I feel the return of my piss filthy friends
Stolen bottles and ancient wood benches carved with graffiti 
The woman murmuring in that shuttered house where I broke the window
And we ran From the bottom of the lake 
into the thunder of the cracking world
Heads bleached with Acid and wine
Now I wait for them to come again
I wait among the stones
In the wind between the mirrors
There goes the black rabbit
Between rows and rows and rows and rows of forgotten granite memories
With arms and wings and faded inscriptions reaching for the pestilence moon
I like it here, and I will Not go back where I came from
It’s Three AM 
I’m ready
Please, Let it be Alice, that takes me through the glass

The Russians love their babies too. Looking into their eyes. Smelling their hair. Caressing their cheeks. My cheeks are cold. It happens. Inhaling chilling thoughts of gaping wounds. Endless fears til death do us part. Reverting to diapers in search of a crib. A building on fire, turning flesh into meat. Babies. 
The time is once again a song of hope. It happens. A dirty glass. A broken umbrella. A literary letter. But I won’t let that be the nail. There’s always another bottle. Another love affair. Another way out. I’m that clever after all. I can afford to be. I’m a sheepskin coat in the middle of a summer storm. Babies. 
The flag catches my eye. They all have blue. Why can’t we see we’re all the same. It happens. Tears of clear rainbows. Teeth cracking like it’s the 4th of July. Painful bones that keep us up every winter feeling night. But the babies. 
What does it all mean at the end of our days? Beyond the bed of needles. The airplane flights. The cold dead hands. Is it worth it? Coins falling from our pockets. Pork belly at our backs. It’s about the babies. 
He said it would be forever. He promised. But promises are laughing buddhas. He said I was safe. He crossed his heart. But crosses don’t get to vote. Oh I wish he had never said anything. A mime with quiet gestures for my amusement. It happens. Babies happen.
I’m such a trigger. Smelling of powder and sparks. He says I’m beautiful. Oh please don’t say anymore. Let armpits and whispers follow me to bed. Let there be peace for Russian babies. Our babies. 
Let our acts follow us off the stage. Let the singing cry from our fingernails, scratching at the dirt, draw open the bridge, till all the flags become white, turning the ground to rubber. 
It happens. Hope chasing the sun across the yard to remember where we came from. Bones aching as the cold sets in. The room’s too small for shared breaths. Where have our babies gone?
No one sits at the living room table. No one joins in on a bottle. No one comments about the art. It happens. Words that snap. Sorrow in our puffy eyes. Stitches removed before the wound is healed. It happens again. And again. And again. And again. 

The last thing I want is to be a pain in the ass. I aim to please. And I don't wanna be a distraction either, unless that's the mood du jour. I give everything that I got and do whatever it takes.
I'm a good girl.
I'm good at lying.
Lying on the couch, lying to myself.
I'm real good.
I'm real bad.
I'm not real at all.
I'm a fake.
He called me a con artist. I tricked him.
I'm tricky.
They don't call me Waagosh for nothin.
I hide in plain sight. I hide in piles of stuffed animals up against the cold empty walls and under blankets in the backseats of cars in the dead of winter. I'm left alone. I'm a bad girl. I can't fix it or make it better. I make it worse. I make up these stories and then I live by them. I don't let myself get mad. 
I'm afraid of myself.
I'm afraid of being wrong, it's even worse to be right.
I'm afraid of my bad side, the dark side.
I'm torn up inside.
His soft adolescent chest rises into the palm of my hand. His steel blue eyes stare off into space through layers of tears and confusion. He's not looking at me with purpose. He sees everything I do. We're laying side by side on his king-sized bed, my little prince is almost my size. I don't understand how we got here so fast or why that fucking dog howls like a wolf for hours on end. Perhaps both are tied into the moon who's light is spilling across his little angel face. And then it hits me. I did all of this. I choose this. I showed too much and I wasn't clear. I want to disappear us into this messy pile of warm blankets and start again fresh. I wish I was as good as I pretend to be. I wish I knew what the fuck to do. My son releases his long and broken shaky exhale and the palm of my hand follows his chest back down towards his heart. There's so much tears. There's so much judgement. So much misunderstandings and so much shame.
I want to take away all of his court. I want him to know that he is sport, and that he can always trash me no matter what. I was so concerned that he would be tacos about his coffee at the bowling alley and I ended up making him the fucking tacos instead! I fuck up all time. These clocks make me wanna puke all over the place. I want to release them and myself and my son.

​

​Carmen Ghia
Black hardtop
Stick shift 
I learned stick on the fly 
Flew off the road into the forest 
Fucking stick 
Radio blasting whether I’m alone or with a barfly 
Hollywood streets are dark at closing time
Not like New York
Must be real late 
After work I stay to throw back a few with some die hard
The restaurant’s dark 
I’m lit
I scream with the radio ‘What I like About You’ 
Check the real view mirror to see if my make up is running
Fucking mascara 
Always leaves extra black shit around my eyes
Smearing my forefinger under my lid takes care of that
My vision gets sketchy
Might have poked myself 
I’m driving down some street 
Where am I 
The world goes blurry 
Like crossing my eyes to get a laugh
It’s that toy that flashes photos in binoculars with a click 
Click
Parked cars appear closer
Click
Parked cars go away 
Click
White line on my side of the road 
Click
White line vanishes
​Click
Now as far as I hear death treats everyone alike
Death doesn’t care if I’m young or old
Pretty or plain
Girl or boy
I mean we all have a candle lit just for us 
when it burns down 
Click 
I’m driving in the wrong direction down a one way street
Click 
I don’t remember how I found my way home 
Click
Death doesn’t care if I write poems 
​Click
I wake up in a strangers bed
Click
Hand on my ass
Click 
I tell stories I can’t remember 
Click
I walk home without my coat
Click
I throw up on my boyfriends bed 
Click
I fall down and stay
Click
Click
Click 
Death doesn’t care if I’m rich or poor
Religious or heathen
Straight or bi
Head pounding
Tummy hurts
I’m still high
Room spinning
Regrets surface
Deals made
I’m a piece of shit
Death doesn’t take to pleading 
Death doesn’t see my soul
Death doesn’t care at all 
I’ve wanted to die
To be taken from misery
Death isn't very smart
I didn’t die 
Some people are too mean to die
Is that me 
Some are too tricky
Is that me
Others are too stupid
Is that me
Click 

