Floating groccery bag: Poems from the Edges of Home 🌺
Oysters at Nami Kaze
Aloha, braddahs and sistahs! 🌺
When I was growing up, one day I went snorkeling in the shallows of my childhood beach, when suddenly heart racing I was face-to-face with one Moray eel—running, I went ran back to shore like one looney toon. This is where flavor and chaos live together, where every bite, every wave, every salty breeze is broke da mouth. Pull up a plate, pour yourself a little sparkle, and let these poems feed your hunger for home, mischief, and magic.
Island Utopia
I was born in motherfucking paradise.
I was also
born where milk can be up to 9$ a gallon.
Inborn,
salty shades of turquoise
a constantly perfect temp
Hills paint brushed by God,
waterfalls
rainbows.
Sea-locked in the same 597 miles
Traffic jammed.
Food piled on plates enough to set up kids for early diabetes and obesity
On the mainland I almost have white privilege
As opposed to Hawaii’s segregated system as fuck
It’s humid thickness, voluptuous culture, damn right delicious food
A genetic curse and a homesickness disease
Mama’s boy
Mom I’d call you, but my phone's dead.
I’m drinking a salad, evolution, super green.
Everything in moderation. Food, laughter, and people that’s what you said.
Sweet fruit, flowing strands of earth and the night sky attached to your head.
No green thumb, yet I plant an everlasting bean.
Mom I’d call you but my phone's dead.
I’ll never forget your favorite colors red.
I regret my seconds as an angsty bipolar teen.
Everything in moderation. Food, laughter, and people that’s what you said.
Prosciutto, dark chocolate, and every cheese, your favorite spread.
Will I ever be able to ween?
Everything in moderation. Food, laughter, and people that’s what you said.
The hood
Hidden among monstera the size of my body,
My security blankets are guises. I feel forever naked.
An urchin grows, but only in each eye of the storm.
Batted down by dissolution, instability from the thermosphere to earth's inner core.
I’m the apple given to Snow.
I’m the porn cards on the ground of Vegas, aware of the dirt.
And yet, my hunger.
Fried chicken, plantains, beans and potatoes.
Gumbo, beignets, coffee, and mint chocolate ice cream.
Char sui bao, Banchan, Malasadas.
Tastes that fill me with Glinda the good witch.
Is it possible to be Dorothy and be wicked?
Thanks,
Dear Mom,
I blame you for how scatterbrained I am, but I’m glad you made me loud, bold, and passionate. You made me Army strong, and for that I will always be grateful. Thanks for instilling my soul with food.
Dear Dad,
I blame you for how Bi-polar I am, but I’m glad because it made me creative, sensitive, and empathetic. Thanks for allowing Mom to take the reigns on my personal development.
