the tunnel

the tunnel of love

I gardened yesterday. Not that I was in the mood. It was the howling and yelping. The law calls for a 25 dollar fine, but requires first an entire protocol of letter writing and documentation. The issue isn’t free range or incarceration it’s NOISE polluiton. 10 minutes or longer. I passed on the idea of using my iPhone recorder, out of memory anyway. It had already been 3 hours so I got my gloves and my hand shovel. Rather impulsively I rushed out not equipped for ranching. Wearing my Natori full length zip robe, more of a rayon lounger that you might nip out to go marketing in. So I was tripping not stomping as I approached the chicken wire fence seperating our properties. Between the ironwoods and the ti trees I thought I spotted a skin tone. I was spying obviously, in turquoise muddy perforated faux crocs. The offender was caught with his wife beater’s arm picking zits in a convex mirror outside of his big black truck, while the dogs pleaded for their lives; he pretended to be placid in his cultivation, but then zoomed off. With Meeschoo in tow, I kept the whining dogs company. I wanted them to know I’m digging for them and that someday I will dig a tunnel like they did for El Chapo. Not the best example but they understood I was crying back at them, to Meeschoo, telling them what good dogs are, and that I’m coming.  


Coconut Yamaka


At the farmer’s market in Lihue sometimes we pause in front of a stall to talk-story. A man selling a book called, THE POWER OF COCONUTS used to be a farmer and I inquired within as they say, wanting to know more. He had lost his farm searching for his spiritual identify. Most people just assume that they were born into the one true religion. He was born a Jew but realized that that didn’t necessarily mean that he lucked out, somebody had to be born into the wrong religion.

To find out for himself he sped read every sacred text he could get his hands on. There were not enough hours not for a man, maybe a computer. This becoming a mystic was becoming a sacrifice and his farm suffered. Production and yield were at an all time low. He spent less time with his wife while she did the back breaking work and her back was sore. While he searched the internet, joined forums, tried magic, the iChing. Meditation and deprivation, even starvation, until one day a talking spirit came to him. It said, “You are a holy man and a sage and you need more time for your studies, red 22. Put everything on RED 22. EVERYTHING.”

He rushed to tell his wife that he’d made contact. We will be rich I won’t have to speed read we’ll be able to afford a chiropractor. Sell everything darling we’re going to Vegas. The Farmer and his wife obeyed their spirit guide and they sold the farm and everything else and drove to Vegas and put everything, even the gas money home on RED 22.

Inside the casino the spirit guide stayed close, encouraging. Repeating red 22, red 22. They put everything on red 22 and lost. The spirit who never deserted them said, “We’re fucked.”

This farmer now sells mostly on the internet, THE POWER OF COCONUTS, incense, and protection spells. I can send you a link. He strongly cautions initiates NOT to work alone. To employ him because it’s too easy to make contact with low spirits. Especially online. They are readily available. Ingratiating, very charming for a time, but it’s all self serving. This is how they feed, by cultivating confusion and chaos, milking the energies of expectant devotees seeking a source they might suckle.

Blood Moon


I’m hiding right now. Almost soundless. Just finger tips clicking on keys. That neighbor that caught me doing the twirling dervish with incense was a real asshole last night. I heard him calling for his dog Mahina at 11. I ran out to help. 

I said I hope you can lift Mahina over the fence I’m not sure what part of the fence she breached. I proclaimed my love, you know I love your dog and would buy her from you. I mean if you ever need money…? 

YOU NEED A BETTER A FENCE. AND I DON’T WANT YOU’RE DOG HERE. AND DON’T BE BRINGING MAHINA TO YOUR HOUSE. I never do I said meekly. He stormed away dragging off her in a cloud of THC exclaiming SHE’S A MOTHER NOW!!!!!

I dunno if he one of those guys on INVESTIGATION DISCOVERY – FEAR THY NEIGHBOR. But I do remember hearing a baby crying last night.. Maybe he’s a father?

Around 1AM after she was hauled home, just a few hours later, I heard her pony hoofs on the stairs. She was back, my Mahina, the moon. Was the moon full I couldn’t tell the clouds. I put a towel out on the front door mat. I had given up my plans for a doggie slumber party. I had changed sheets. Blood is pouring out of Mahina she’s in heat maybe that’s why they let her out of her enclosure. Are the inmates all male?

It’s morning Mahina slept as close as she could to me on her now bloody towel. He’s calling her. She’s not budging. Meeschoo is under the house on a long teether. I usually take her off as soon as the cats are fed. BUT this time handsome needs to come and get her.

15 minutes pass. Meeschoo is barking. I keep thinking he’s coming to get her. Neither of us are budging. My window abuts the front door and stairs. We are Anne Frank and Helen Keller.

I wish there was an underground railroad for dogs here. I’ve thought of asking my friends who are taggers to make me a YOU CAN FEED YOUR PIG DOG stencil. Shame the island. Get in trouble. Go to jail. 

