Truth, an abandoned office
whose walls peel away the layers of the last occupant,
as if everything was left in haste,
cabinets were flung open
in searching the darkness
spreading between files
that should have remained closed.
Be careful what you search for.
A forbidden glance lays the groundwork,
accomplished beyond human labor,
chains that hold the vision together,
so Mana could gather on platforms
illuminated by lightning storms
reflected in the mirror of marshland underneath.
Truth, we receive brief flashes.
From out of the darkness, Ulupo stands
monument to the mystery,
paths lead through the enigma
of how it was built in one evening.
Stone by stone, this ancient lineage
fills in the blanks
as fleeting shadows break
from torch-lit Lauhala.
The Ko’olaus are infused along the rim
by the light of the moon
so you can drink it in
from the Punchbowl to the palace ground
there was no sound, no words could do it justice.
Truth, like a liquid,
slips from out of the cracks
you cover with silence.
On the far side of the Pali
the white seminary would glow outerworldly
from the base of the mountain
where you take that bend sharply,
all the way to the old drive-in theater
to where they found her car,
abandoned on the far end of Kapaa.
Answers were elusive, like hitchhikers,
pick them up at your own risk,
lighting cigarettes with only their fingertips.
a glance in the rear view mirror and they’re gone,
the last thing you’ll see
before the trunk of a tree meets your windshield.
Truth, like a false grill light,
is a masquerade of questions,
What happened that night on the way back from town?
Would a moderate light guide through the fog that surrounds us?
The search for order
along the yellowing border of stories with no closure,
it gives a sense of place to the present void.
Taking pictures in the dark,
spiderwebs positioned for our breath,
the wet forest glistened
in the breadth of our flash.
Finding the path,
muddy steps murdered our pant legs
while cat eyes acclimate
to the darkened shapes
dangling in a tattered landscape,
the sky behind clouds,
suspended there like truth,
dependent on what can be seen, felt or heard,
or so they say.
The scraping branches on Moiliili rooftops break the reverie.
You had fallen asleep in the empty lot
behind the now derelict office
of the late Dr. Grant.
His name still visible in a dangling placard
that hangs and sways over the doors
that led you to all these dark corners.
Truth is never condemned
but rather transformed
for each subsequent generation,
it depends on the receptivity.
Distracted by carefully constructed facades,
know that some places remain,
through the tunneled mountain
at the very heart
of what cannot be divulged so plain,
the day will be drained of light
and night in its scented bloom
will resume at Ulupo
where it always has been
for those who seek it out.
yakskinpocketnotes 