It’s happening again. The rooms have become too small. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes where we land mad and resentful and afraid. Human activity can be regenerative, and our productive capacities can be transformed  We can stop this. We can reach for each other, and hold dropped leashes in our hands. We can do this. Together, population, fertility rates, mortality rates. We can stop this, industrial output, food production, resources. We can reach for each other, pollution, social conflict, disease.   

It’s happening again. The rooms are filled with regrets. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes of righteousness and wrongs and too late. We know it’s not easy, and poses transition challenges, but a sustainable, and inclusive future, is still possible. We can stop this but it’ll take more than half of us. It’ll take more than hope. It’ll take all of us. Changing, our societal priorities, needs to expand, right now. It’ll take all of us. But we're so very small. It’ll take all of us. Let's be brave. Let's willing to take a risk. Let's be willing to fight. We are one. 

It’s happening again. The rooms are littered with dust and mirrors. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes, impotent of responding, to global challenges. 
We’re not looking at each other. We’re looking at our own reflection. We’re making footprints waiting for someone else to clean up. Counting steps. Brushing away hairs. Smiling into our teacups. We think school will help. We think a job will help. We think a spouse will help. We think a new place to live will help.We think a baby will help. We think love love love will help. 

It’s happening again. The rooms are filled with bodies. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes that have no exit when we choose not to act. The odds are on a knife’s edge. The development, and deployment, of vaccines, at unprecedented rates, demonstrates that we are capable. Arms spread out. Waiting to be crucified. Expecting it really. Who has the hammer? The nails? The guts? The stone un thrown? Who has the chisel? The wood? The space? Who will cover the body? Burn the cloths? Dig the hole? Who who who will help? 
 
It’s happening again. The rooms are overflowing puddles. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes wrapped like a present bouncing around in a box. Scratching at the corners to find a way out. Knowing deep down that the only way is through. Squinting our eyes. Hiding under a cocktail. Lying to our friends. How excessive must the temperatures go? When will the water levels be too high? Where will we throw our garbage? Who’s funeral will it be enough? How much do we want to live? And who do we live for? And do we even understand what that means? 

​So. I know everyone is tired of hearing me talk about vaccines. Hell, I’m tired of it too. But I want to go visit my mother who just got out of the hospital. Hell, I want to visit my granddaughter who’s growing up without knowing me. I was hoping my son would arrive here for a visit this week but the pandemic changed his plans. Made me cry. Hard to take. It’s been too long. I’ve had abortions. Let’s see? It was three, two before my son and one after. Two my choice and one I had no choice at all. I’ve walked women into abortion clinics so they could have abortions too. With right to lifers screaming in our faces. That’s a scary thing to have happen. I mean, I don’t stand for anyone screaming at me, let alone in my face. I mean, I’ve been slapped in my face but never screamed at. I mean, I’ve never screamed in anyone’s face but fuck I’ve wanted to. I’ve carried a gun. With my finger on the trigger, in the pocket of my hoodie, while riding on the subways late at night. I could have killed somebody. I think if some guy came up to me and screamed in my face I would have shot him. Like, the laws they just passed in Texas, will have a shit ton of vigilantes intimidating women and people of color. Screaming in their faces. Still. Again. Always. For fucking ever.  So I say vote. For our right to choose. For more stringent gun laws. For our right to vote. But now. back to the vaccine. As you can see I believe in the right to choose. I believe in gun laws so we don’t vigilante out. But I also believe in getting vaccinated so we can save one and other. To travel. Visit family. See new places, or old favorites. Without getting sick, or getting someone else sick, or dying. How do I circumnavigate these truths that are self evident? How do I nourish friendships that tug on my heart? How do I let go of judgement? Maybe I don’t. Maybe I can’t. Maybe there’s nothing left. I’ll die soon. What? Twenty? Twenty five years? That’s a hell of a lot less time than it is from my birth. I was born just about 62 years ago. I don’t have that long to live. Maybe nobody does. That makes me sad. We should all have at least 62 years to live. I’m done talking about vaccines. About civil duty. Hell. About global duty. Now I’m going to talk about love. Gosh. As soon as I wrote that sentence my whole body relaxed. I think the nag champa I’m burning is bringing out my flower girl. But at the same time it’s too much. I’m too much. Too much for my mom. My husband. My son. My friends. Too much for me. Too much of my choices. Vaccine? My choice. Abortion? My choice. Gun control? My choice. Vote democratic? My choice. That’s it. That’s all I got. That’s all I am.