I just heard a low Mahina growl. She could dismantle that him if she wanted to. Is it wrong that I want her to kill him in my head? If she did there would be repercussions, the authorities would finally step in. FUCKERS. Everything I say ends in FUCKERS these days. 

It just occurred to me he could be playing chess. Maybe he’s waiting for me to move. I wish my headphones from Amazon had arrived. Why wouldn’t he entertain the thought of money? Like I wonder how much she would actually pay? The dog is practically dead. It can’t hunt anymore half blind and gored.  

I have a huge cow ear leather earmarked for her. But what if he comes up the stairs and she’s gnawing on it? Doesn’t he see we just love each other and want to be together? FUCKER. 

I hear hammers and wood in the distance. This A-frame house is a tower on stilts and we are just waiting for the scaffold to be finished. 

Have you ever tried to ride a horse backwards? Side saddle?


Untitled 2 Untitled 2

This is Bomba the baby duck. Similar to Meschoo our pup that I procured after falling in love with the neighbors 2 ducks. Who like the neighbors dog I fell in love with, then disappeared suddenly into a cage, onto a plate, back to the cousins where they came from? Mahina the moon dog became a pig dog and was withdrawn to a grown up life and I as predicted after reading up on the subject. Gored. I don’t know if it was the David Crosby lyrics. “Love the one you are with.” Or that insight that taking drugs was like taking out a loan on your life and Crosby would know because he didn’t just say no to credit cards.

I slept through Mahina yelping, but John heard her and made me aware that he had seen her. He’s taken to sleeping in a tent since Sheree was here. Not far from the neighbors property line. John has always enjoyed public squabbles and usually about the grass. I’m against it. HE’S FOR IT. But back to Mahina. He wouldn’t admit to the visual of her bad eye. From 2 yards away I could see red. The half eyeball bloodshot and missing. Maybe the neighbors would finally let me have her. The neighbors who were miraculously disappeared probably to church. It was a weekend morning. How creepy of me RIGHT? to maintain a working knowledge of their schedules?

This baby duck BOMBA, I’ve tried to forget about giving him up to the promise of inseminating other ducks, the harem. Although I am happy to remember him smartening up about John and chasing him around the yard. I should have insisted we keep him. John used the word mean, that he got mean. Bomba fit into the bath tub in his youth, which wasn’t the most efficient or sanitary method of caring for a duck. None of the other ducks would play with him. He was segregated from the 100 others naturally. I realize this has not been exactly linear, but this isn’t a coliseum arch.

The Chicks Are Wild

IMG_5012Last week I pried open Meeschoo’s jaw (again how many times I have I done this?) and retrieved a baby chick covered in drool. She trembled terrified that I might eat her. She couldn’t walk but was spright and imprinted quickly. Desperate to be close to her new mother; I kept her in a cage in the living room, feeding her chick starter and cashew cheese. During the day I would call out to her – Little Bird?!! All excited she would respond. I got her a mirror for company and jingle balls meant for cats. At least once a day a walk around the garden holding her close cooing, simultaneously saying NO! to Meschoo who wouldn’t be deterred and jumped along, nipping. Maybe they could learn to coexist? What a capitol companion, Little Bird  tuning into everything before I did. A neon green lizard leaf hopping. She anchored all the breaking news of the garden, neck extended sounding a Theremin peep alarm 1 minute ahead of the rain falling. John spent hours reinforcing a fence with a finer secondary fence around the apple tree whose apple’s taste like roses. With Meeschoo tied up outside, she lived in the sun two days. I warned John she could shimmy up the tree and fly out. It only took minutes on the day 3 she rushed to Meeschoo’s jaws. I heard the commotion and found her again cupped in my hands – LITTLE BIRD I cried. She was contorting and gasping dark lids sealed already. When I think of my work and what it is I really do, I recognize a chicken doula.

In Robert Allerton’s Garden

There’s a tiny stone structure with a Polynesian peak roof. A lookout that they point to from afar. A mystery without benches or seating; the tour bus pulls on. If you ask it’s large enough for four bodies, empty except the walls. A marble Medusa hangs facing a mirror. Not the conundrum trustees would have you think. Robert Allerton understood the need for discretion, when conducting private liaisons. Allerton



My floor is adrift with snow white piles of wadded tissue bindles. Influenza? I couldn’t imagine how or where but then I remembered a detail from my Thanksgiving marketing that all the employees were mysteriously absent. The shelves were bare and I was complaining to the cashier that asked did you find everything you needed? NO I didn’t find anything are you kidding? He said yeah well sorry, we are understaffed. He didn’t mention they were all dead from the flu they got at “Papayas Health Food Store.” That they should have closed or at least posted a skull and cross bones at the threshold WARNING like I’m warning you it’s coming. Enjoy the Christmas papaya boobs from my island to yours. ACHOOOOOO!