Something vague rattles the dark, penetrates the singing in my ears, and tips me forward into the room. I assumed it would be the fan slipped its pedestal to bring the fly-swarming steel petals across the bedroom floor. 
Nothing. 
I can feel the slow breeze rapidly cooling my sleep-sweat through damp bamboo sheets. 
I was so very sure something fell. Both dogs are deep stillness at the foot, and under the bed. 
I was dreaming a dream forever lost when it . . . whatever it was. . .  
                    called me back. 
There was nothing ambiguous about it and my heart is still running in the wilderness.  
Sometimes at night I can feel death standing in the hall outside my room. Her fingers resting light on the knob, waiting, listening, checking on me. 
It’s a standing offer, she’s been waiting patiently for my invitation, which to this point I’ve neglected to extend . . .  
And . . . I have to admit, there’s an extraordinary ease and freedom to knowing she’s left it in my hands.
I am extremely careful, and all of my risks are well calculated.
Even on the motorcycle. 
But I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that sometimes when I am sailing the asphalt dragon with music overflowing from my helmet, I shout out “skip this track”, because god forbid I should die listening to the Doobie Brothers.
It’s the only thing that truly terrifies me on the highway.
Beyond the singing in my ears, beneath the swarming  fan, out past the hum of the air conditioner, and way below the doppler trucks on the distant highway, there is something deeper. 
I never know if it’s a hearing or a feeling, but I sense it spreading. 
A vortex slowly pulling everything into the earth. 
The eater of rust. 
I think it’s always been there, and that’s where everything is headed. 
The wind chime will inevitably fall from its wire. 
The cast iron door to old furnace will never open. 
A fleet of ghost ships sail deeper into the ocean mud with every passing moment.
If I pull this nail from the wall it will leave a hole . . . and that is how the dark gets in.
The squirrel in my chest is choking on a nut full of orange dust.   
Ivy asks, “what is it?”
I didn’t know she was awake.
“Something fell”
“I didn’t hear anything”
“Neither did I”

it’s ballet
flipping lightly backwards
whether or not I’m listening
earnestly showing me endings
in quilts and poetry
it’s almost always in the beginnings
where strings get drawn tightly
while we  pretend at paying attention
slowly shoveling assumptions
while playing accordions behind our backs
be that as it may
it’s only fair
that the moon sheds and grows
depending on my pitted sleep
it’s more of a tale than glory
I’m desperately hungry
no not for food
but for the underground erupting
the gift of the serpent
rearranging my rocks
fending off dust where rituals begin
it starts in swirls
leading to spirals
ending where i play my horn
in a  shining Cuban moon
while birds bring ribbons
that circle him wholly
he clears his throat
as they dodge and flutter
him not brandishing mistakes
a look all dimples
a flip of the hand
a start of scent
no not of herbs
but a deep rich intuitive smell
scattering feathers
starting my groin
raising my arms
bowing before glory
receiving his gift
it’s through a single flower
I remember love
the color of my mother’s skin
blowing kisses through our hearts
serving blue all night long
it’s the contrast of etiquettes
that sets my soul a sail
not the words he recites
it’s the way he stares
he came to me through a song
one that only bees can hum
it’s the flags I put up
to tear down yellow
that wears my skin to bleed
he sits in a tree above my head
turning words into rhymes
taming my curls straight
placing spit where I tickle
carving curves with hot iron
it’s he that soothes the beast
leaving only black behind

Let’s go, Brenda.  Are you ready?  It’s time to counter the wink-nod of Brandon and their bitter code of violence.  If you’re like me, you’re done with the revved-up trucks with their flags snapping viciously, roaring along roads or kissing your bumper because you’re in their way.
You ARE the way!
Let’s go, Brenda.  Tear down that wretched flag with the coiled snake.  Yes, you can tread on me if you need a lift.  Our banner will be a heart of rainbow colors, flanked to the left by an eagle with a sculptor’s mallet in its talons, and with it, we’ll create a new landscape of hope.  On the right is a hawk with bright and attentive eyes, and the hawk will not look away, even when the truth hurts.
Let’s go, Brenda.  Our steps upon the Earth will be light and respectful of her frailties, and our holy days will celebrate Her glory.  We will worship in caves and open-air temples, in churches and town halls, in living rooms and at campfires on the ocean’s shore.  Wherever we come together, we will honor the Great Spark of divinity in all of us.
Let’s go, Brenda!  It is time for you to stomp in the mud with your daughters and play dolls with your sons and to dance with both of them.  We will send none of them to war but will choose farms and gardens and heaving acres of forests.  We will train them to be architects and scientists and artists, visionaries whose hearts burst with the need to serve.
Let’s go, Brenda.  We will demand governance, by the people and for the people, and subtract politics and corruption from it.  We will rule by the law of infinite halves because you know we will always have a remainder if we divide our riches to share.  I will give you half of my bread, and you shall give half of yours to another, and together we will feed our neighbors.  Greed will be outlawed.
Let’s go, Brenda.  Let’s build a movement – no, more than a movement – let’s build a world where children can go to school without lockdown drills and fear of disintegrating hail fire of bullets.  We will forgive our brothers for their errors of omission and our sisters and for leaving us.  We will march by the millions, in numbers so strong they cannot stop us.  We will be a tide, a flood of purple and gold, laying down our bodies in front of bulldozers and armies.
Let’s go, Brenda!  Join us, whether you’re named Mary, or Joy, or Steve, or David.  We will swell our ranks with fathers and brothers and sons, who know their strength lies in their vulnerability.  You can sing and rage and weep, and you will be embraced here among us.

Love. Naw. It’s too easy. A cop out really. A way of transforming decay. A footnote beneath the storm. Gasping for air while surrounded by plants. Pain with no reason. Deformed skin cells. A prisoner who survives. 

I can’t take it anymore. 
Pouring quicksand in my ears.

There’s no such thing as love. Smoke spilling into the room rising up the window shades. It’s a game of charade’s. An unmarked box arriving in the mail. A constellation prize. The only boy left on a stool. A wicked joke. An unplugged freezer filled with fish. There’s fingers in my hair pulling at just the right amount of pressure. 

Love. Naw. Just his fingers. And there’s nappy hair tight in a crew cut. Her lips swallowing me whole.
 
Love. Naw. Just giggles and wine breath.

Then there’s this dog. She looks at me through cracked eyes. Kissing the palms of my hand with her tongue. Making me want to believe. Making me never want to believe again. Making me see ghosts peeking from around corners. A widows mane rippling in the creek. Pan’s face craved from bark. A howl from my rib cage echoing in the mountain nest. Love. I hope not. 

I can’t take it anymore.
Someone else needs to breath for me.

I’m damaged. By prejudice. By being a woman. By not being seen. By being alone. I need a phone booth to hide in. My bird to talk to. Food for my belly instead of an empty fridge. Stomping the rats in the floorboards. Tearing the phone off the wall. A slap in the face. Cigarettes my competition. No one asked how I was. How I was feeling. If I was void. 

I can’t take it anymore.
My mouth taped shut making it hard to breath.

My dreams as real and my death. Hummingbirds flying high. A note arriving under the door. Beauty turning to ashes. 
​
Love. Naw. It’s only a forest with trees. 

​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.