The Life of the Land is Perpetuated in Righteousness


Inspired by the haiku by  in Poésie, (See:

Is it righteousness or regret that we contemplate? Is there a bucket list or a mere acceptance that the quality of life is so diminished over time that we understand the demise of our physicality? I watch my mother capitulate to the last waves that wash over her breaking body, how we can predict the steps to her final resting place, someone who was once our equal and before that the first beauty to have shown her face, and by whom I measure all lovers.

Tonight, I held the head of a woman with my mother’s skull and I massaged her. I breathed her “essential oils” through her thinning hair and followed the lines of her delicate hands as I traveled them. She leaned against me and I felt my own heart and we looked at pictures of my mother when she was 18.

Sadly, I doubt this woman loves me, and so it is. Death is an acceptance of the truth; and like the arms flailing in the sand, it is a kind of suffocation that we felt when we were born: Ua Mau ke Ea o ka ‘Āina i ka Pono.

And so perhaps you are correct: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Journalism is Dead; Truth is on Trial

If someone were to ask me why I wrote, “The Ticking Bomb,” (See: it is because my back is against the wall. The fact that nothing is sacred reflects my ego and the times. I have nothing but my reality to share or barter for the hope of a real job, this streaming video of my life, the unadulterated view.

Truth is on trial, the sacredness of one’s mother, the grossness and her disintegration, my own naked ambition to titillate and to question: Am I a good son as some have mentioned? There’s simply nothing left. I have stood before the burning car and offered not to help. I have carefully crafted the view of death and so shall my own be made the spectacle, in effect, to show others what not to say.

But there is no stone unturned in our open lives, where apparently every word is recorded for later incrimination. You’d be wise to check your words because big brother is watching. He is at your ear listening, determining your psychology, and seeing if you’ll tick like the last few seconds before you self-radicalize.

The truth is at stake in this age of open-sources. Every line of code is played and edited, so that the program of social contract doesn’t crash. The activists are taken out of the equation. In the end, no one in power wants the truth since they are holding the cards.

It has already been established that if you have all the money the game is over. At this point, I’ll have to shoot you because there is no other hand.

I slump over my last call like a man who has expended all his energy and resources. I work as a servant to the well connected.

Inevitably, it gets down to whom you know, and every member of most families is poor. They barter their arms and their legs and when those are gone, they barter each other.

I am trapped by what I should do as a son. I am trapped by what I must do as a member of society. I have no money to rescue my mother, myself. These are truly the last days, the open pleading to be spared, where everything that has been asked has been given.

I am lying here waiting for them. It is so quiet you can hear a pin drop or the clock ticking.